Gothic in Comics and Graphic Novels: A Critical Approach 9780786449804, 9781476614328, 2013050519

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Gothic in Comics and Graphic Novels

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Gothic in Comics and Graphic Novels A Critical Approach JULIA ROUND

McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers Jefferson, North Carolina

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Round, Julia, author. Gothic in Comics and Graphic Novels : a Critical Approach / Julia Round. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-7864-4980-4 softcover : acid free paper ISBN 978-1-4766-1432-8 (ebook)

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1. Comic books, strips, etc.—History and criticism. 2. Graphic novels—History and criticism. 3. Gothic revival (Literature) I. Title. PN6714.R74 2014 741.5'9—dc23 BRITISH LIBRARY

2013050519

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© 2014 Julia Round. All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Cover illustration © 2014 (Brian Smith) Manufactured in the United States of America

McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers Box 611, Jefferson, North Carolina 28640 www.mcfarlandpub.com

In memory of my Grandpa, Leonard Ball

Acknowledgments Some of this work is based on my Ph.D. studies, completed at Bristol University in 2006 under the guidance of professor David Punter; much of it is more recent. My thanks go out to David for his supervision of this project in its initial stages. I would also like to offer my professional and personal thanks to Dr. Chris Murray (my partner in crime!) for his unwavering support and invaluable input and to Dr. Roger Sabin for all his encouragement and advice way back when both a job and a book contract seemed far out of reach. Thanks must also go to my favorite brother Mark, to Nic, to Greg (simultaneously my/this book’s most steadfast supporter and nefarious nemesis), to Matt, and to all the other friends who have been there for me over the past few years. And finally (and most importantly), my thanks to my parents, Alan and Val, who have supported me every step of the way.

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Table of Contents Acknowledgments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vi Foreword by David Punter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7

PART ONE : HISTORY 1—A Brief History of Gothic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 2—A Brief History of British and American Comics and Criticism . . . . 24 Retrospective: Critical Models of Gothic and Comics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55

PART T WO : MEDIUM Introduction: A Gothic Critical Model of Comics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 3—Haunted Places . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60 4—Excess, Embodiment and Artifice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 5—Revenant Readers, the Crypt and the Archive . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96 Retrospective: Putting the Monster Together . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112 Case Study I: “The Game,” House of Mystery #178 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114 Case Study II: “House of Secrets Promo,” House of Mystery #182 . . . . . 117 Case Study III: Prequel to iZombie #1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119 Case Study IV: “Sleep of the Just,” Sandman #1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 122 Case Study V: The New Deadwardians, #1–8 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127

PART THREE : CULTURE AND CONTENT Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131 6—A Comparative Study of Goth and Comics Cultures . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133 7—Gothic Content: Absorption and Atemporality . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155 vii

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8—Vampires and the Penetrative Bite and Gaze . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 168 9—Zombies, Technology and Medical Magic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199 Reflections . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 229 Chapter Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 231 References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 233 Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 247

Foreword by David Punter “Horror and comics are old friends”: this is where the story begins, the story Julia Round tells in this book, a story about horror, a story about comics. It may seem, on the face of it, an odd proposition; after all, comics are meant to be comical, are they not? Certainly those of us brought up in the 1950s on a diet of the Dandy and the Beano, Beezer and Topper, found them so; the wheezes and pratfalls, the insurrectionist school children and the Bash Street Kids, this was all good hearty fun. But the story is by no means as simple as that, and over successive decades it has become stranger and stranger. Above all, comics—now, of course, frequently referred to as graphic novels—have told tales which continually challenge and threaten societal assumptions; they have told stories of supermen and wonder-women, of ghosts, zombies and all manner of the non-human, of monsters, and of all that which does not fit comfortably into the “enlightened” assumptions of realism. And in this address to darker spaces, corners of the mind that are never fully resolved, never completely dragged out into daylight, the continuity with Gothic, the major set of representations of horror, becomes, as Round traces it, apparent. For Gothic too arose, at least in part, to represent the fears and anxieties of an age, and it seems as though it has gone on, through a multitude of transformations, doing just that. There are stories, it would seem, which can never fully be told, which cannot be conveniently sealed off, stories which continue to haunt. Comics, as Round reminds us, have had a golden age; so too did Gothic, and in both fields this heyday itself remains to haunt and condition current writing. Both Gothic and the medium of comics have an internal history; they both continually recapitulate themselves, seizing from the past upon icons, images which can be made to fit with present concerns. Sometimes these attempts to make things fit are not elegant: neither the Gothic nor the comic 1

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book is always an elegant mode. Instead, in both cases there is violence, distortion, disproportion; but the need to address current concerns is still there, perhaps all the more powerful by being relatively unconstrained by convention. What is said in this book—and it is surely right—is that both are forms of social critique, and at times this has been proven all too obviously right. From the attacks on the early Gothic by Wordsworth and many others to the numerous attempts to censor comics, which Round demonstrates for us in fascinating detail, there has been a perception of subversion—and perhaps this is where the “comical” comes back in, for if there is one thing which authority cannot stand, or withstand, it is mockery, a sense that all the panoply of power is in the end only relative, that there are other longer, older stories which render majesty laughable. But surely comics have contributed to juvenile delinquency, it is said, and this has been a familiar argument; maybe. Maybe instead one might say that comics have served to articulate broad concerns about the alienation of youth. Gothic contributed, and still contributes, to a general dereliction of taste, others have said; again maybe. Maybe instead Gothic has produced and encouraged an element of social critique which re-valorises the “excluded other.” We might think here of Deleuze and Guattari’s vital work on the concept of a “minor literature”; admittedly they were thinking, so it would appear, of literatures “condemned to minority” through the often bitter conjunctures of language and violence, but it would certainly be arguable that both comics and Gothic are minor literatures in terms of their relations with accepted standards of taste. Sometimes both are seen as somehow non-adult, but this should only encourage us to consider, or reconsider, what is meant by adulthood. Is it adult to drop bombs on civilians? Is it adult to send drones over territory where children may be harmed? Is it adult to shoot animals, such as, for example, badgers, in bulk? Is it—to turn the argument on its head—childish to imitate these sorts of behavior? Is it a good idea—or responsible, or adult—to market pink guns for pre-adolescent girls? What both comics and Gothic seem to suggest is that growing into adulthood may not in fact be a real process of maturation, but instead a collusion in the closing off of possibilities, a selfimposed blinkering—and this can also be seen as a closing down of the possibilities of magic. Comics and Gothic, in their different ways—like myths, like folk story, like fairy tale—are very concerned with magic. But magic has its own time and space; and that is not here. This book moves among a great variety of apparently separate disciplines. It deals in cultural studies; in media studies; in sociology; in textual criticism; in literary theory. There is nothing disjointed about this: we need insights from all these fields in order to appreciate the complex conjunctures at which

Foreword by David Punter

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Gothic and comics sit. They speak about exclusion and they are mass market; they reject many of the established conventions of character and yet they evolve characterologies of their own; they seem to be fringe and yet they stir emotions and passions that go beyond themselves. Positive and negative; as we know, even to adopt Goth costume is sufficient in some quarters to call down a murderous wrath. But leaving Gothic aside for the moment, in the case of comics and graphic novels—and after all that is what this book is about—we are called face-to-face, as it were, with the very notion of the “graphic.” For these texts deal in a variety of media which constantly exceeds, and therefore relativizes, the field of writing. The graphic: to do with writing, certainly, but also to do with the image, with inscription itself, that human practice as old as the earliest cave paintings of which we are aware, as old indeed, as we have only recently known, as the Ice Age. Nothing entirely new, then, about graphics: and it is important to emphasise that what these graphics do is tell us not just stories but histories. Alternative histories, often. What we are seeing particularly at the moment is a whole variety of revisionist histories of the Victorian age, just as the original Gothic offered revisionist versions of the medieval. From chivalric illusion to steampunk, the continuity is clear, and it raises a horde of interesting questions which Round addresses. The most simple would be around alternative possibilities arising from the past—what would it have been like if …? But the more complex ones engage also with the future: what will happen if …? Or indeed with the present: what is it really like now, if we see the overt operations of the world through different eyes, under different perspectives? In the end, one might say that it all comes down to dream. Dream: Neil Gaiman’s Sandman, perhaps the most distinguished of all the avatars of comics genius. Not dream in the sense of childhood dreaming about the glories of the future, all ballet shoes and an elite military force (not at the same time; it depends on your gender conditioning) but dream in the hard-edged sense, dream as the place without which nothing can ever be imagined to be different, dream as the propeller of imagination and change; what would we do without dream? “I have a dream,” Martin Luther King told us, and his words have reverberated through history ever since; dreams are not accidental, they are constitutive; and there is a joyous freedom within comics and graphic novels to lay before us these dreams. Of course there have been recountings of dreams in literature for millennia; but they have not been able to show us the visual, iconographic substance of dreaming, the realms where words—if they exist at all—only exist in their own materialisation, as artifacts to be visualized among a multitude of others. Comics offer us the possibility of the full, true literality of words.

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Perhaps no canonical writer/artist has ever laid that before us as clearly as William Blake; and Blake, although his position was so athwart contemporary cultural knowledge, lived in gothic times. But as Angela Carter says (and Round reminds us), now we all “live in gothic times.” To assess what she meant by this would be more than the work of a foreword; but among many other things, she surely meant that no distortion, no grotesquerie, no excess is entirely foreign to our imaginations; and the graphic medium gives unique permission to address these “crimes of the future,” these heresies and perversions of the imagination. Perversion, as de Sade and Lacan—unusual bedfellows, but perhaps the relevant comic strip is yet to come—said, is the norm. “An inner voice that never stops screaming”: I pause on this quotation, which you will find in Chapter 8. It is a terrifying thought, and yet in a sense it is also an unafraid thought; it may be abject, but it may also be a measure of the difficulty of the human task, to carry on despite that voice and yet— and this is the more difficult thing—not to cease to attend to it, not to refrain from listening, even at those moments when we least want to, to that voice which comes from the most scared, the most alarmed, parts of the mind, those parts that cannot shut themselves down in the face of the onset of death—or, as we seem to prefer to think of it, the moment of birth. Many introductions to graphic novels (and I would be the first to admit that quite a lot of them are far, far too long) pause at this sort of moment and say, “Well, that’s quite enough of me.” And so I shall do the same. Well, almost: but first (and thus last), I commend this book to you as a most exciting read; it will take you to strange places. Some of them may be ones that you may never have wanted to visit; but hey, you cannot know until you get there, can you? Read on …

David Punter is a professor of English at the University of Bristol. He has published extensively on Gothic and related genres, and on questions of literary and cultural theory.

Preface I wonder now if my misspent youth was so misspent after all. I started reading comics in my teens, thanks to my brother—beginning with Sandman, moving on through Preacher, and spreading outwards like a virus. The storytelling strategies grabbed me as well as the artwork, the energy and the types of offbeat, irreverent tales being told. It was about the same time I started listening to Alice Cooper and Nine Inch Nails, and again my tastes spread outwards from glam and goth rock to darker, industrial sounds. Similarly, here it was the energy and performance that attracted me: an alternative approach to sound and vision. In terms of literature and art held separate, I loved Goya and the Romantics alongside contemporary horror and digital images. Manipulating the surface to reflect on the depth has always appealed. This book tries to bring together some of the narrative strategies of Gothic1 and comics and to use them to reflect on each other. I was struck by the number of parallels that could be drawn between the themes, cultures and archetypes of comics and Gothic in Britain and America and wanted to look at the ways in which one could help understanding of the other. This book is not intended to be a detailed survey of horror comics or their history, but instead aims to use gothic criticism to reapproach and reconsider comics theory. The moments on the comics page that have had the greatest impact on me have been wildly variable, and I’ve often struggled to find a critical model that would help me explain why. I’ve flitted between cultural criticism, formal analysis, and close textual reading but never found a satisfactory way of demonstrating why this page, why this phrase, why this image is the one with resonance. This is my attempt to bring these critical areas together and to create a model that will allow these texts to be assessed on their own terms. I am indebted to the ideas of many superior theorists who have devised formal systems of analysis or produced detailed histories and examinations of the comics medium. This book is intended to reinterpret them using gothic themes and ideas. It is aimed at any scholar with an interest in comics or Gothic who wants to find their way into the other. 5

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Introduction At a glance it might seem that contemporary comics and the gothic tradition are completely unconnected. Gothic is a literary mode with marked historical and national genres such as the English Gothic, Pulp Gothic, American Gothic, Southern Gothic and so forth. It is most commonly cited as beginning in 1764 with the publication of Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto (subtitled “A Gothic Story”) with its revivalist medieval style and content. The popularity and critical reception of Gothic has given it great canonical clout; classic works from the likes of Mary Shelley, John Keats and Bram Stoker link Gothic firmly with Romantic literature and notions of individual genius and authorship. By contrast British comic strips rose to popularity in magazines such as Punch (1841), then spreading to reprints and then original collections (Ally Sloper’s Half Holiday, 1864). The American industry emerged similarly in the late nineteenth century from the “funny pages” of Sunday newspapers, emerging to compete with pulp fiction magazine publishing. Unlike the canonical and literary Gothic, comic books are often seen as a mass-market industry of disposable entertainment whose collaborative (and initially anonymous) authorship and ongoing serialization have frequently resulted in this medium being viewed reductively as throwaway entertainment. But horror and comics have a long and intertwined history. Gothic can also be found in American disposable pulp magazines such as Weird Tales in the early twentieth century, at the same time as comic books were emerging from the pages of newspapers. Gothic’s revivalist tendencies means that gothic stories frequently retell old or traditional tales—far removed from our understanding of the originality and genius of the Romantic authors. Gothic has also long been identified as containing a dual sense of play and fear, apparent in early parodic and reflexive works such as Eaton Stannard Barrett’s The Heroine (1813) and Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey (1818), and the ghoulish humor of the later American Gothic (for example Edgar Allan Poe). The playful and subversive nature of the comics medium (with its emphasis on caricature and 7

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exaggeration) can be viewed similarly, and also links to notions of excess; and many genres of comics (crime, horror, thriller) also recall the gothic literature of sensation in their subject matter and style. Conversely and more recently, comics have been reinvented as “graphic novels” and have enjoyed a burst of critical attention and literary awards. Technological advances together with talented “star creators” have resulted in the medium establishing a kind of canon of its own. Within the mainstream British and American titles and imprints, golden-age superhero writers and artists such as Jerry Siegel, Joe Shuster, Bob Kane and Bill Finger created characters that still dominate popular culture and were developed further by silver-age creators such as Denny O’Neil and Neal Adams, alongside new creations, most obviously from the pen of Stan Lee. Subsequent star writers and artists (such as Alan Moore, Neil Gaiman, Grant Morrison, Frank Miller, Ed Brubaker, Mark Wade, Chris Claremont, Scott Snyder, Robert Kirkman—and many more) have cult followings. The independent and smaller presses also have their superstars: from R. Crumb, Harvey Pekar, Howard Cruse, Lynda Barry, Gilbert Shelton, Kim Deitch and Aline Kominsky-Crumb to Trina Robbins, Bryan Talbot, Dave Gibbons and Alison Bechdel. Across the industry and throughout its development, various creators have also worked in an explicitly gothic mode, including Jack Kirby, Sam Kieth, and Dave McKean and, within the EC Comics stable, Johnny Craig, Wally Wood, Al Feldstein and so forth. Already definitions of the two traditions seem less antithetical, and both comics and Gothic seem to contain a kind of shared paradox, of which the above points are only a few examples. Henry Jenkins (cited in Duncan and Smith 2012: 10) argues that comics scholarship, still at its formative stages, must focus on becoming a “diverse and robust” discipline. The medium requires a vast inclusive approach that can take account of all aspects of comics study: from the cultural to the aesthetic, the structural to the thematic, as well as reflecting the import of transmedial, intertextual and historical references. The gothic mode’s sprawling reach, that has absorbed and subverted so many genres, makes it an appropriate tool for building on the critical approaches to comics that have been put forward to date. This book will explore the connections between comics and Gothic from four critical angles: historical, formal, cultural and textual. It will identify structures, styles and themes drawn from the literary Gothic and discuss the ways in which these inform the creative processes and production of today’s comics, paying particular attention to the first and second wave of the “Brit invasion” of American comics that took place in the 1980s and 1990s. As Williams and Lyons argue: “There are good reasons to understand North American comics in a transnational and transcultural context: the institutional

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transaction of texts, creators and capital across national borders has contributed to observable productive tensions in the comics themselves” (2010: xiii). The particular “transaction” that sowed the seeds of DC Vertigo brought in writers who were drawing on a literary background, and in particular one dominated by an interest in Romantic and Gothic writers. For example, in Saga of the Swamp Thing Alan Moore translated his interest in English Gothic into American Gothic, to great effect, and Neil Gaiman plundered gothic imagery, horror tropes and mythology in the early issues of Sandman. The DC Vertigo texts thus form the basis of this study. Part One offers a historical approach to British and American comics and Gothic; providing a brief history of both industries and traditions and summarizing the development of their respective creative content and critical approaches. It identifies parallel points and similar turns or events, including censorship, allusion, self-awareness and developments in criticism and audience. This section concludes with a Retrospective that summarizes the current position of comics theory with reference to writers such as Scott McCloud, Will Eisner, Charles Hatfield and Thierry Groensteen and offers a working contemporary definition of Gothic in accordance with theorists such as David Punter, Fred Botting, Jerrold Hogle, Julia Kristeva and Jodey Castricano. The second section brings these two perspectives together and uses the Gothic to revalue formal comics theory. It reinterprets established critical approaches to the workings of the comics medium using gothic critical theory, and builds upon the work done in this area by identifying the ways in which tropes of the literary Gothic are apparent in the formal workings of today’s comics. Its introduction argues for a holistic analytical approach to the comics medium that uses three main gothic tropes (haunting, seeing and decomposition) to identify the idiosyncratic workings of an individual text in order that this model might be used to analyze it, as follows. Chapter 3 (“Haunted Places”) uses the gothic notion of haunting to discuss the layout and architecture of the comics page, paying particular attention to the manipulations of time and space and the use of echoes (of both format and content). Chapter 4 (“Excess, Embodiment and Artifice”) then analyzes the multiple and mobile perspectives used on the page; arguing that a self-consciously inauthentic narrative is created in comics through an excess of perspective: for example when an extradiegetic (or external) narrative voice is combined with an intradiegetic visual perspective (for example as embodied by a character in the story).1 Finally, Chapter 5 (“Revenant Readers, the Crypt and the Archive”) discusses the active role of the comics reader in interpreting both the shown and unshown content of the page. It redefines the gutter as the crypt, a space whose contents can only be realized through a process of temporal disruption: in the reader’s “backward-looking thoughts.” Its interpretation recalls Michel Foucault’s ideas

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about the archive (as a space reflecting a particular historical period and culture) and Derrida’s thoughts about the crypt (as a place where the known and the unknown reside simultaneously). This section concludes with a Retrospective that puts these approaches together to analyze a series of case studies: pages from House of Mystery (Neal Adams 1969, Joe Orlando 1969), Sandman #1 (Neil Gaiman et al., 1988), iZombie (Chris Roberson and Michael Allred, 2010–2012) and The New Deadwardians (Dan Abnett and I.N.J. Culbard, 2012). Part Three, “Culture and Content,” then combines cultural and textual approaches to the medium. Chapter 6 discusses the subcultural status of gothic and comics, considering the communities and cultural practices that have built up around their artifacts. Chapter 7 looks at the use of gothic absorption and its atemporal effects in pursuit of allegory and (literary) authenticity. The final two chapters then discuss the presence of Gothic in comics at the fin de siècle by offering case studies of modern treatments of two of Gothic’s most famous archetypes in comics: the vampire and the zombie. It situates these figures in their cultural and traditional contexts, summarizes their usage in comics, and applies the critical approach set out in Part Two to examples taken from a selection of contemporary British-American2 titles. This study then concludes with some final thoughts and reflections. It is the intent of this book to provide scholars with an introduction to the historical, formal and cultural development of the Gothic tradition and the comics medium in Britain and America. By flagging key points in the development of both traditions I hope to suggest shared points of sub/cultural, semiotic and semantic significance. My critical model draws heavily on the formal critical work already done on comics narratology. It tries to provide a simple set of three tenets for approaching the comics medium that, when applied, can be used to create a holistic framework for analyzing each text on its own terms. This allows for the vast variation possible in creators’ usage of different aspects of the comics medium. It approaches comics narratology as a spectral frame that emphasizes the reader’s acts of discourse alongside the text’s style, themes and story content. Please, follow me into the dark…

PART O NE : H ISTORY

1. A Brief History of Gothic Horror and comics are old friends. The British tradition of massproduced art can be traced back to fifteenth-century woodcuts sold in the streets that showed gruesome scenes of executions. Their prose equivalents would emerge in nineteenth-century England as “penny dreadfuls”: fictional story papers that provided serialized and disposable pulp entertainment (Sabin 1996: 11–14). In America, dime novels and short fiction magazines were popular in the nineteenth century and then gave way to the pulp fiction (or “pulps”) around the turn of the twentieth century. All told genre fiction, such as adventure stories, horror, romance and crime. In the 1950s, American crime and horror comics rose to popularity in both countries, telling tales of “dismemberment, corpses come back from the dead, and premature burials” (King 1982: 440), until public outcry and censorship removed their bite. This winding path of mass-produced art thus ultimately leads back to the creaking door of Gothic—the realm of murders, monsters, ghosts, castles and mystery. This chapter will discuss the beginnings of the British gothic tradition (both its fiction and its critical approaches) and establish a working definition and model that will be applied to the formal properties and content of contemporary comics in Parts Two and Three.

Early Gothic It is difficult to define Gothic consistently since it changes to suit its time. An initial focus on creeping terror and the unsaid gave way to melodrama and hedonism; later adapted into deviancy, violence and out-and-out horror. Richard Davenport-Hines summarizes Gothic historically, stating that its appeal “lies in the strength of backward-looking thoughts” (Davenport-Hines 1998: 385), in overwriting and subsuming other genres. For this reason, historicist critics have argued that Gothic’s recycling of texts into a developing narrative is at least partially responsible for literary notions of poetic tradition and lit11

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erary history—its influence underlies the way we understand literature. Contemporary Gothic’s structural and thematic qualities have been created/incorporated in this fluid, plural way; in the past the gothic style has also flirted with other genres such as medievalism and parody, constantly adapting to suit its times. The Enlightenment movement that spread across Europe and America in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries hinged on the advancement of scientific method and rationality over older systems of faith and belief. As a philosophical reaction against tradition and the abuse of power by church and state, it promoted rational knowledge and marginalized folk beliefs and superstition. The retrospective label of “enlightenment” cohered these challenges to tradition and dismantlement of established power under a new world-view (of democracy over monarchy; science over religion and so forth). The advancement of industry and the abandonment of belief were movements that displaced older beliefs in the supernatural: reducing it to a specter haunting this new rationality through landscapes and literature. The gothic tradition in the eighteenth century sprung from an architectural trend that was led by Sir Horace Walpole’s purchase and remodeling of his London villa “Strawberry Hill” into a faux “gothick” castle through a series of alterations and additions to the old small house (1753–1776), including a gallery, cloister and two towers. The pure white building attracted public interest and Walpole offered tours of the house during his lifetime. The decor and furnishings of his great state rooms were copied from various Royal palaces and other stately homes and, as a whole, Strawberry Hill’s opulence was such that Walpole once said of it: “I begin to be ashamed of my own magnificence.” Strawberry Hill’s faux medievalism is echoed in early gothic literature, of which Walpole was again one of the first practitioners. The Castle of Otranto (1764) has been described as a “fake translation by a fake translator of a fake medieval story by a fake author” (Hogle 2002: 23–5). This type of false nostalgia can also be seen in many of the settings and scenarios of this era’s romantic poetry, such as Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” (1796) or the works of Byron and Shelley. By the late 1700s the genre’s range and depth was expanding: incorporating terror and melodrama, as in Anne Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho (1794), and Matthew Lewis’s The Monk (1796) which broke taboos and flirted with excess. These phases incorporated elements of self-parody that would continue throughout the nineteenth-century Gothic, as in Jane Austen’s gothic romance Northanger Abbey (1818) which selfconsciously satirizes conventions (“No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy, would have supposed her born to be an heroine […] She had a thin awkward figure, a sallow skin without color, dark lank hair, and

1. A Brief History of Gothic

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strong features—so much for her person; and not less unpropitious for heroism seemed her mind” [2007: 1]). Later works, such as Wilkie Collins’ Woman in White (1859/60), combine the gothic and the mystery story, and Collins’ book is characterized as one of the first sensation novels. This absorption and adaptation of other genres is apparent in some of the most famous gothic literature: Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818) rewrites notions drawn from philosophy, science, religion, politics and poetry and in this sense can be read as a gothic analysis of human nature that plays with the moralistic and the scientific alike. Subsequently, the gothic tradition again resituated itself by moving from the nostalgic and sensational to the contemporary and subversive; a trend that was continued by nineteenth-century decadent literature, for example Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890). Wilde’s supernatural tale juxtaposes hideous morality against superficial narcissism, commenting on both. Of these texts, Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1897) led the way for an inwards turn in gothic literature. This was helped by the emergence and popularity of psychoanalysis in English society. Wilhelm Wundt’s Principles of Physiological Psychology (1874) marks the beginning of psychology as a distinct scientific discipline (the study of the conscious mind), but it was Sigmund Freud’s study of the unconscious as the basis of personality that opened up the subject and founded psychoanalysis. Along with the rise of spiritualism as Victorian parlor entertainment, this increased the popularity of gothic subject matter, as gothic texts provided particularly fruitful images in both regards. The popularity of psychoanalysis also radically altered critical views of Gothic as the world of the literary text became analyzable in terms of the desires and fears of both author and reader. As a gothic flavor again permeated mainstream fiction (as previously seen in the work of Dickens or the Bröntes), gothic fiction became socially anchored and inward-looking, with results that have persisted to this day. For example, Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1897) has been interpreted as being about suppressed sexual instincts, penetration and infection, i.e., sexually transmitted diseases such as syphilis. Although ostensibly about an undead foreign monster, the concerns it expressed are all too human, relating to our deepest desires and fears. These elements would form the basis of American Gothic (Edgar Allan Poe; Nathaniel Hawthorne), which is often strongly domestic and concerns itself with madness, Puritanism, guilt and the abhuman. The echoes of slavery, miscegenation, genocide and the hostile frontier can be seen here, and such movements continue in the contemporary postmodern Gothic—whether parodic (The Addams Family), romantic (Tim Burton), subversive (Poppy Z. Brite), or culturally specific (the “brand-name” fiction of writers such as Stephen King or S.P. Somtow’s “MTV” vampires).

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Gothic Criticism This process of consistently incorporating contemporary trends allows the gothic tradition to emphasize its thematic transgression of boundaries by subsuming and altering these genres to suit its priorities: producing an excess of meaning and eliciting emotional response. Cultural anxiety (as identified by Lecercle in fin de siècle texts [83]) is reflected throughout in Gothic’s focus on marginalized social elements and its inversion of social and cultural norms. Dr. Frankenstein’s creature is an outcast from birth; Dr. Jekyll’s desire to escape society’s rules and regulations transforms him into the monster Hyde; and both sexual and social custom are violated by the aristocratic Count Dracula. The gothic tradition also utilizes its subcultural and subversive status to comment on this social anxiety. To this end its themes may be expressed as underlying messages or morals, as extended metaphors, or even by “constitutive otherness”—in itself, an example of the kind of inversion Gothic relies upon, where what is not said and not present nonetheless defines a work. A good example of this would be Stevenson’s descriptions of Edward Hyde and his actions. Physical description falls short of conveying Hyde’s ugliness: “He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his appearance; something displeasing, something down-right detestable. I never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce know why. He must be deformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although I couldn’t specify the point. He’s an extraordinary looking man, and yet I really can name nothing out of the way.” Similarly, Hyde’s acts are often passed over or omitted from the text: observers scream and become “wild” but the events themselves are seldom gory and drawn-out and frequently told second-hand. The text in fact contains its own awareness and acknowledgement of this absence: as Mr. Enfield says: “It sounds nothing to hear, but it was hellish to see” (Stevenson 1886). Critical interest in Gothic initially took the form of thematic studies (such as Edith Birkhead’s The Tale of Terror, 1921), monographs, or historical surveys. Bibliophile and occult enthusiast Montague Summers wrote lots of books of this type, and his History of Demonology and Witchcraft (1926) and later works The Vampire: His Kith and Kin (1928) and The Vampire in Europe (1929) present detailed records of folk beliefs about these subjects. Likewise, Devendra Varma’s The Gothic Flame (1957) proclaims itself to be “A History of the Gothic Novel in England.” More recently McNally and Florescu’s In Search of Dracula (1982) researches the link between historical ruler Vlad Tepes and the vampire legends of Transylvania. However, encouraged by Freud’s identification of pop culture as the most fruitful for investigation (Massé 2001: 229) and the obvious applicability of gothic themes, the psychoanalytic trend subsequently produced a new wave of readings of the Gothic.

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These began with the simplistic and metaphoric, for example focusing on texts such as Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s The Yellow Wallpaper (1892), whose invalid female narrator, confined to her room, fantasizes herself into the position of a mute female trapped behind its wallpaper. Psychoanalytic theories of Gothic then developed with reference to structures and themes, ultimately becoming systematic studies of patterns, binaries and relations that are continued by many poststructuralist and feminist schools of criticism. More recent gothic criticism now examines the psychoanalytic frameworks underlying these models, as in Barbara Creed’s The Monstrous-Feminine (1993), which reverses the Freudian model to consider instead the monster figure of woman-as-castrator, rather than castrated. Creed argues that the female reproductive body is the basis for all definitions of the monstrous and categorizes seven archetypes: archaic mother, monstrous womb, vampire, witch, possessed body, monstrous mother and castrator. The gothic body is also the focus of much recent criticism, such as the work of Kelly Hurley (1996), Steven Bruhm (1994) and Margrit Shildrick (2002). Gender is a component here, but not the defining factor. Corporeality, vulnerability, pain and transformation are the key themes of these works, and their writers follow Julia Kristeva in identifying Gothic as a site that confronts physical and social boundaries (such as the subject/object divide) and the interrogates the natural. In Powers of Horror, Kristeva offers up her theory of abjection, as “the place where meaning collapses” (2) where “I am at the border of my condition as a living being” (3). The abject is that which “disturbs identity, system, order” (4): Kristeva names social horrors (Auschwitz, crimes), alongside physical ones (food loathing, expelled bodily fluids, corpses and wounds) claiming they all confront us with this “narcissistic crisis” (14). Barbara Creed clarifies further: “The abject threatens life, it must be ‘radically excluded’ (Kristeva 1982: 2) from the place of the living subject, propelled away from the body and deposited on the other side of an imaginary border which separates the self from that which threatens the self ” (Creed 1993: 9). It must be excluded yet tolerated, for as a threat to destroy life it also helps to define life. The body, the corpse, the taboo all demonstrate the abject and make up a major component of Gothic. Since Gothic seems so variable and adaptable, crossing cultures and centuries, contemporary cultural materialist criticism (such as the work of David Punter) situates it as a response to social trauma and consequently defines it as an overall tendency in literature rather than a historical genre (1980: 14). In so doing, Punter reconciles Gothic’s subversive elements and subcultural status with its canonical position. Fred Botting also discusses Gothic’s focus on marginalized and excluded cultural elements, suggesting that the absence of absolute cultural taboos in post–1970s Western culture is in this way responsible

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for its contemporary form. “…[T]ransgressions, repressions, taboos, prohibitions no longer mark an absolute limit in unbearable excess and thus no longer contain the intensity of a desire for something that satisfyingly disturbs and defines social and moral boundaries. […] [Contemporary] figures of horror function as ‘titillating exercises in reassurance’ which become ‘highly marketable commodities’ (Grixti, 18–19)” (Botting 2001: 134). Today, liberal audiences at movies or theme parks suck up the latest special effects, the latest horrors, without these ever hitting a truly shocking point of gothic excess; the demand for something more terrifying reasserting itself as soon as the experience is over. Catherine Spooner (2007) also argues that contemporary Gothic is a commodity; no longer subcultural or marginal. Writing in 1969, Robert Hume identifies a development in gothic literature from terror to horror: “Terror-Gothic works on the supposition that a reader who is repelled will close his mind (if not the book) to the sublime feelings which may be roused by the mixture of pleasure and pain induced by fear. Horror-Gothic assumes that if events have psychological consistency, even within repulsive situations, the reader will find himself involved beyond recall. […] [T]he suspense of external circumstance is de-emphasized in favor of increasing psychological concern with moral ambiguity” (1969: 285). More recently, Botting summarizes the dual impulse the Gothic provokes in similar historical terms: identifying a historical turn from external terror (where the source of fear was objectified and cast out, as in early tales of ghosts, castles, witchcraft and so forth) to internal horror and associated notions of guilt, anxi ety and despair (1996: 10). Whereas eighteenth-century gothic texts located fear in the form of an outsider or mysterious external forces that could ultimately be overpowered, expelling the horror and restoring normality, later gothic works focus on the internal effects and causes of such events and their resolutions reflect this. As mentioned, this turn is linked by these (and other) critics to the Freudian school of psychoanalysis, which relocated horror inside the psyche. A consequence of this revaluation was that the internal/external boundary became fraught with uncertainty, as in this way gothic writing often left readers unsure whether a narrative depicted a psychological disturbance or an uncanny happening (Henry James’ The Turn of the Screw [1898] is an excellent example of this). In this way, historicist readings of Gothic may also be underpinned by a psychoanalytic framework: Baldick and Mighall note in such readings a “reliance upon allegorical interpretations in which Demon stands for Deviant, and upon an unexamined model of ‘bourgeois fears’ as the motivation for fiction, [that] ultimately undermines their historicist credentials, once more allowing ‘psychology’ (fear of the abject, fear of the ‘other’) to hold the field” (2001: 222). Count Dracula, for example, can be read as doubly Othered, as he is

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both dead and foreign. This type of reading merges historicist concerns with psychoanalytic ones, and it is this that Baldick and Mighall alert us to. It seems that the psychological has always been key to understanding gothic texts. Jerrold Hogle’s “gothic matrix” suggests four key qualities of gothic texts: an antiquated space, a hidden secret from the past, a physical or psychological haunting, and an oscillation between earthly reality and the supernatural. Hogle’s matrix encompasses the terror/horror dialectic by including both. Terror gothic is apparent in the construction of suspense (psychological haunting, human nature, threats that are kept out of sight such as the “hidden secrets” and potential of “antiquated spaces”) and horror gothic features in the consequences of such (the manifestation of physical haunting and the results of hidden secrets in antiquity) (2002: 3). Hogle comments that “These hauntings … rise from within the antiquated space, or sometimes invade it from alien realms, to manifest unresolved crimes or conflicts that can no longer be successfully buried from view” (2). As such the taxonomy he uses to create this analytical matrix relies on haunting as a response to social trauma, and thus also accords with David Punter’s definition of Gothic as a mode. Contemporary schools of criticism, such as poststructuralism (which requires an interdisciplinary focus on form and structure rather than analysis of manifest content) also seem linked to psychoanalytic readings when considering Gothic. For example the movement from external to internal can be read as exemplary of Gothic’s theme of inversion: If terror leads to an imaginative expansion of one’s sense of self, horror describes the moment of contraction and recoil […] The movement between terror and horror is part of a dynamic whose poles chart the extent and different directions of Gothic projects. These poles, always inextricably linked, involve the externalization or internalization of objects of fear and anxiety [Botting 1996: 10].

This polarization also suggests notions of postmodern duality as the internal and external are contrasted, combined or exchanged; the horror without is reflected within. We can see this sort of process in Bram Stoker’s Dracula, where the Count stands both for something Other: foreign, aristocratic and alien; yet is also man’s dark shadow, a symbol of his deepest, forbidden desires (see Smith 2004 for further discussion in the context of Victorian masculinity). These principles affect both the structuring and content of gothic fiction. Its underlying theme may best be described as a notion of reversal or inversion: Gothic often links mutually opposing ideas such as decay/growth and fear/ attraction. Its focus is on opposites, such as the idea of submission as power— best illustrated by the Hegelian dialectic of the master/slave relationship where, although the master ostensibly has the power, in actuality this is reversed since his need for the slave (for example to provide social status) is greater than their need for him. It is further illustrated by the idea of victim collaboration, as in

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the vampire myth where the victim must invite their attacker in, and also by vampire sexuality that combines fear and attraction. In recent years Gothic’s most significant development seems to have been its transvaluation of moral issues, as notions of evil and monsters become less clear-cut. Although Frankenstein’s monster was a creature wronged and rejected by society, the threat in early gothic stories was generally of irredeemable evil, and we are never given any real hope that the antagonist can be saved. The shift to a more sympathetic monster, whose fate forms another tragedy and whose enemies damn themselves in the struggle, allows Gothic to critique other strata of society. Of course, this shift towards heroic villains and villainous heroes can also be defined as a type of inversion. In contrast to the narrated nineteenth-century vampire (such as Dracula), the twentieth-century vampire is narrating: allowed his own voice (such as Anne Rice’s Lestat). More recently, semiotic readings of Gothic’s thematic structures have appeared, such as the work of Jodey Castricano. Castricano defines her notion of cryptomimesis “as textual production that is predicated upon haunting, mourning, and the return of the so-called living dead” (Castricano 2001: 32). The sense of haunting (as both a legacy and a promise) in the work allows it to resist lineation just as Gothic itself resists this sort of historical interpretation by its free appropriation of other genres and fads, and by its constant evocation of the old, sustained in the postmodern present. Castricano’s theory follows the work of Jacques Derrida in considering the subject as phantom and the possibilities of approaching language and writing as non-linear. Her book discusses the ways in which Derrida’s Specters of Marx (1994) relies upon a gothic insistence on the power of haunting and explores how deconstruction can be thought of as the ghost or deferred promise of Marxism. Castricano’s “cryptomimetic” narratology is also inspired by Nicolas Abraham and Maria Torok’s The Wolf Man’s Magic Word (1976), a semantic discussion that identifies encrypted linguistic structures and proposes the “cosymbol” of “the Thing” (as neither word nor thing-in-itself, but a mark or cipher). In “Fors” (the introductory essay to this text, first published 1977), Derrida discusses the psychoanalytic elements of semantics. He takes the symbol of the crypt beyond easy metaphors by exploring its simultaneous internal/external nature: for example as above, where it is hidden inside the word “encrypted,” or through its function that is to both look inwards (at the coffin which is its content and purpose) and outwards (as a monument or defense against the world). He also discusses notions of absence (as seen in psychoanalytic themes whose nature is to escape from discourse), and reversal, where that which is buried alive (such as an emotion) is also in some ways satisfied by this process. As such, the object is defined as a thing to be deciphered according to a cryptographic structure, and narrative is viewed as an encrypting process.

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There appears to be an implicit link between Gothic and this kind of spectral criticism that is also seen in Derrida’s Specters of Marx, which identifies a “spectral movement” (Derrida 1994: 148) within Capital and specifically in Marx’s definition of the commodity (as Derrida equates awareness of its invisible and ideological attributes with the ability to see ghosts). Further links can also be seen in the ways in which contemporary Marxism has been in some ways buried and revived, and the spectral motif is even prefigured by pure Marxism: Marx and Engel’s The Communist Manifesto (first published 1848) famously opens by stating it is written in response to the treatment of communism as a “specter [that] is haunting Europe” (Marx and Engels 1967: 78). It seems that many specters haunt the texts of Marx and, through him, of Derrida. These approaches are consistent with contemporary cultural criticism and psychoanalysis in identifying the gothic “Other within”—Punter and Bronfen comment that the unconscious invoked by Gothic is not the kernel of the self but the Other implanted within us (2001: 21). Marcus LiBrizzi (2003) takes a similar cultural materialist perspective for his consideration of David Icke’s Anunnaki as modern vampires: again using notions of the outsider/alien among us and the commodification of the self.

Gothic Structure Structural multiplicity is a defining feature of the gothic tradition, for example as in Dracula’s reliance “on a multiplicity of texts and of points of view,” or Frankenstein “which is based on the traditional structure of embedded narratives” (Lecercle 2001: 72). Since The Castle of Otranto (“a prototype for many later gothic stories which were presented as taken from medieval manuscripts and were prefixed with proofs of antiquity and authenticity” [Davenport-Hines 1998: 137]), Gothic has drawn attention to its performative structuring through such paratextual material and use of layered stories. This gothic formula of stories-within-stories is at the basis of Castricano’s cryptomimetic structure: invoking Derrida’s notion of the crypt as “a place comprehended within another but rigorously separate from it … sealed, and thus internal to itself ” (Derrida 1986: xiv). In this way too, Gothic brings down the divides between the internal and the external. This is further illustrated by contemporary texts such as Stephen King’s Carrie (1974), the final section of which includes a reproduced “Report of Decease” and extracts that purport to be from various books and local newspapers (King 1974: 213–222). These refer to the events portrayed in the book’s internal fiction (that is, the story proper). The incorporation of such external

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fictions into the text blurs the boundaries of the internal and external. In this sense the structuring of both traditional and postmodern gothic novels can be called performative since it is put to use to accomplish a task that it creates for itself, most commonly relating to the genuineness of the novel in question. This structure is performative not only by virtue of enacting this process and creating its own authenticity (whether this is believed or disbelieved), but further because it is only through this process that the question of veracity is raised. That the striven-for authenticity is generally disbelieved is a further fiction of Gothic that may rest on cultural context. Such pursuit of authenticity (through the use of testimonies, letters, appendices and innumerable textual footnotes) can also be found in contemporary gothic works such as Mark Z. Danielewski’s House of Leaves (2000), and produces an embedded, layered narrative structure that further incorporates external elements, and which may be paralleled in the structuring of contemporary comic books (embedded story arcs and diegetic layers, along with faux paratextual material as seen in comics such as Watchmen [Moore and Gibbons, 1986–7]). Traditional gothic novels such as The Saragossa Manuscript (Count Jan Potocki, 1804) and Melmoth the Wanderer (Charles Maturin, 1820) use their structures to exploit the reader’s suspension of disbelief. This is not only due to their convoluted narrative frameworks but, more generally, to the nature of Gothic. Both these novels require a particular suspension of disbelief peculiar to Gothic—a kind of double suspension, where the reader must not only permit themselves to believe in the fictional characters and settings presented as “real,” but also suspend their disbelief with regard to the laws of nature as the supernatural is invoked and exploited.1 However, in contrast to The Saragossa Manuscript (whose structure, tone and setting create a mythic past that feels almost timeless) Melmoth the Wanderer appears more culturally dated. Aspects of this text (such as its footnotes) emphasize this; particularly when contrasted with the main narrative, which self-consciously employs a style and moral content that would have been unfashionable at the time. Unusual strategies and extratextual markers are frequently perceived in the structuring of some of Gothic’s most famous texts, for example by critics such as Jean-Jacques Lecercle, who contrasts the multiple points of view used in Dracula with the embedded narrative structure of Frankenstein. Victor Sage identifies a similar “nesting” technique in his consideration of Melmoth the Wanderer, but goes on to conclude that this is wedded to a “frame-breaking” principle by the use of inversion—both structurally (rewriting the Faustian story from the perspective of the Wanderer) and thematically (as the tempter constantly fails to tempt) (Sage 2001: 86). As such, these two texts provide good examples of the narrative range of the Gothic.

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Count Jan Potocki’s The Saragossa Manuscript is a supernatural tale told with a complex narrative thread. Ostensibly a translation of a book found in a house in Saragossa by a French army officer, it tells the tale of Alfonso, a young Spanish officer who finds his life turned into a gothic nightmare after spending a night in an abandoned inn. Throughout the novel various characters tell their stories, creating a complex narrative structure of stories-withinstories which peaks when a tale five “levels” deep is told, being “The Story of the Princess of Monte-Salerno” (Potocki 1966: 158). Melmoth the Wanderer is similarly constructed, and also features up to five levels of tales. Within the extradiegetic narration (level I) we hear the tale of a Spaniard (II), one of whose stories is a recitation from a manuscript he once read (III), which manuscript includes a story from the father of its main character (IV), said story itself featuring “The Tale of Guzman’s Family,” told to the father by a stranger (V) (Maturin 1968: 399). Both texts use a variety of different devices to showcase their tales and sustain their increasingly complicated structures. Stories-within-stories are entered into via letters received by one of the characters (Maturin: 118), or as a character reads a book or manuscript (Potocki: 117). These levels are identified primarily through the use of titles: The Saragossa Manuscript in particular makes heavy use of many chapter headings; each time a new tale begins it is given a title, generally in the form “The Story of.…” While these titles serve well as an aid to clarity they also have the effect of labeling and, in this sense, limiting the stories they precede, interrupting the narrative flow. This is evidenced by the fact that both books are capable of discarding their rigid titling structure in favor of subtler methods. Although Potocki varies the pace of his narrative vastly, frequently plunging through layers of story (130–32 and 152), these instances are prefixed with titles, which slow their impact somewhat. By contrast, hidden stories (as when Emina continues relating to Alfonso the history of her family [59]), replicated stories (for example the gypsy’s story “The Story of Giulio Romati and of the Princess of MonteSalerno” (148), which echoes a previous tale), and stories retold from a different perspective (such as “Pascheco’s Story” [99]) are sustained by the form of the novel with no such labels. However, without the presence of titles at other points throughout the tale, such instances would no doubt be lost in the confusion. Although both books are similar in their convoluted style and gothic themes, their overall structure differs further. Melmoth the Wanderer is altogether less complicated, containing longer (and therefore fewer) tales: John Melmoth, the main character, hears but five or six stories directly. Similarly, each of the titular wanderer’s attempts “to shift his burden onto someone else makes a separate story; a casual arrangement, which saves Maturin from expos-

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ing his weakness in handling the plot” (Grant 1968: x). The Saragossa Manuscript, by contrast, uses its stories as pieces of a single puzzle, into which Alfonso is thrown. Its tales have a cumulative effect and reflect back onto one another, tying the whole together in a manner more suited to the potential of the novelistic structure and making use of the sort of non-linear multiplicity seen in Castricano’s cryptomimesis. A further factor affecting the novels’ suspension of disbelief is their use of language. Each of Potocki’s stories is written verbatim (for example: “Since I have the honor to be telling you my story, you will realize that I did not die” [97]). He recreates the various speech patterns of his intradiegetic storytellers, in contrast to Maturin’s extradiegetic style, which can be read as another impediment built into his structure (“The manuscript was discoloured, obliterated, and mutilated […] Melmoth could make out only a sentence here and there” [28]). Victor Sage asserts that the footnotes and other extratextual elements in Melmoth the Wanderer serve a different purpose: that, rather than attempting to define the text as factual, they actually disrupt it by starting a kind of dialogue with the narrative itself from a contemporary Irish point of view (2001: 86). These varying interpretations of the effect of paratextual material, extratextual markers and gothic structuring invite a gothic reading of comics with reference to a reader-based narratology, as will be proposed in Part Two. By linking semiotics to gothic themes, we can perceive a gothic structure within comics; as the medium presents its narrative in a non-linear form (where all moments coexist on the page), combined with embedded story arcs and diegetic artifice. Many of these key gothic elements and movements are also reflected in the content and culture of comics, which will be discussed in Part Three. This is most apparent in their subject matter, which is frequently sensational, takes a subversive stance, or revolves around psychological realism or supernatural tropes. However, Gothic’s subcultural status is similarly reflected in the marketing and audience of contemporary comics, as are themes of commodification and consumerism. Gothic’s absorption of other genres is also echoed by the development of American comics through the (bidirectional and atemporal) overwriting and adaptation of previously existing characters and events. Further notions of isolation and cultural anxiety (that have relevance if, like David Punter, we perceive Gothic as a response to social trauma) also inform the content of many comics. Jim Trombetta (2010) argues that the popularity of pre–Code horror comics can be related to social anxiety accompanying the United States’ emergence as an economic and military superpower (see next chapter for further discussion). Art Spiegelman also argues that the rise in horror comics in the 1950s can be read as a response to the Holocaust (citing

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Bernard Krigstein’s “The Master Race,” published in Impact, EC Comics, 1954) (Pi Roman). Hilary Chute (2013) is another critic who has suggested that EC’s zombies and decomposing bodies can be read as visual metaphors for the victims of the atomic bomb blasts. All of these readings claim a gothic image as a response to social trauma.2 More recently, Vertigo titles such as Brian K. Vaughan and Pia Guerra’s Y The Last Man (DC Vertigo, 2002–08) or Grant Morrison’s The Invisibles (DC Vertigo, 1994–2000) interrogate notions such as apocalypse, gender and identity. It will be suggested in the next chapter that perhaps Vertigo itself can be read as a response to social (or literary) trauma, such as stagnation in mainstream comics or a postmodern anxiety about cultural boundaries. Within the comic-book superhero and responses to the same, notions of fragmented identity and alter egos abound: literalizing the gothic Other within, and inviting psychoanalytic readings that are further reinforced by the pop culture status of comics.

2. A Brief History of British and American Comics and Criticism The beginnings of graphic storytelling can be traced as far back as cave paintings or artifacts such as the Bayeux Tapestry, which features panel borders and sequential action. Attempts to identify the “first” comic therefore often seem doomed to fail. The early history of comics is often disputed among scholars and it seems felt that not enough consideration has been given to advances made in Europe and outside the Western world. While the Eastern comics tradition is recognized due to the fame of contemporary media such as manga and anime, it is generally held separate from the evolution of Western comics. There is an overall feeling that many events in comics history have been ignored in favor of perpetuating the myth of comics as an all–American product. I have set the focus of this book upon contemporary British and American comics and, in particular, the “Brit invasion” that took place in the 1980s and 1990s when writers and artists such as Alan Moore, Neil Gaiman, Grant Morrison, Jamie Delano and Garth Ennis were headhunted by American publishers and DC’s Vertigo imprint was launched. Michel Foucault’s notion of the episteme (as a period of history organized around and thus explainable in terms of specific ideologies and discourses) is of use here, and therefore this book does not attempt to trace comics’ genealogy back to tapestries or cave paintings. Instead this chapter looks at discourses of publishing and distribution, mass media, audience and fandom, romantic authorship, literary allusion, and the graphic novel rebranding; offers illustrative case studies of British and American horror comics; and concludes with a review of comics criticism. It is intended to serve as a basic history and flag up the key critical movements for those unfamiliar.

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Early History Comic art began in seventeenth-century Italy with the earliest instances of caricature, which then spread throughout England in the eighteenth century, popularized by the work of artists and engravers such as Thomas Rowlandson and William Hogarth. By the mid–1880s these single-panel satirical drawings had made the transition to newspapers via the editorial cartoon and soon most newspapers were publishing both single-panel cartoons and multiple-panel comic strips, which proved so popular that they were given their own pages in Sunday editions. Funny cartoons of all types became popular during the late nineteenth century, and serialization was the next step. Ally Sloper, created by Henry Ross, was one of the first of these; first appearing in Judy in 1867 and gaining his own title (Ally Sloper’s Half Holiday) in 1884. In America, Richard Outcault’s “Yellow Kid” (generally accepted as the first identifiable American serial cartoon character, although he was never named) first appeared in the New York World in a cartoon entitled “Truth” in February 1895. Soon demand for the character was such that the World began publishing “Hogan’s Alley” cartoons drawn by other artists, prompting Outcault to attempt to secure copyright of the character before his move to the New York Journal in October 1896 (Gordon 1998, 29). He succeeded in copyrighting the title but not the likeness, prompting a flurry of unauthorized spin-off merchandise and meaning that both the World and the Journal continued to publish cartoons featuring the Kid. Similar copyright struggles took place in Britain. The magazine Comic Cuts began in 1890 and quickly became the subject of one of the first comics copyright actions, since it only featured reprinted material. Publishers quickly started hiring artists to produce original work and magazines such as the U.K.’s Illustrated Chips (1890) and the U.S.A.’s Hearst’s Sunday Journal (1897) followed. By the early twentieth century there were many such comic strip magazines: in England, Amalgamated Press was publishing a wide range of picturestrip papers (for pre-teens), such as Butterfly, Comic Cuts, Chips, and Puck; and prose story papers (for early teens), such as Gem (1907–39) and Magnet (1908– 40) (see Sabin 1996, Chapman 2011). In America, comics were dominating large pull-out sections of Sunday papers and intermittent reprints (from the news publishers but also from independent companies such as Cupples & Leon) (Sabin 1996). The popularity of comics with children and teens (who James Gilbert (1986) notes were beginning to gain a distinct identity and even purchase power via pocket money) meant that the industry shifted its audience focus significantly during this time. Comics were now copyrighted, anthologized and serialized. They were gaining a larger (and younger) audience and soon the next big push would come, taking them into their golden age in both countries.

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The Golden Ages In 1938 Action Comics #1 was published in the U.S.A., featuring Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster’s character Superman and heralding the beginning of America’s golden age, which was to run until 1945. A demand for American superhero comics quickly took over in both countries and other classic characters such as Bob Kane and Bill Finger’s Bat-Man (Detective Comics #27, 1939) appeared. Both characters are owned by what is today DC Comics. Detective Comics #1 (1937) was the first true DC comic book: produced by Detective Comics Inc. and National Allied Publications who, after forming National Comics and absorbing All–American Productions, would eventually become National Periodical Publications, and were known as DC although the name was not formally adopted until 1977. Superman and Batman were followed by other familiar characters such as the Flash (1939), Captain Marvel (1940) and Wonder Woman (1941). The Flash and Captain Marvel come from the Marvel stable: Marvel Comics #1 being the first comic published by Timely Publications in 1939, who would later become Atlas Comics before adopting the Marvel name in 1961. All genres were popular in the golden age (mysteries, horror, romance, western and, of course, superheroes). The majority of British and American comics were anthology style, printing a selection of four- or eight-page stories. Superheroes largely followed a template set by Superman or drawn from pulp magazines (such as Zorro). As “Champion[s] of the Oppressed” (the title of the first Superman story) they fought real-life villains: criminals, fascists, wifebeaters, gun-runners and so forth. The first Superman story has him save an innocent woman from execution, capture a wife-beater, and threaten a crooked political lobbyist. Both Batman and Superman had more violent beginnings than are generally recognized now: this was altered as Superman imposed a moral code on himself while Batman’s violence was subtly toned down. James Chapman argues that Britain’s golden age of comics ran from the 1930s to the 1960s but its early stage is best characterized by the dominance of comedy comics as titles such as the Dandy (1937) and the Beano (1938) were introduced in the 1930s. Chapman (2011) notes their development of the form by adopting speech balloons (a device established by American and then British newspaper strips) instead of captions underneath panels. World War II brought American comics to Britain’s newsstands, often used as ballast on ships, and these influenced the subsequent genres being produced: Eagle (with its flagship story “Dan Dare: Pilot of the Future”) (1950–69) emerged alongside sports comics, war comics and more romance comics (see for example the work of Barker, Chapman and Sabin for further details). The demise of Britain’s golden age seems to have been mainly due to

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World War II, which produced paper shortages and limited the importation of American comics. But the American golden age continued as these comics gained in popularity with children in both countries. Limited importation into the U.K. meant that British distributors such as the Arnold Book Company and L. Miller & Son turned to publishing reprints of American titles. Of course, with this expansion came more copyright struggles—DC litigated against Fawcett’s Captain Marvel and Fox Comics’ Wonder Man; Marvel sued L. Miller & Son for their U.K. title Marvelman, who was then renamed Miracleman. Although it seems indisputable that the reuse and unlicensed adaptation of characters was financially motivated, as the profitable superhero formula was endlessly reworked, it is perhaps worth suggesting that it can also be read as an example of gothic absorption/self-consumption and commoditization,1 particularly as regards the rise of horror comics.

Crime, Terror and the Code The earliest horror comics were adaptations: historians cite the “New Adventures of Frankenstein” (Prize Comics Issue #7, Briefer 1940) as the first American horror comic serial (Markstein 2009; Watt-Evans 2010): a updated version of Shelley’s tale in which the monster (named Frankenstein) is a rampaging horror. The story is something of an aberration as the comic’s other stories are superhero and adventure tales (Black Owl, Dr. Frost and so forth). Other early horror adaptations included “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” (Classic Comics #12, 1943) and “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde” (Classic Comics #13, 1943). Ron Goulart (1986: 314) then identifies Eerie Comics #1 (Avon Publications, 1947) as “the first out-and-out horror comic book”: an anthology of six occult stories that included ghost and zombie tales. The title lapsed after this first issue, reappearing in 1951 as Eerie, beginning with a new #1. The superhero genre began to decline in the postwar era and by 1948 crime comics had taken over American newsstands. Horror and science fiction comics followed; the most controversial of which were published by EC (Entertaining Comics), led by publisher William M. Gaines. After inheriting the struggling company Educational Comics from his father in 1947 Gaines changed its name to Entertaining Comics (1950) and launched many of the “new trend” horror comics that, although they rescued EC financially, ultimately attracted negative public opinion. Gaines would be the only publisher to take the stand during the Senate investigation that followed, which led to the introduction of the censorious Comics Code and the denigration of the medium. EC comics are usually divided into three eras: “pre-trend” (following the market leaders), “new trend” (starting in 1950) with Gaines and

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editor Al Feldstein putting out the comics they wanted to read, and “new direction” (after the Comics Code came into force in 1955). The pre-trend comics initially followed the crime comics vogue (see Benton 1993) before romance and horror comics overtook these in popularity. Crime gave way to horror, as can be seen in the development of EC’s Crime Patrol comic, where the host character of the Crypt-Keeper (who introduced and commented on the stories) originally appeared. By issue #17 this was retitled The Crypt of Terror, and changed to Tales from the Crypt with issue #19. The “classic” EC titles are all new trend, including: Tales From The Crypt, Vault of Horror, Haunt of Fear, Weird Science, Weird Fantasy, Weird Science-Fantasy, Crime SuspenStories, Two-Fisted Tales, Frontline Combat, MAD, Shock SuspenStories, Panic and Piracy. EC’s earliest horror comics are also linked with other genres such as science fiction and romance. The first EC horror story is generally considered to be Johnny Craig’s “Zombie Terror,” published in Moon Girl #5 (1948).2 Moon Girl would be retitled A Moon…A Girl…Romance with its ninth issue (1949) and the title then became Weird Fantasy with issue #13 (1950): EC’s first science fiction anthology title. Enfantino (2010) cites story titles from A Moon… A Girl… Romance, including “I Was Jilted and Had No Desire to Live” (written by Al Feldstein), “I Thought I Loved My Boss” (art by Wally Wood), and “Hearts Along the Ski Trail” (also by Wood) that demonstrate the comic’s genre focus. Given the close ties between horror and British girls’ comics that will be discussed later in this chapter, this shift between genres (horror, romance, science fiction) is interesting. Trombetta (2010: 23) notes that “the prominence of horror comics exactly parallels the emergence of the United States as a military and economic superpower nonpareil,” citing the constant “threat of [nuclear] destruction” as a “terror [that] reasserted itself in the ‘junk’ medium of the horror comic, giving it an especially uncanny quality all of its own.” He stresses the links to wartime fallout, claiming that one function of horror comics during the Korean war era “was to portray the experiences that wartime comics were too delicate to show” (139) and that horror’s motifs (skeletons, cannibalism, shrunken heads, zombies) connect with specific acts of wartime violence. Trombetta (2010: 116) links the collection of Japanese skulls as trophies by American soldiers with the “angry skulls crying for vengeance” which appear in the comics. He notes the Nuremberg trial of Karl Otto Koch (Commandant of Buchenwald), who owned a prisoner’s shrunken head as a paperweight (Exhibit U.S.A.-254) and whose wife Ilse possessed lampshades made of human skin, arguing that these tropes are also found in the pre–Code horror comics. He also suggests that the Korean wartime practice of brainwashing (or “mind cleansing”) informs comics’ presentation of the zombie, and argues that early

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vampire comics (which focus on blood and dangerous attraction) contain social commentary on fears of racial impurity (244). Despite their notoriety, Trombetta (2010) notes that EC Comics only published 3 percent of the crime and horror titles available in the early 1950s, when 50 to 100 titles were released monthly, the majority of which were published by Atlas (later Marvel). Horror comics were wildly popular at this stage: their motifs were “shoehorned” into other genres and a wide variety of titles were produced. For example, alongside the ghosts and ghouls of Tales from the Crypt, EC also published Shock SuspenStories, which told morality tales addressing issues such as racism, social violence, religious prejudice and so forth (see Cochran 2006 for examples). Trombetta describes these pre–Code comics as Kafka-esque, drawing on Northrop Frye’s Anatomy of Criticism and placing these titles in the “sixth phase of the ironic mode” which “presents human life in terms of nearly unrelieved bondage.” He claims they “showed the inner self as the most dangerous place of all […] these comics conveyed the unspeakable, and maybe even unthinkable, trauma of a whole society” (2010: 23). The horror comic thus became “a sort of cultural garbage can into which every unacceptable thought and impulse […] could be chucked” (32). Various examples of pre–Code EC comics are available online, such as “Last Respects” (Tales from the Crypt #23, Ingels 1951), in which a man trapped in a mausoleum is forced to eat his dead wife’s body (he then dies from formaldehyde poisoning). Interestingly, both narration and dialogue shy away from stating this explicitly: the witnesses who discover the body only point out that it is surrounded by bones, deducing “He stayed alive by catching water in this urn…” “And eating—oh God, no!”) Such reticence is not present in “… Only Skin Deep!” (Tales from the Crypt #38, Crandall 1953) in which Herbie, convinced his new wife Sue is wearing a witch’s mask, rips off her face (“He held the soft wet covering in his hand […] her blood flooded out over the pillow, her raw flesh quivered liverly…” “Watch it, Herbie! That’s Sue’s skin you have in your hand!”).3 Tales from the Crypt and the other new trend EC horror comics dealt in mainly in O. Henry stories where characters received gory supernatural payback for their crimes. Señor Editor (2013) points out that the stories contained “evocative art” and that editor Al Feldstein encouraged artists to develop their own individual styles: artists such as Graham Ingels, Jack Davis, Joe Orlando and Jack Kamen all worked extensively on these comics. These exceptional artists produced some of the most memorable and horrific images ever to appear in comics, including the now-notorious “injury to the eye” motif. Examples of this include the covers of Mister Mystery #12 (Baily 1953), Worlds of Fear #10 (Saunders 1953), The Thing #7 (Morales

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1953), and Weird Chills #2 (Baily 1954). In fact, of “The Terrible 25 of PreCode Comic Book Horror” covers currently listed at Bleeding Cool (Seifert 2010), nearly a third involve injured—or injurious—eyes. Trombetta remarks on the dominance of this image, commenting that horror comics seem “legitimately haunted by the injured eye” though also points out that this is sometimes used for parody. However he also notes the often-overlooked “injury from the eye” in these early comics (2010: 147)—see for example the cover of Astonishing #30 (Maneely 1954) where mysterious eyes in the sky melt the flesh from a man’s bones. Eyes and seeing are a dangerous business—a theme that also informs the structure of these early horror comics. Even if the eye itself is not monstrous, it frequently operates as a signifier for the themes of the story, as in “The Eyes of Death!” (Dark Mysteries #7, Anon 1952) in which Ralph, an astrologer who is jealous of his partner Don’s professional and personal success, kills him and transplants his eyes into his own head. Ralph then becomes haunted by visions of Don’s coffin and ultimately cracks under the strain and digs up Don’s body—still sentient, Don’s corpse reclaims his eyes, and a new constellation appears in the sky. The story concludes that “Events on earth control the heavens!” and that “stars can be the eyes of death!” (7). It therefore may not be too much to relate this somewhat abstract denouement to fears of scientific development. Readers were directly addressed by the horror comics hosts and in some of the narration. For example, the opening page of “Colorama” (Black Cat Mystery #45, Powell 1953) begins “You are driving on the street with the million neon lights! […] Suddenly… you see a new light… a deep, blaring red… that jabs like an asterisk!” (1) The comic is drawn entirely from the perspective of the protagonist (including “our” hands on the steering wheel in the opening pages) whose vision degenerates until he can only see black (the story then concludes with an all-black panel).4 As well as this use of embodied point of view, horror stories often included dense language and multiple embedded layers. For example, the EC stories (such as Tales from the Crypt) would be narrated by the host and then include complex interior flashbacks narrated by characters. In addition, endings often featured witnesses responding to or clarifying the horror (Trombetta 2010: 148). Readers would be directly addressed by the host (“Welcome dear readers”) and also within the narration of stories (“Colorama,” see also “The Brain-Bats of Venus,” discussed in Chapter 9). Complicated structure, intelligent and ironic plots, and evocative artwork were characteristic of EC’s pre–Code output, a style that was imitated (if seldom equaled) by its numerous competitors. As publishers strove to out-do each other, concerns about content began to come from parents and other interested parties, starting a media circus that would lead to investigations and censorship in both Britain and America.

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Subversive Status and Censorship In The Ten-Cent Plague (2009), David Hajdu argues that comics history is one of suppression, from the earliest days of newspaper reprints, and this was never more apparent than in the 1950s. Amy Kiste Nyberg’s Seal of Approval (1998) details the industry history and public campaign that led to the introduction of the (1954) Comics Code in the U.S.A. Martin Barker’s A Haunt of Fears (1984) discusses the British horror comics campaign (1949– 55) which led to the passing of the Children and Young Persons (Harmful Publications) Act (1955). These books closely analyze the campaigns and their cultural context, revisiting the accusations and materials used. They demonstrate that the attacks on comics came from many directions. Initially they were financially motivated: in 1940 literary critic Sterling North published the first “anti-comics” article (in the Chicago Daily News) pointing out that over $1 million per month was being spent by children on comic books. Barker and Nyberg both also note a political dimension. Writing from a marginalized publishing position to a subcultural or lower-class audience meant that comics were often more ambivalent about politics than critics would have liked (see Barker 1984). In England the British Communist Party were heavily involved with the censorship campaign as comics were deemed representative of “the American threat to British culture” (Barker 1984: 21), also commenting on their fascist superheroics, “dumbing down,” and demonization of the Other. In America EC Comics printed a satirical advertisement accusing their critics of being “Red Dupe[s]” which offended the Senate committee and misdirected media discussion (Nyberg 1998: 75–80). Both critics demonstrate how a media circus was whipped up around the comics. Parents were harangued with articles that emphasized the level of violence and the subjects of the stories featured in the crime and horror comics. This began a storm of public debate that was particularly amplified in the U.S.A. by reports of growing numbers of juvenile delinquency arrests, while in the U.K. the frenzy was driven at least in part by its association with America (Barker notes that pre–1953 the comics under investigation were initially called “American” or “American style” but that this term was quietly dropped from the Act itself ). Both countries were in a state of internal cultural tension and it was within this environment that comics caught the negative attention of some key critics and the media. Their sensationalist stories, shock endings and sexist art were used disingenuously to make a “common sense” case against irresponsible publishing and moral (and literary) decline. As well as the horror and crime genres’ subject matter, comics’ artistic style and appearance also came under attack. The large-breasted female figure that became a stereotype of comic-book art was probably introduced initially

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for the servicemen and soldiers who became part of the readership during World War II (Savage 1998: 12). Once initiated, however, this exaggerated drawing style remained, and this sexual dimension probably aggravated public perception of crime and horror comics, so that much of their content was perceived as not simply violent but sadistically and sexually violent. Taking into account their sensational content and open criticism in the press, it’s not surprising that comics were blamed for the perceived increase in juvenile delinquency. Though in hindsight, whether juvenile crime did in fact increase is now debatable: James Gilbert (1986) cites factors such as the changing definition of a criminal offence (for example to include automobile offences), and the emergence of a youth culture based around rock and roll as both affecting statistics and creating an ever-widening cultural and ideological gap between parents and their children which may have been responsible for the perceived problem. Delinquency also became more noticeable since the issue was highly publicized and, once public demands for legislated censorship began, played for political gain. Psychiatrist Fredric Wertham is an important figure in this debate and was a major voice for the anti-comics lobby from 1948 onwards. His book Seduction of the Innocent, which claimed that “Comic books are death on reading” (1953: 121), strongly influenced the Senate hearings; although the Senate interim report indicates that the committee were unwilling to agree with his recommendation to censor all comics. As well as being due to a reluctance to set legal precedent and run counter to first amendment rights, this decision may also have been affected by criticism from others; such as Professor Frederic Thrasher who pointed out Dr. Wertham’s lack of adequate research data and claimed that his research rested on a selected group of extreme cases (Senate 1955). Dr. Wertham’s analysis is certainly skewed and affected by his own preconceptions. He blasts the entire medium as unsuitable for children: portraying homosexual fantasies, inappropriate gender roles, power struggles, and so forth. However, critics such as Mark Evanier (2003) and Bart Beaty (2005) have revisited the subject to argue that Wertham’s motivations seem innocent (objecting to the manipulation of children by a large and exploitative industry) and that his hysterical response was directed more at an increasingly violent society (as can be seen in his other books The Circle of Guilt [1956] and A Sign for Cain [1968]). Dr. Wertham also labeled the advertisements in comics as damaging to children. These fell into two main categories: firstly those for “toy” weapons— hunting knives, crossbows, replica guns and even real ones—and secondly advertisements claiming to cure a variety of ills including spots and skin problems, “unshapely small busts,” products and lotions to remove fat, add fat or build muscle—basically every imaginable teenage worry. Although unsuitable and

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exploitative by today’s standards, these advertisements also suggest that the primary audience for postwar comics was made up of adolescents. In 1948 the comics industry adopted a six-point code of self-censorship that prohibited indecent drawings, scenes of sadistic torture, vulgar language, glamorous or alluring representations of criminal activity or divorce, and ridicule of any religious or racial group. However, most publishers ignored the Code in their pursuit of profits. There were other attempts at outside legislation, which also failed, until the issue culminated in a Senate hearing and the threat of censorship finally forced the industry to commit to selfregulation. In 1954 a group of publishers formed the Comics Magazine Association of America (CMAA) and created the 1954 Comics Code. This was expanded from the 1948 version to also forbid presentation of specific details and methods of crime, representations of kidnapping, use of the words “horror” or “terror” in titles, depictions of torture, vampires, ghouls, cannibalism and werewolfism, and restricted advertising to acceptable products. It also included dictates such as “In every instance good shall triumph over evil and the criminal punished [sic] for his misdeeds,” and the catch-all “All elements or techniques not specifically mentioned herein, but which are contrary to the spirit and intent of the Code, and are considered violations of good taste or decency, shall be prohibited” (Nyberg 1998: 166–9). Most distributors refused to carry comics that did not bear the stamp of Code approval. Of all the publishers under attack, EC’s William Gaines was the only one to take the stand during the Senate investigation and attempt to defend the medium. The tone and direction of the prosecution was such that he never stood a chance (transcriptions are available online)—minds were already made up on the issue of “bad taste,” and no allowance was made for subjectivity or intent. Despite not enforcing a ban on all comics, the committee’s report reflected disgusted public opinion, which is clear from its tone, phrases such as “so-called comic books” and the parallels drawn between comics reading and alcoholism: Surveying the work that has been done on the subject, it appears to be the consensus of the experts that comic-book reading is not the cause of emotional maladjustment in children. Although comic-book reading can be a symptom of such maladjustment, the emotionally disturbed child because of abnormal needs may show in [sic] a greater tendency to read books of this kind than will the normal child. This theory appears as valid as the thinking that alcoholism is a symptom of an emotional disturbance rather than its cause [United States Senate 1955].

Imported American comics meant that these concerns were shared in the United Kingdom and guides for worried parents such as George Pumphrey’s Children’s Comics: A Guide for Parents and Teachers (1955) were produced, warning of “comics’ evil communications” (61). A high-profile campaign from

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the Comics Campaign Council and the National Union of Teachers meant that it wasn’t long before this “literature that glorifies the brute … [and] encourage[s] sadism” came to political attention and was criticized in the House of Commons (Mr. M. Edelman, Labour Party, 17 July 1952). In 1955 the U.K. Children and Young Persons (Harmful Publications) Act was passed: prohibiting the printing, publishing or selling of any work consisting wholly or mainly of stories told in pictures that was likely to fall into the hands of children which portrayed “(a) the commission of crimes; or (b) acts of violence or cruelty; or (c) incidents of a repulsive or horrible nature; in such a way that the work as a whole would tend to corrupt a child or young person into whose hands it might fall” (British Government 1955). Both countries now had in place a network (whether from outside legislation or a self-patrolled censorship) with which to limit the production of comic books to those deemed appropriate. The fact that the U.K. Act has never seen a prosecution (O’Brien 2004) aligns even more closely with the Code as a guide for self-censorship. Both the U.S. Code and the U.K. Act can be seen as a response to mass media and changes in the social climate that included the beginnings of a teenage culture and identity, a greater emphasis on popular culture, and an increase in consumerism that focused on these concerns. Whether comics were responsible for juvenile delinquency, and indeed whether there was a significant increase in crime is not terribly relevant to this book, although there seems little doubt that much of the imagery in crime and horror comics was unsuitable for young children. Despite Wertham’s apparently genuine concern for young readers and the revisionist readings of his campaign offered by critics such as Evanier and Beaty, the resulting censorship seems no more than a “quick fix” which simply took one more thing away from already deprived children. Trombetta describes this as “the seduction of censorship” (2010: 76), pointing out that Wertham’s cherry-picked case studies are subjective, incomplete, and that all his patients suffer from significant elements of social or familial deprivation. Regardless of Wertham’s good intentions or the tastelessness of some of the pre–Code horror comics, the wide-reaching consequence of the campaign was that it defined all comics as children’s literature, despite their wide readership. Couching the “clean up” demands in terms of “common sense” and child protection rather than censorship ensured success, but it also meant that when the Code was finally implemented it took no account of any adult readership, unlike (say) modernday film certificates. The consequences were years of bland, formulaic comics and the derision of the medium. It has been claimed that Dr. Fredric Wertham and the 1954 Comics Code were responsible for the collapse of the American industry, and it is true that many companies shut down as a result of the Code’s restrictions, including

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EC Comics. Gaines initially resisted joining the CMAA and subscribing to the Code, but eventually was forced to acquiesce. Ultimately though, with their teeth removed, horror comics faltered, and Gaines eventually shut all of his down, concentrating instead on MAD magazine. As well as the creative restrictions of the Code, the negative publicity of the Senate investigation certainly had an adverse effect on sales, as did the rise of television. There were other factors though: for example an antitrust suit forced America’s leading comics distributor to pull out of national distribution in 1955 (United States v. American News), which severely affected the comics industry’s economy. However, the majority of publishers survived, although the extent of the Code’s impact on their creativity was considerable. But, as seen, the industry’s priority has always been one of production, not creativity. The legal battles that feature from the very beginning of British and American comics publishing evidence this, as does the prominent advertising that glutted the pages of early comics. As Ian Gordon notes: “Superman was not so much a character who helped sell comic books as a product that comic books sold” (1998: 134), and both authors and publishers continued to cash in on associated products and merchandising. After the Code’s introduction, publishers were also reluctant to experiment and so the profitable formula of superheroes (and associated license farming) was endlessly reworked.

Recycling in Comics It can be argued that recycling kickstarted the American silver age of comics, which began in 1956 with DC’s Showcase #4, starring a revamped version of their golden-age superhero the Flash. Marvel had attempted to bring back three of their superheroes in Young Men #24 (1953) without much success, but the popularity of the DC Showcase comic led to the Flash being given his own title. In 1961 Marvel put out its first new superhero title and, spearheaded by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby (who would create over 90 percent of the superheroes in the Marvel Universe [Colville 2000]), the Marvel age followed: introducing the Fantastic Four, the Incredible Hulk, Spiderman, the X-Men, and others. This was characterized by more human, fallible heroes, often reluctant to take on their mantle and more concerned with exploiting or hiding their abilities. In Fantastic Four #3 and #4, for example, the Human Torch quits in a fit of teenage pique and the remaining members squabble and blame each other. The notion of superhero team-ups further prefigured the creation of the separate DC and Marvel universes. DC would later introduce the concept of parallel worlds by having both the golden- and silver-age Flash characters appear together in Flash #123 (1962).

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The 1960s and 1970s also saw horror comics try and reintegrate themselves into the American publishing landscape, circumnavigating the Code by billing themselves as magazines. They were now of a larger size, overtly addressed to an adult audience, and placed with the magazines (rather than comics) on newsstands. Warren Publishing and Eerie Publications were the leading two companies here, competing with each other for dominance of the newsstands (the race for which is responsible for some of the confusions that surround this era—such as the use of the name “Eerie,” which is discussed and explained in full by Howlett 2010). Warren Publishing had titles such as Creepy and Eerie; while Eerie Publications, a more down-market operation, released Weird, Witches’ Tales, Tales of Voodoo, Terror Tales, Tales from the Tomb and Horror Tales.5 Writers and artists from the golden ages of horror worked on these titles, including Joe Orlando, Neal Adams, Johnny Craig, Al Williamson, Wally Wood and so forth; along with a new wave of talent such as Dan Adkins, Richard Corben and Berni Wrightson. Eerie Publications’ business model was driven by recycling and (uncredited) reuse as these titles mixed new material with reprinted or redrawn stories from pre–Code horror comics, primarily from publishers who had gone out of business. Stephen R. Bissette (2010: xiii) relates the emergence of these “new” magazines to social trauma, arguing that: Though these were stories essentially a decade old, they were perfectly timed for rebirth: we were ready for them in the 1960s. After all, our President had been assassinated, and then his alleged assassin was assassinated right before our eyes on television (and if we missed it that video was played and replayed until we would never, ever forget it). We were living in a cruel new decade of civil rights protests and violence, the escalation of the Vietnam War and rumblings from a new youth movement that seemed positively tribal in nature.

Mike Howlett (2010) traces the publishing practices of Eerie Publications: identifying and comparing the stories printed with their pre–Code sources. Led by editor Myron Fass, Eerie Publications drew its stock from other comics, recycling stories with the artwork redrawn. This extended to covers, the design of which often borrowed heavily from pre–Code titles. These were sometimes altered by simply painting over the originals. Howlett (2010: 51–2) also discusses Ajax-Farrell’s practice of editing and amending pre–Code strips and publishing these, again often drawing over the original artwork. These revisionist practices, their commercial motivations, and their sensationalist subject matter, seem very gothic. Continuity was also used by companies such as Eerie Publications to lend an air of authenticity and legitimacy (for commercial reasons as news vendors were more likely to stock an “established” title)—hence Eerie #1 is numbered #2; Weird begins with Vol. 1 No. 10 (a common strategy for Fass titles), and

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so forth. The magazines’ lurid covers can also be viewed as a device primarily to attract potential readers (they often had nothing to do with the tales inside). Fass used the cover paintings from pulp novels (Howlett 2010: 79), specifically those of Johnny Bruck as the field started to incorporate more science fiction in the early 1970s. Bissette (2010: xviii) notes that “the intrusion of sciencefiction imagery into the Gothic grand guignol tableaux had begun way back in 1966” with Weird Vol. 2 No. 1, but that this went into overdrive in the 1970s—again, this can be linked to cultural anxiety as the space race was on (the Apollo moon landing would be broadcast in 1969). Eerie Publications also released a series of one-shot “monster magazines” which blurred the lines between high and low culture by including prose from canonical literature such as Dracula and Carmilla—presumably selected due to the lack of copyright restrictions. The drivers behind the development of horror magazines are thus both social and commercial ones. As Bissette concludes “they were nasty, nihilistic, sexist, misanthropic and to the point. This was bare-boned exploitation in its rawest form, recycling past atrocities without a hint of remorse” (Bissette 2010: xv). House of Mystery (1951–83; then reincarnated for 11 issues as Elvira’s House of Mystery 1986–87; then recommenced 2008–11) and its sister title House of Secrets (1956–66; 1969–78; then rebooted for 25 issues 1996–98) were anthology titles published by DC in the wake of the Comics Code. While their post–Code content seems tame, House of Mystery draws on the traditions of pre–Code horror by incorporating a host figure, Cain, introduced in issue #175. Cain would welcome readers to each issue and introduce the individual stories until the cancellation of this run in 1983. He addresses the reader directly (“Welcome fellow tenants…” [#175]), generally appearing in the title and final panels of each story, as well as offering occasional commentary and (sometimes) participating in the story itself (see Chapter 7 for a fuller discussion). His brother Abel performed a similar function for House of Secrets. The hosts look back to the EC horror comics of the 1950s (the GhouLunatics: the Crypt-Keeper, the Vault-Keeper and the Old Witch) and often employs many of the same-style puns and humor, such as “Tomb it may concern” or “Goodbye and good mourning” (House of Mystery #255), or “hair today, gone tomorrow” (House of Secrets #111). The anthologies published O. Henry stories with supernatural content (see chapters 8 and 9 for closer discussion of vampire and zombie tales, including “I…Vampire!”). Some also demonstrate hints of metafiction, for example in the story “His Name Is Kane!” (House of Mystery #180, Friedrich and Kane 1969) in which a self-important Gill Kane (the artist for this story) annoys the editors for the last time and ends us trapped in his own artwork. Puns are used to intelligent effect here (“I’m being drawn into my own artwork!” [Friedrich and Kane 1969: 1]) and

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Kane is horrified to later realize “My artwork has become a factory—little assistants doing the pencilling and inking and coloring!” (4) Editors, writers and artists would also appear in the anthologies’ pages in later years, including DC Vertigo visionary Karen Berger in the first and last issues she edited (see below).

The Later Ages of Comics In 1971 the Code was revised and relaxed, although it still took no account of an adult readership. However, with the rise of underground comics (also known as “comix” or “commix”) in the late 1960s, a largely subversive literature dealing with subjects such as sex and drugs, comics were again being written for an older audience. Comix and their increasing fan market led to a rise of specialty stores that changed the distribution system, moving the product out of newsstands and drugstores. This new selling system led into the “gimmick age” (also known as the speculative age), which artificially inflated the market through collecting. A resurgence in popularity of classic comics during this time meant that the naïve saw new comics as an investment. The industry capitalized fully on this, beginning a ridiculous number of new series and releasing multiple issues #1 or #0—each with a different cover or gimmick. These included foil covers, variant covers, sealed issues with free gifts and so forth. Fans would buy two or more copies in order to keep the “collector’s issue” pristine. This speculator’s market allowed publishers to inflate their own economy to a ludicrous degree until it crashed (causing many of the smaller companies and retailers to fold) and sales began once again to reflect the fan base. The collector’s mentality continues however and gimmicks such as the sealed black polybag issue (including armband) of DC’s Superman #75 (“The Death of Superman”) sold out in 1993. In more modern terms, exclusive covers are still a mainstay of comics conventions, and variant covers are still around: Avatar Press in particular currently releases a range of covers for some titles along with 3D. It is interesting to note that alongside factors such as the direct sales distribution system and the short-sightedness of the speculator’s market, the neglect of the child market (in favor of the underground and adult) has also been blamed for this industry crash (Rogers 1999: 132). However the previous swing towards a child market (and consequent backlash) seems to point to the fruitlessness of this debate. As a medium, comics can tell any story; but the mainstream industry needs to develop marketing that will make this possible (as can be seen for example in the current dominance of superhero adaptations and movie franchises).

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In 1989 the Comics Code was again revised—but with an important amendment: that instead of being compulsory, the stamp of Code approval would now act only as a guarantee that the comic was suitable for children. Sidestepping the Code in this way was the first step to reasserting that comics were suitable for all ages, and the new wave of adult comics was signaled, in part, by the rise of the “graphic novel,” a new form of comic. The graphic novel (also known as a “prestige format” single issue) is best defined as a semipermanent comic: it is often longer than the usual 24-page single issue comic and consists of new material published on higher-quality paper. Trade paperbacks (collected mini-series of comics) utilize the graphic novel form to sell reprinted collections of serialized texts.6 Will Eisner’s A Contract with God (published by DC Comics in 1978) is often cited as the first American graphic novel, as Eisner brought adultoriented novel-length comics to a wider audience. Marvel claim their first graphic novel as The Death of Captain Marvel (1982), and the 1980s saw the rise of this form, as well as a new wave of “flawed heroes.” While these in many ways mirrored the Stan Lee/Jack Kirby formula of the silver age, content followed form as the stories too were now being aimed at adults. American writer/artist Frank Miller redefined Daredevil for an adult audience: initially coming on board as artist in 1980, Miller soon took over the writing of the series from John McKenzie, and went on to introduce Elektra (#168, 1981), one of the most popular Daredevil characters ever, and Matt Murdock’s mortal enemy—before killing her off (#181, 1982). Miller also rewrote Batman as an aging vigilante in The Dark Knight Returns (with Lynn Varley, 1985–86); a title that was complemented by British writer Alan Moore’s sympathetic treatment of the Joker in The Killing Joke (with Brian Bolland, 1988). Moore had previously written Watchmen, a treatise on the superhero figure that is also an extended metaphor for the history of the comics industry. Grittiness, realism and violence returned to comics and, although the superhero still loomed large, he was a more conflicted figure. Writers redefined and relocated the superhero to include political and social concerns, futurist visions, philosophical questions, romance, horror, crime, westerns, and many of the other genres that had been discarded by comics. The publishing practices of Warren Publishing and Eerie Publications had demonstrated that “graphic story magazines” aimed at an adult audience could flourish, and titles such as the American Heavy Metal (licensed from the French science fiction magazine Métal Hurlant), Epic Illustrated (Marvel) and Psycho (Skywald Publications) emerged. Marvel’s Epic Illustrated (1981–88) was a magazine-format anthology publication that echoed these sensibilities: for example issue #22 (February 1984) contains a wide range of stories including a time-travel fantasy, science fiction, a satire on barbarian stories, and extracts advertising a new illustrated

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novel version of Frankenstein. Described as Marvel’s “first attempt to actually bring adults, more serious adults, to comic reading” (White cited in Round 2005b), Epic Illustrated was clearly aimed at an older readership. This is evidenced by occasional profanity in story content, adverts for alcohol, and a self-promoting advert whose text (“During lunch hour, I helped a thunder god triumph over impossible odds, fought off an intergalactic invasion, and still had time for dessert. Marvel makes the magic!”) accompanies a picture of an office worker at his desk reading Marvel comics (Lee 1984: 4). In the U.K., underground publishing and genres such as war comics had given way to the giant of science fiction. Publications like 2000AD similarly followed the trend for more sophisticated stories—for example Alan Moore and Ian Gibson’s The Ballad of Halo Jones, which depicted an alien future through the adventures of the female everyman of the title. From Hell (by Alan Moore and Eddie Campbell; serialized in Taboo 1989–96) is a completely antithetical yet even more ambitious work: a dramatization/documentary comic about the Jack the Ripper murders that is at once meticulously researched (as evidenced by extensive appendices and notes on the events shown in every panel) yet at the same time subtitled: “Being a Melodrama in Sixteen Parts.”

Case Study: Misty Alongside the development of a more adult strand of publishing in magazine format, gothic stories and horror also featured heavily in British girls’ comics of the 1970s and 1980s. Chapman (2011: 111) discusses the emergence of girls’ comics in the 1950s as attempts to create a new market and construct a “socially approved model of adolescent femininity.” Girls’ comics became wildly popular during the 1950s with readers of both genders, a fact which Chapman suggests is due to their “superior storytelling and characterization” (110), also pointing out that many of the leading boys’ comics writers during the 1970s (such as Alan Grant, John Wagner, Pat Mills) began with girls’ comics. During the 1970s and 1980s a turn towards darker horror took place in this genre in particular and titles such as Tammy (1971–84), Jinty (1974–81) and Misty (1978–80) dominated the marketplace (alongside a plethora of others such as Bunty, Mandy, Girl and Spellbound ), published predominantly by DC Thomson and Fleetway (see Gibson 2008 and 2010; Chapman 2011 for further details of such titles). Each of the 1970s titles had a slightly different focus. Tammy had fairytale tortured heroines, Jinty dealt in fantasy and science fiction, and Misty told supernatural tales. Misty (Fleetway) was published weekly between 1978 and 1980 (#1–101) and then merged with Tammy until

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1984 when Tammy merged with Girl. It was an anthology comic with both serialized and one-shot stories, dealing with supernatural and psychological horror. Misty and DC Thomson’s Spellbound were the first British horror comics since the 1950s and Misty in particular draws on some of the tropes of the previous generation of American horror comics. For example it has a host figure, Misty—a gothic, vampy looking woman with long black flowing hair— who welcomed readers to the comic each week on the inside cover (although did not introduce individual stories). Misty’s stories had a dark and spooky twist and frequently a moral message—telling tales of Faustian bargains, magic items, special powers, alternate realities and so forth. For example, its early issues include alternate realities (“The Sentinels” (begins issue #1, 1978), in which a girl is transported to a parallel dimension where the Nazis won the war and Britain is occupied); enchanted items (a box of paints in “Paint It Black” [begins issue #1], a mirror in “Day of the Dragon” (begins issue #10, 1978), a ring in “Moodstone” (#1); and magic powers (“Moonchild” [begins issue #1] which shares many qualities with Stephen King’s Carrie, 1974). Faustian bargains are made (“The Love and the Laughter,” #10) or wishes granted (“The Dummy,” #4, 1978), often with horrifying consequences that are narrowly avoided—or not, if the protagonist deserves it! For example, Zoe successfully banishes school bullies to the pages of a horror comic in “A Picture of Horror” (#57, 1979) while in the same issue jealous Anna’s attempt to use a gypsy curse on her sister backfires and she becomes its recipient in “Two Left Feet.” Misty made extensive use of irregular panel layouts and innovative splash pages, which feature in almost all stories. Unbordered panels are used, as well as panels layered over splash pages. In “The Sea’s Graveyard” (#33, 1978) the moment where protagonist Jane discovers scrolls revealing the names of ships that will sink is situated on a page of jagged panels (showing the pathway of her search) with the discovery itself shown in an unbordered zone and the pile of scrolls overlapping the panel borders. Innovative page layouts also feature: panels are often shaped in motifs that resemble the story. For example a heptagon panel introduces the spider in “The Black Widow” (#21, 1978) followed by panels shaped like tall curved windows that are set over the page background of a school exterior, revealing the action taking place inside the building. In “End of the Line” (#33, 1978) Amy gropes her way along a black tunnel in a central panel with a sooty outline, and jagged panels introduce Sheila’s nightmare in “Examination Nerves” (#47, 1978). “The Loving Cup” (#72, 1979) appears centrally on a page with lines indicating its powers emanating out to the surrounding panels where their effect is felt. Repeated panels show a hand crumbling to dust in “Aunt Mary’s Blessing” (#21, 1978), and “Winner Loses All” (#85, 1979) uses the de Luca effect7 to

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show protagonist Sandy repeated in a single panel as she pieces together the mystery—and the inn sign—from which her horse (“Satan”) has appeared. Page layout is used for both ornamentation and for storytelling function in these instances. Misty challenged its readers with its “Nightmares” section and, although it seldom used direct address except on the inside cover, frequently dragged them into the story visually. For example, the cover of issue #21 is drawn from the embodied perspective of a creature looking through a window at two terrified girls, with “our” long-nailed hands and hairy arms extended towards them. Inside this issue, “The Eyes of the Gorgon” stare straight out at the reader, breaking the fourth wall, in the title panel of the story of the same name (#21). Despite the lack of an introductory host and the fact that wordy narration does not run through all the stories, Misty also used embedded stories and complex flashbacks in a similar manner to the American horror comics. For example, hidden layers of diegesis are used and the falsity of the medium is exploited in “The Dummy” (#4). Protagonist Rhoda wants her father (a ventriloquist) to love her as much as his dolls, and makes a wish on a rabbit’s foot given to her by Beattie, who plays a fairy in his act. Beattie’s initial appearance uses the stylization of the medium to mislead the reader into thinking she is a real fairy godmother (appearing behind Rhoda in a mirror) before this is debunked in the subsequent panel. Next a false ending (situated at the end of the penultimate page) tricks readers into thinking the protagonist Rhoda has been transformed into a ventriloquist’s dummy as a consequence of her wish. Repeated panels are used to show the transformation of Rhoda into a doll. Happily, the final page then debunks this again by revealing it to be a nightmare shared by Rhoda and her father, as a consequence of which he changes his ways. Sophisticated storytelling and use of the medium creates this hidden hypodiegetic level,8 which is complicated further in this story by the rare presence of a “host” stand-in: Bertie, a ventriloquist’s dummy from the tale. Bertie introduces the story by addressing the reader directly from outside the main diegesis (breaking the fourth wall to look directly at us and introducing himself and the story with “Hello, Boys and Girls…”) however he then features in the tale itself and reappears in the final panel, again breaking the fourth wall to wink at us from within the main story. In a different story, “Madhouse” (#90, 1979), there is also hidden layer of storytelling as the main diegesis is revealed in the final page to be a board game (with human characters) that is being played by giant sentient apes who resemble the antagonists from Planet of the Apes (1968). Misty’s layering of stories, use of visual perspectives and layout, and dark subject matter draw on the American horror comics tradition and are emblematic of the trends in British girls’ comics at this time.

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“Grown Up” Comics It seemed time for the two countries to have a closer relationship, and around this time a Brit invasion took place in mainstream comics, as American companies began looking for English writers to revamp their titles. Chris Murray argues that Thatcherism and right-wing politics in Britain in the 1980s made the superhero a problematic figure, to be deflated and subverted, as in texts like V for Vendetta, Miracleman and Watchmen. Again, it can be said that these creators were responding to social trauma in their interrogation of fascistic politics. Murray (2010: 37) cites Alan Moore’s Saga of the Swamp Thing #21 (“The Anatomy Lesson,” Moore et al. 1987) as the key turning point, claiming it was “unlike anything seen in mainstream American comics to that point” both in its strong authorial voice and the care and attention apparent in its crafting. Karen Berger (executive editor and senior vice president of DC Vertigo from its launch until 2013) agrees, commenting: “There was really no going back after Alan did Swamp Thing…” (Round 2008b). This was the issue where Moore famously rewrote Swamp Thing’s origin: defining him as a plant elemental (“a plant that thought it was Alec Holland, a plant that was trying its level best to be Alec Holland”), rather than a mutated human. Moore would go on to explain that Holland was the latest in a long line of plant elementals; thus reconciling his version with the previous incarnation (and also absorbing the identities of forerunners such as the Heap) (Saga of the Swamp Thing #33, Moore et al. 1987). Described by fans as “morbid and great” and with “spectacular” art by Steve Bissette that deftly handled the different diegetic levels (dark_nolder 2011), this issue demonstrated what could be done in comics, and sparked a demand for British talent that saw the Big Two (Marvel and DC) coming over to mine the stables of 2000AD and similar. Steve White (writer and colorist at 2000AD and Marvel, and now senior editor at Titan Books) reflects: I remember being around, that was kind of when I was heavily involved in Marvel and that kind of thing, and seeing that whole thing sort of develop when people like Karen Berger and Art Young used to come over from DC and they were basically coming over to hunt for British writers […] even [Marvel] Epic were doing it, they were using British writers and artists, because there was just a feeling that American writers were so superhero oriented that they couldn’t take that step away from spandex as it were [Round 2005c].

Writer Mike Carey (Hellblazer, Lucifer, The Unwritten) also describes the scene as follows: The *first* Brit invasion—Alan Moore, Neil Gaiman, Grant Morrison—was seismic. It redefined mainstream comic book storytelling, and it touched everyone. But I

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Part One : History think that was a unique moment, in a lot of ways. The most successful American writers of that period (coming out of the 70s, I mean) had gotten used to a formula and were often applying it in a fairly unreflective way. Moore was like a hand grenade thrown into a room. He just did things differently, re-invented and reinvigorated. And then Neil and Grant followed him, each bringing their own different perspective, and the industry barely knew what had hit it. It was a Kuhnian revolution, and therefore it was followed by a period of rapid adoption. Everyone started to tell stories in the new way, and the status quo shifted measurably [Personal interview, 2013].

British writers were of course already working in the American industry (for example Chris Claremont’s seventeen-year run on Marvel’s Uncanny XMen (1975–1991) and Peter Milligan’s work for Eclipse in the early 1980s (running alongside his work for 2000AD). And, of course, there was highquality work being produced by American writers too. However, Carey’s point that the majority of the industry’s titles were focused around formulaic superhero fare is not overstated, and Moore’s effect certainly began a paradigm shift. Berger comments that she was “really into working with the British writers […] The thing that attracted me to their point of view was that it was decidedly different from the American writers. They had more of an outsider’s perspective and looked at the world differently. They brought an irreverence and a subversiveness to their work, and I really responded to that sensibility.” She also claims that “most of these guys were new to comics” and that even those who had written “a few” titles for 2000AD had done “nothing for the American market” (Contino 2001). I have discussed the merging of British and American comics in more detail elsewhere (see Round 2013d), supporting Murray’s (2010) argument that critical distance enabled these British writers to reinvigorate comics. Steve White also speculates that the American stereotype of the British as “somehow […] more intellectual” may also have contributed to the sudden demand for British talent, and specifically highlights Moore and Gaiman’s use of “classical themes, Shakespearean and mythological themes” as part of the first wave of British talent to cross the Atlantic. In this light, Gothic’s transgression of boundaries between high and low culture forms the basis of my discussion of Chapter 7. Grant Morrison’s work on The Invisibles also combined a bewildering array of psychedelic, philosophical and literary references, including Irish mythology, Egyptian symbolism, Aztec demonology, the Tarot, string theory, situationalism, alongside a myriad of literary and popular cultural references (from Shakespeare and de Sade to P.K. Dick and The Beatles) and tropes from cabals as diverse as the Freemasons, the Knights Templar and Satanists—all in the first trade paperback (see the work of Chris Murray, Marc Singer [2012a, 2012b], Patrick Neighly and Kereth Cowe-Spigai [2003], amongst many oth-

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ers, for further discussion). Continuing the intertextual and revisionist theme, Jamie Delano began work on Hellblazer (picking up Moore’s Swamp Thing character John Constantine) and, towards the end of the first wave of the Brit invasion, Peter Milligan’s revamp of Steve Ditko’s Shade, the Changing Man for DC in 1990 would become some of his most well-known work. Murray (2010) argues that Moore brought attention back to the authorial voice as opposed to the individual styles of American writer/artists and both he and Gaiman contributed a focus on characterization, gesture and nuance over action. Both these developments are recognized in Mike Carey’s view of the spin-off series he later worked on (Hellblazer which grew out of Swamp Thing, and Lucifer which came from Sandman): I did regard both books as being overwhelmingly character-driven. Conceptually, they both stood on the horror/dark fantasy spectrum, with Hellblazer squarely in the realm of what would now be called urban fantasy and Lucifer shifted off in a more cosmic-eschatological direction as defined by Swamp Thing and Sandman. But each of them had a strong solo protagonist out of whom an ensemble cast was spun by stealth [personal interview, 2013].

These writers adapted, adopted and rewrote DC properties, leading to the launch of the Vertigo imprint in 1993 under the direction of Karen Berger (who had head-hunted the majority of these creators), with Swamp Thing #129, Hellblazer #63, Sandman #47, Doom Patrol #64, Animal Man #57, and Shade, the Changing Man #33. Grant Morrison’s poststructuralist play in Doom Patrol and Animal Man took Moore’s anarchy to a new level; and this enfant terrible paved the way for further irreverence in the second wave of writers such as Garth Ennis, Warren Ellis and Mark Millar. The Vertigo stable was one of incestuous creativity: Morrison and Millar co-wrote four issues of Swamp Thing; Millar took over Warren Ellis’s The Authority; Ennis took over from Jamie Delano on Hellblazer, Delano picked up Animal Man, and so forth. “Vertigo is the house that Karen built” says Mike Carey (Rogers 2012) and, in a personal interview, Berger describes Vertigo’s beginnings in relation to two key texts: DC’s House of Mystery (as discussed above) and Alan Moore’s run on Saga of the Swamp Thing (1985–1996). House of Mystery was the first book Berger edited at DC. She took over the editorship with #292 (1981), in which she appears, introducing herself as “Karen Berger, your new editor, reporting as requested, Cain! Want a cookie?” Len Wein (creator of Swamp Thing and previous editor of House of Mystery) also appears in this issue, being kicked out of the house by Cain who shouts “—and take your stupid stuffed teddy bears with you, Wein!” The title’s metafictional tendencies and the intrusive role of the host are thus both maintained here, and it was these sensibilities, along with a focus on horror and embedded storytelling, that Berger would

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fashion into the shape of Vertigo. Berger appears again in the final issue of House of Mystery (#323, 1983) where she takes Cain into the DC offices and explains that his house needs to be demolished, causing him to metafictionally ponder his existence. She describes her run on House of Mystery as: “just kind of cool modern horror stories, and so for me it was really just like the germs of what Vertigo became […] using horror as a backdrop to tell stories about people in the world” (Round 2008b). Berger continues: “what we really did has really expanded in terms of the genres. I mean, crime fiction, science fiction, real lives,” and while Vertigo has obviously gone beyond its early subject matter this nonetheless emphasizes its roots in gothic, dark fantasy and psychological realism. Berger also credits Alan Moore for creating a comics landscape where such an imprint could flourish, saying that Moore “changed the perception of writers in comics. He just turned the whole thing around, I mean he brought a respectability to the form, you know, by his sheer genius and talent and storytelling abilities […] he really showed that you could do comics that were, you know, literary, but modern and popular, but could really stand next to a great work of fiction, of prose fiction, and that really changed everything.” Moore’s revisionist work on titles such as Miracleman and Swamp Thing, as well as his dystopian social commentary in Watchmen and V for Vendetta helped move the comics industry past the gritty reimaginings of superheroes as antiheroes that dominated much of the 1980s, towards more thoughtful, literary work. Moore’s reworkings of previous titles, along with his strong authorial voice and expert story crafting, were particularly successful in developing the potential of American comics. Input and inspiration thus also came from the industry history itself. The psychologically taut theme that characterizes all genres of comics today is linked by many critics (Barker 1989) to the American horror comics of the 1950s and is made explicit in Vertigo’s subversive use of psychological realism and the imprint’s growth from horror literature (the House of… anthologies). Vertigo’s six launch titles reworked DC properties to include social concerns, surrealism, metafiction and mythology. However, Vertigo simultaneously sold itself as a space in which creators could work on material unsuitable for mainstream continuity, and so original series (such as Preacher and The Invisibles) soon followed. Vertigo titles generally take place in their own universe(s) (initially dubbed the “Bergerverse” by some fans) and so, as the imprint grew in size and reputation, books from discontinued imprints or mainstream DC that were deemed a good “fit” were also adopted, for example Transmetropolitan (Warren Ellis and Darrick Robertson, 1997–2002), initially published by DC Helix (a sci-fi imprint) but moved to Vertigo from issue #13 (September 1998) where it would run for a further 47 issues over four years. Karen Berger

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comments that what linked the Vertigo titles was that they “all had some basis in reality” (Contino 2001), and the imprint advertised itself as “for mature readers.” Sub-imprints (mainly focused on one-shots or mini-series) have also been introduced at various points, such as Vertigo Visions, which introduced mainstream (unaltered) DC characters to the Vertigo line in the early 1990s, or Vertigo Voices (creator-owned). Some of these were short-lived (such as Vertigo Vérité, inspired by realist cinema), some were simply promotional gimmicks (V2K, celebrating the millennium; or the Vertigo X brand, used on all 2003 Vertigo comics to reference the imprint’s ten-year anniversary), some were ill-conceived (Vertigo Pop!, for titles focused around a (vague and undefined) notion of pop culture), some were interesting but arguably unnecessary (Vertigo Crime). They seldom lasted more than a few years and in 2010 Vertigo instead underwent another reshake, with DC announcing that it would become a creator-owned imprint. All DC titles were thus returned to the main DC Universe, with the exception of Hellblazer, although in 2013 this title too was cancelled and Constantine returned to the DC Universe as part of the New 52 imprint (a “soft reboot” launched in 2011, see below). Within mainstream titles, serialization (some long-running comics now have over seventy years of history) combined with shared universe(s) means that internal contradictions and plot events frequently arise. DC initially dealt with this via the creation of multiple universes (the “multiverse,” building on Earth–1 and Earth–2, as introduced in the silver-age Flash comics) however by the 1980s these multiple settings were becoming too hard to handle. Crisis on Infinite Earths (Marv Wolfman and George Pérez, 1985–86), a cross-over publishing event, removed the concept of the multiverse within DC’s fictional alterity (as a battle with the evil Anti-Monitor destroys the multiverse and creates a single universe, returning all the superheroes to a present-day reality where the various elements of the five main Earths have been incorporated into one, with no one remembering the original reality). Subsequently, external strategies have also been used to handle such paradoxes, such as DC’s Elseworlds imprint (1989–2005, and previously “Imaginary Stories”). These told tales outside mainstream continuity, following Batman: Gotham by Gaslight (Brian Augustyn and Mike Mignola, 1989), which depicted a Victorian Batman hunting Jack the Ripper. Other famous examples include Superman: Red Son (Mark Millar and Dave Johnson, 2003), which asked the question “What if Superman had grown up in the USSR?” More recently, in 2011 DC launched the New 52, which followed the crossover publication of Flashpoint (Geoff Johns and Andy Kubert, 2011) whose storyline focused on various characters’ awareness (or lack) of the alterations made to their timeline. As the unwieldy nature of the DC universe undoubtedly puts off new readers (requiring a vast amount of background knowledge to enter long-running series with any degree

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of comprehension) the New 52 was conceived. All mainstream superhero titles were cancelled to begin again with new issue #1s (although many of these referenced the original issues in content and aesthetic). DC described this as a “soft reboot”: the history of the DC universe was not completely erased, but would be retconned into a more manageable whole by these new titles. However, only a year later, the histories presented in these titles were already being revised, prompting one reviewer to comment: “The massive retcon that is the New 52 is now retconning within itself after barely a year” (Hunsaker 2012). Perhaps comics, in search of legitimacy, cannot help practices of overwriting. Key gothic factors in the Vertigo imprint’s emergence can thus be defined as a romanticist perception of the author and a reliance on processes of adaptation/absorption. In addition, the early Vertigo comics focus on themes of horror, dark fantasy and psychological realism that are frequently used to create social commentary. As such, these comics represent a gothic reaction to “social trauma.” However, if viewed as a response to stagnation and ideologically troubling ideas of superheroics in the comics mainstream, they can perhaps also be read as a response to “literary trauma” within their medium. The resulting reworkings of bland superheroics and the creation of the “Bergerverse” can perhaps then be seen as an alternate, “unofficial history” (Punter 1980) that runs alongside the mainstream publication of superhero titles. The early DC Vertigo titles can thus be viewed as a continuation of the trends for revisionism, allegory and detailed narrative crafting which Alan Moore launched into the American mainstream. In this sense they become a body of work that represents Foucault’s notion of heterotopia, defamiliarizing comics as superheroics clashed with mythology, complicated narratology, and erudite literary allusions. However, after his stellar success Moore swiftly turned on the mainstream industry, justly attacking its capitalist concerns and refusing to be the savior of superhero comics (Murray 2010). He went on to critique what he viewed as cynical corporate packaging and reselling of his style by imprints such as Vertigo, for example saying: When I did Watchmen, I thought, great, people are going to feel compelled to look at the clever storytelling involved and they’ll feel compelled to match me or better me in coming up with ways for telling stories. But instead, it seems what most people saw was the violence, the grimness, the layer of atheist pessimistic politics that was glossed over it. That’s what got regurgitated and recycled with the Vertigo books […] their atmosphere, their ethos or whatever, seems to be based on the bad mood that I was in about 18 years ago […] this is one of my objections to it, is that there’s no fun [Moore cited in Ross 2001].

While Moore’s work in the 1980s certainly paved the way for mainstream acceptance of darker, more psychologically realistic comics, and prefigures many of the themes later adopted by Vertigo, it is my argument that the Vertigo

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creators are better viewed as continuing and adapting his work (calling to mind notions of gothic absorption) rather than as straight imitators. I return to this theme later in my discussion: Chapter 7 attempts to demonstrate how writers such as Gaiman and Carey have followed Moore in their craft and complex storytelling, rather than simply borrowing superficial tropes. Both rework classical elements in accordance with their own priorities, even stretching to parody (and thereby contradicting the lack of fun that Moore perceives). This book will therefore demonstrate that the Vertigo comics and their contemporaries are structurally inventive and thematically based around an ethos that, while led by Moore’s work, can also be understood as Gothic. Referring back to Jerrold Hogle’s “gothic matrix” (2002) it can be argued that Vertigo takes antiquated literary spaces (that is, old comics) which it often adapts by “revealing” (retconning) a “hidden secret.” The old texts “haunt” the new in their rewritten form and in so doing, these comics’ use of themes such as psychological horror frequently interrogate notions of reality and invoke the supernatural. Hogle points out that, within his matrix, “These hauntings … rise from within the antiquated space” (2002: 2). The “hauntings” that the Vertigo writers produce rise from within the space of literature (for example taken from classical references, mythologies, canonical literature, other comics) and are thus both internal (as literary) and external (in terms of medium and genre) to this space. Along with this new trend for reflective and postmodern treatments of icons, the industry was also growing up in other ways. Since the 1970s creators had been given credit for their own work (in contrast to the anonymous factory-line production of the early days of comics) and now began to demand ownership of their material. In 1982 Marvel introduced their Epic imprint for creator-owned material, though this was not a success. Independent companies such as Dark Horse (1985) followed, offering creators the opportunity to retain control over their work, and companies such as Image Comics (1991) were later formed (when a team of creators coordinated a group exodus from Marvel Comics after being refused creative control of their work). Technological changes also played a role—no longer were comics grubby, disposable items that were either monochromatic or gaudily colored. By the turn of the twentieth century, comics (now more commonly known as graphic novels) were stocked in bookstores and receiving literary and critical attention. Changes both within and outside the industry have thus contributed to the redefinition of comics as literature. Observable shifts such as technological advances, in-house employment changes, the replacement of disposability with permanence, and new distribution methods stand alongside the less quantifiable—a perceived shift in audience composition and attitude, the redefinition of the creator as singular author and the expansion of academic and critical

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attention. This has had consequences for notions of ownership within the wider cultural context of licensing and copyright law. The current shift towards graphic novels using original creator-owned characters and concepts is a consequence of the recognition afforded to the star creators through the redefinition of comics as literature, as well as having its basis in the new distribution system and associated merchandising. As such, the comics creator is a good example of Michel Foucault’s (1969) author function: a constructed social position that reflects dominant discourses of legality (such as the emergence of intellectual property law) and ideology (such as the rise of the auteur creator in media such as cinema, and the redefinition of comics as graphic novels).

Comics Scholarship Comics criticism developed alongside the texts themselves. Although an exhaustive review is beyond the scope of this chapter I will conclude by offering a brief summary of some approaches. This is intended to flag up the theoretical developments within this discipline that will be reapproached using gothic tropes in Part Two. Initial attempts at defending comics and articulating possible approaches to the medium came from a variety of disciplines and from writers such as e.e. cummings (1946), Marshall McLuhan (1951) and Umberto Eco (1962). The literary defense of comics was strong and perhaps shaped subsequent critical approaches in this area, as comics’ storytelling and cultural capital were the main subjects of discussion. Many of these pioneering essays are collected by Jeet Heer and Kent Worcester in Arguing Comics (2004) and their subsequent collection (A Comic Studies Reader, 2009) includes more modern names alongside extracts from Wertham et al. David Kunzle is one of the most significant early comics scholars, offering a socio-cultural approach to the content of comic strips (arguing that they represent social unrest) and producing art historicist accounts such as The Early Comic Strip (1973). In this landmark text Kunzle gives one of the first definitions of the comic strip (which he distinguishes from single panel cartoons, and which definition he states is global in scope), as follows: “(1) There must be a sequence of separate images (2) There must be a preponderance of image over text (3) The medium in which the strip appears and for which it is originally intended must be reproductive, that is, in printed form, a mass medium (4) the sequence must tell a story which is both moral and topical” (Kunzle 1990: 2). As parts (3) and (4) of this definition show, Kunzle’s work tends towards applying sociological theory to image content, rather than focusing on the

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formal workings of the medium’s narratology. Subsequent cultural critical and historical analyses can be found in the work of Roger Sabin (Comics, Comix & Graphic Novels [1996] and forthcoming work on nineteenth century comics and Ally Sloper). Research such as Martin Barker’s A Haunt of Fears, 1984) or James Chapman’s British Comics: A Cultural History (2011) focuses on British comics. The works of James Gilbert (A Cycle of Outrage, 1986), Ian Gordon (Comic Strips and Consumer Culture 1890–1945, 1998) Amy Kiste Nyberg (Seal of Approval, 1998), Joseph Witek (Comic Books as History, 1989) and Chris Murray (Champions of the Oppressed, 2011) offer similar discussions of American comics in the context of the emergence of American youth culture, the creation of the Comics Code, underground publishing, and the use of comics as propaganda in World War Two, respectively. Cultural, historical and ideological readings are also offered by Martin Barker (Comics, Ideology, Power and the Critics, 1989), M. Thomas Inge’s Comics as Culture (1990) and Bart Beaty’s Comics versus Art (2012). Comics and Culture (ed. Anne Magnussen and Hans-Christian Christiansen, 2000), Randy Duncan and Matthew Smith’s The Power of Comics (2009), and Comics as a Nexus of Cultures (ed. Mark Berninger, Jochen Ecke and Gideon Haberkorn, 2010) offer similar approaches, as do historicist anthologies such as The Rise of the American Comics Artist (ed. Paul Williams and James Lyons, 2011) and detailed studies of particular eras (such as Trina Robbins’ extensive work on female comix creators, including Women and the Comics with Catherine Yronwode, 1985). Audience studies are found in the work of Martin Barker and Mel Gibson. As comics scholarship has solidified and diversified, further studies of individual genres have emerged, including books such as Super Heroes: A Modern Mythology (Richard Reynolds, 1992), Superhero: The Secret Origin of a Genre (Peter Coogan, 2006) and Supergods (Grant Morrison, 2011). Studies of individual titles have also grown alongside this, from The Many Lives of the Batman (ed. Roberta Pearson and William Uricchio, 1991, which covers Batman’s depiction from a variety of disciplinary angles) to Will Brooker’s more recent cultural studies on this character (2001, 2012). Studies of individual titles have also come from other disciplines (such as The Walking Dead and Philosophy, ed. Wayne Yuen, 2012) and treatments from other disciplinary perspectives have begun to emerge (for example 2012 saw two publications on the psychology of Batman, from Travis Langley and Robin Rosenberg respectively). Comics and architecture has become another strong theme, demonstrated by anthologies such as Comics and the City (ed. Jörn Ahrens and Arno Meteling, 2010) and the forthcoming Comic Book Geographies (ed. Jason Dittmer, 2014). Studies of individual writers and series are now also present, such as The Sandman Papers (ed. Joe Sanders, 2006) and more recently Annalisa

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di Liddo’s Alan Moore: Comics and Performance, Fiction as Scalpel (2009) and Marc Singer’s Grant Morrison (2012a). Critical attention has also been paid to the narratology of comics, and it is these approaches that this book seeks to rearticulate using gothic theory. Will Eisner’s Comics and Sequential Art (1985) and Graphic Storytelling and Visual Narratives (1996) analyze the storytelling techniques used by comics, focusing (as their titles suggest) on the sequentiality of the medium, the depiction of time as space and the use of style and framing to dictate these. Eisner’s second book focuses more on the types of stories comics can tell and the activity of the comics reader in consuming these texts. It is arguable that his work strongly influenced subsequent approaches to the medium by emphasizing sequentiality over all other elements. Scott McCloud’s landmark works Understanding Comics (1993) and Reinventing Comics (2000) can certainly be read in light of Eisner’s influence, as McCloud too defines the medium in terms of its sequentiality and discusses the role of the reader in bridging the “gaps” in narrative, a process he calls closure. He also creates taxonomies of different types of panels and panel transitions, although these have been heavily critiqued in later scholarship. This is primarily due to McCloud’s separation of the word and image elements of a panel and the emphasis he places on the reader’s activity as “filling a blank” when later theorists such as Thierry Groensteen have argued that the process is significantly more complicated in both temporal and cognitive terms. Thierry Groensteen’s The System of Comics, although first published in 1999, was not translated into English until 2007. It has been hailed as a significant milestone in comics studies and creates a formal framework through which to analyze the comics page in terms of both form and content. Groensteen’s work hinges on the concepts of iconic solidarity (the layout of the page), arthrology (the relationship of panels to each other, whether in sequence [restricted arthrology] or across the whole comic [general arthrology]), gridding (the division of the page), and braiding (the implied connections between panels in terms of their shape or content). He argues that the double page (and in fact the whole comic) is dominated by the visual cohesion that the medium allows and that sequentiality is subordinate to this. Unlike McCloud and Eisner’s approaches, which focus on sequentiality, Groensteen’s focus on visual unity analyzes comics in terms of their layout and panel relationships. He argues for this by explaining that the increased prominence of the individual artist had the impact of unsettling the hierarchical categorization of cultural items (Groensteen 1993). Francophone comics criticism also offers a classic categorization of page layouts in Benoît Peeters’ taxonomy of layouts (2007) which uses axes of narrative and composition autonomy versus independence. Translator Jesse Cohn

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notes here that Peeters’ original title (“four conceptions of the planche”) has no precise equivalent in English as planche literally translates as “plate” and Charles Hatfield points out that it thereby applies to “the total design unit rather than the physical page on which it is printed” (Hatfield 2005: 48). As such Peeters’ taxonomy can be linked to Groensteen’s notions of iconic solidarity and arthrology. Jesse Cohn’s translator’s notes accompanying this piece (Peeters 2007) also offer a few critical points, such as suggesting a potential redefinition along a scale between the two poles of sequentiality and solidarity, which leads towards the work of Charles Hatfield. Other European comics critics, such as Pascal Lefèvre, have worked on a wide range of genres within the medium, discussing both formal and cultural analyses of comics across cultures, including manga, documentary comics, broadsheets, and adaptation into film. Comics play with the tension between narrative and composition, and it is this approach that Charles Hatfield explores in Alternative Comics (2006). He offers an alternative framework for understanding the form and content of the medium, relying on a series of four “tensions” that have to be analyzed. These are: code versus code (word versus image); single image versus imagein-series; sequence versus surface; text-as-experience versus text-as-object. These dichotomies relate to both the content of the panels and the layout/format of the page, and so Hatfield’s work sits alongside Groensteen’s as one of the more inclusive attempts to provide an analytic framework for dissecting the workings of the medium. In this context, discussions of “iconical words” and “narrative pictures” seem relevant, and this book will argue that the multiplicity and inversion comics can achieve here is irrefutably gothic. In comics, words are as “drawn” a part of the panel as pictures, and therefore contain multiple levels of meaning, while pictures have a narrative as well as representative function (for example as they represent a morpheme or moment in a story, rather than a simple/singular illustrative image) (see Miodrag 2011 for further discussion). These conceptions use a very flexible notion of the sign and accord with other comics criticism in so doing: Groensteen names his method a “neosemiotic analysis” since he argues that words and images cannot be reduced to clear, constitutive signs. In fact the “sign” has become increasingly flexible over years, for example in the work of Umberto Eco, whose guidelines for descriptive analysis in Semiotics and the Philosophy of Language (1984) are altered to reflect each book’s distinguishing attributes. My theoretical exploration draws on this type of approach and will also use Eco’s concept of the open text or open work of art: situating comics as a type of iconotext, which uses intertextuality simultaneously for clarification and to expand the scope (of its diegesis, its characters, its myths) in an act of gothic excess.

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As this review shows, comics criticism has developed alongside the product, and it may be said the two areas reaffirm each other. However, it is further worth nothing that certain developments in literary criticism have also contributed to these two areas. David Kunzle ties his criticism of comics to the emergence of children’s literature, which genre alerts us to a new emphasis on the role of the reader. He considers the participatory nature of comic strips (that is, the emphasis on the reader’s involvement) as a tool to mediate public response in light of the printed word (which removes the teller from listener) and mass reproduction/circulation (which emphasizes this distance) (1990: 3). This book follows the developments in literary criticism towards a consideration of the (active) reader and the text as defined by Wolfgang Iser, Roland Barthes and Umberto Eco. It argues for a holistic approach that considers the gestalt meaning of the text by establishing a theoretical framework for its analysis taken from the act of reading itself.

Retrospective: Critical Models of Gothic and Comics Looking Backward It seems useful to pause at this point to consider the literature (both critical and creative) that has been surveyed and summarize the key tenets of the gothic tradition and the comics medium that will be used herein as we move forward. Significant literary texts (from the likes of Shelley, Stoker, Stevenson, Potocki and Maturin) have been considered alongside critical work that approaches the gothic mode and the comics medium from a variety of perspectives. Gothic is best defined as a mode of writing that has been particularly prominent at certain points in time and space, creating historical genres such as English Gothic, American Gothic, Decadent Literature and so forth. It is interesting to note that these periods are often at a time of extreme stress or social unrest; supporting David Punter’s argument that Gothic is a response to social trauma—a subversive and critical way of addressing problems in society. Defining Gothic as a mode—an ongoing tendency or style—means it can subsume genre (according to Northrop Frye’s [1957] categories) and cross media. This in part explains Gothic’s simultaneous thematic incorporation of other genres—for example as romance, westerns and so forth are “done in a gothic style.” Many key elements and movements within the gothic tradition find parallels in the history and narratology of comics. Historically speaking, Gothic has sustained itself through the absorption of other genres; parodying and subsuming them in the process. This process is in many ways echoed by the development of American comics through processes such as retroactive continuity (the overwriting or addition of events to create a coherent character history). Gothic’s subcultural status is reflected in the marketing and audience of contemporary comics, as are themes of commodification and consumerism. Finally, a gothic structure is apparent in the comics medium, as embedded 55

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stories are presented in a spatial layout where all moments co-exist on the page, recalling tropes of haunting and multiplicity. It therefore seems feasible to apply gothic theory to contemporary comics—especially those published at the end of the last century, a time of social change and impending visions of apocalypse (whether Y2K panic or new age interpretations of the Mayan calendar). Comics’ recent revisionist treatments of superheroes and horror icons can then be understood as genres being redone in a gothic mode, and revisiting the main tenets of comics theory from this perspective may also help to clarify and simplify the plethora of approaches on offer, instead offering an inclusive framework for analysis that interprets the unique qualities of comics using gothic symbols. Thematically, Gothic is characterized by a tendency towards inversion, parody, subversion and doubling. Some of its most memorable texts (Frankenstein, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, The Picture of Dorian Gray) weave all three into a mutually reliant web. In addition, it can be structurally complicated (to say the least). A key symbol is that of the crypt, which critics such as Jacques Derrida, Nicolas Abraham, Maria Torok and Jodey Castricano use to decode the complex signifiers of gothic and psychoanalytic language. The content of gothic texts is often symbolic, and the crypt (which guards a hidden secret) reflects this. Multiple (and often contradictory) narratives are also common. Tales may have several “layers” of embedded stories (as in Frankenstein), some of which may be hidden or a-chronological (for example as Frankenstein’s creature literally bursts into Robert Walton’s framing narrative). Temporality is therefore also an issue: gothic stories may conjure a false historicity, or take place in an alterity such as the near-past or not-so-distant future (steampunk fiction arguably combines both). They can tell dis-located, timeless tales, or the narrative itself may be disrupted, atemporal, or circular. Even if a linear temporal structure is used, multiple voices or perspectives may destabilize this (as in Dracula), and unreliable or multiple narration is therefore a mainstay of gothic fiction. Therefore the Gothic contains the possibility of a kind of threedimensional structuring, where stories may be layered (either chronologically or spatially) or told from a variety of perspectives within a singular narrative (again, either diachronic or synchronic)—or a combination of both. In this way, gothic structure is also linked to the theme of veracity. Paratextual material such as footnotes or purportedly extratextual material (letters, extracts from historical documents or manuscripts) are frequently used to raise the question of authenticity, or multiple stories contradict each other, or unreliable narrators omit the truth. Emotional affect and the self-conscious creation of subversive or sensational fiction means Gothic also holds the active reader at its center. These elements will now be explored.

PART T WO : M EDIUM

Introduction: A Gothic Critical Model of Comics Looking Forward This section will expand upon and reinterpret three main areas of comics narratology in accordance with Gothic, new literary criticism, and formal comics theory. Early comics criticism such as the work of Will Eisner and Scott McCloud puts forward the idea that “time equals space” in comics, but it will be argued here that the representation of time in comics is more complicated than this, as Gothic reveals. Thierry Groensteen’s notions of braiding and arthrology employ the notion of retroactive revaluation of panel contents, a “looking backwards” type of reading where the meaning of each panel relies upon the preceding and subsequent one. Temporality in comics is not straightforward, and the following chapter will explore it using the metaphor of haunting (as both a legacy and a promise) and the symbol of the crypt. It will argue that the layout and architecture of the comics page illustrates a view of time as a co-present and static structure that we only experience sequentially. Echoes of past and future are used to emphasize key moments or themes, and the architecture of the page layout uses deviation from a standard grid in pursuit of ornamentation and/or function. Notions of artifice and excess abound on the comics page, as exposed by Charles Hatfield’s art of tensions, which employs opposed concepts to explain the workings of the comics medium. In addition to Hatfield’s four tensions, multiple points of view, co-existing storylines, alternate realities and selfconscious fictionality structure the appearance and content of the page. The tensions that Hatfield identifies can therefore be viewed as part of an aesthetic of excess where conflicting information or imperatives structure the text. This excess creates and validates a multiplicity of perspectives, where multiple worlds or interpretations can co-exist, and Chapter 4 will therefore revisit 57

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comics aesthetics (color, style) and use of embodied and disembodied perspectives: considering these as an excess of seeing. Thirdly, the active reader (who performs what McCloud calls “closure”) and the interpretative and bridging powers they bring to the comics text will be analyzed in Chapter 5. The reader brings into being the comics creator, who is not dead (as Barthes would have us believe), but undead. Theirs is a spectral authorship, relying upon a revenant reader to create (decompose) the narrative from the page’s spatial layout. This reader’s activity takes place in the gutter, here redefined as the crypt, for although the reader creates and realizes the bridging events of the story these will never be viewed: their existence is known, but unseen, locked away in the gap between the explicit elements of the story. The boundaries between self and Other are blurred here, and this final tenet also informs the two previously discussed: for haunting also structures the reader’s gutter activities (as the reader must have viewed the next panel in order to fill the gap), and an excess of seeing blurs the boundaries between self and Other (for example when we are given the perceptual point of view of intradiegetic characters). These three main areas underlie many contemporary analyses of comics. For example, Paul Atkinson also uses similar divisions incorporated into a holistic whole in his comparative discussion of reading comics and paintings, saying: If we focus on the material construction of the page the emphasis will be on the spatial properties of solidarity, for its dimensions can be analyzed and described without reference to a reader. However, if the focus turns to the reader, the emphasis shifts to the temporal properties for this solidarity is only constituted in movement. This relates both to vision, where the eye is in constant movement as the saccadic lines follow and articulate the key features of the visual field, but also to consciousness where all phenomenal properties are formed over a definite duration and where our conscious state is always in flux [Atkinson 2012: 69].

Of course these ideas are all interlinked and interdependent—for example, as Jan Baetens (2001) argues in relation to Philippe Marion’s work, artistic style (“trace”) affects the viewer’s interpretation of a scene or character. The reader must recognize echoes (if present) and stylization or perspective may of course contribute to this. The following model considers these three essential areas of comics narratology under the following gothic labels: haunting/architecture (layout, echoes of past and future, iteration); seeing (perspective, fictional signifiers, artifice, embodiment and excess); and crypting and decomposition (the reader’s response and interpretation of shown and unshown events via the gutter/ crypt and archive). In accordance with new criticism it attempts to show how we must move away from critical views of the text as having a singular, refer-

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ential meaning, containing an independent truth to be discovered, or as an attempt to re-present reality. Instead, as Wolfgang Iser argues, literary meaning should be viewed as “the product of interaction between textual signals and the reader’s act of comprehension” (1980: 9). Thus comics can be approached as gothic narratives that expose a performance of authenticity through their haunted layout/architecture (as a literalization of Iser’s model of literary experience that defines the text as “an ever-expanding network of connections” [116]), their excess of style (Iser’s “transformations of perspective”), and their active readership (Iser’s “wandering viewpoint”). This model therefore offers a holistic approach to comics analysis and attempts to demonstrate how the criticism of comics must go beyond taxonomies and classifications. James Chapman (2013) notes that, in what he names the “cultural theory” approach to comics (formal models relying on the language of semiotics and structuralism), “the emphasis on signifying codes and structural processes too often seems to deny space either for any creative agency on the part of the writer or artist, or any sense that the readers of comics are individuals rather than an undifferentiated mass.” I therefore suggest here that textual analysis should be drawn from the narratological features of the medium, and that the variety possible in comics suggests that, rather than noting the standard deployment of devices, we should look for the moments within an individual text where the medium draws attention to its own workings and performs its own narratology. By looking closely at these three main features of the comics medium (page layout/architecture; an excess of perspective; and an active, ghostly reader) in gothic terms, I hope to identify some of the effects they can achieve. I will argue that using these three main areas to identify the idiosyncrasies of each text allows the comics critic to build a unique critical model for each text. This is similar to Iser’s “productive matrix,” which the reader uses to produce meaning during reading. According to Iser (1980: 60) the reader must discover the codes that underlie each literary text (for example the establishment of an unreliable narrator; the use of metaphorical or surrealist images, and so forth) as only then can they proceed to an act of reading that is unique to each text and which, when performed, will bring out its meaning. As he suggests, we must look at what literature does, rather than what we speculate it might mean (53). I therefore propose that we should extend this approach to literary criticism as well as literary consumption: in this instance, by considering the dialectic between haunting, excess, and crypting/decomposition in order to create a unique critical model for each comics text.

3. Haunted Places “They suggest time is a human illusion … that all times CO-EXIST in the stupendous whole of eternity…”—From Hell

As Scott McCloud argues: on the comics page “Both past and future are real and visible and all around us !” (1993: 104). A sense of haunting (as both a legacy and a promise) thus structures the layout of the comics page, which depicts time as a co-present and static structure that we only experience sequentially. Etymologically, “haunting” emerged in English in the early thirteenth century, meaning “to practice habitually,” from the twelfth-century French hanter (“to frequent, resort to, be familiar with”). Ideas about returning and obsession are implicit and retained in its modern usage (we are “haunted” by memories, especially tormenting ones such as puzzles; and name certain locations we return to our favorite “haunts”). Jacques Derrida’s thoughts on architecture and deconstruction will also be applied to help understand the relationship between ornamentation and function, and the presence of scaffolding (the grid), on the comics page. The architecture of the comics page is thereby a haunted one, which literalizes the “fourth dimension” by realizing time as space: offering a static, spatial layout of images that rely on processes of braiding and gridding. This chapter will use these tropes to suggest ways of approaching comics’ layout and their treatment of time and space.

Critical Background Writing, Derrida claims, creates “space,” and so the comics page is a constructed architecture that brings into being the space for the reader to realize the events of the story. Traditionally, presence is privileged over representation, and so in language speech is privileged over writing. If speech is the presentation of thought, then writing is a representation of speech. Not so in comics (as Chapter 4 will discuss) where the alterities of the diegesis are actualized 60

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on the space of the comics page. As such, and as Mark Wigley (1995: 69) suggests, “Writing is not simply located ‘in’ space. Rather, it is the production of space.” The comics page thus becomes an edifice within which the reader performs the act of reading, enacting the processes of the crypt and the archive (see Chapter 5). Its use of ornamentation, narrative function and scaffolding create a haunted space. Early comics criticism suggests a simplistic relationship between time and space, such as Art Spiegelman’s (1977) claim “Comics are time! Time turned into space,” or Scott McCloud’s argument that “In learning to read comics we all learned to perceive time spatially, for in the world of comics, time and space are one and the same” (1993: 100). McCloud lists content, number of panels, closure and shape of panels as affecting the perceived duration of events (100), and also points out that (non-)framing and a lack of information as to duration (for example as in silent panels) can be used to create a “timeless” feel (102). He further suggests that: “it’s not hard to make an educated guess as to the duration of a given sequence, so long as the elements of that sequence are familiar to us” (1993: 100). Will Eisner puts forward the idea that “There is an almost geometric relationship between the duration of dialogue and the endurance of the posture from which it emanates” (1996: 60). Elements which seem purely ornamental (frames, panel shapes and so forth) are thus shown to have a function. These critics privilege sequentiality in their approaches to the comics page, however later criticism has revisited and refined these ideas using more complicated notions of linearity and temporality. Charles Hatfield’s (2005) art of tensions cites single image versus series as a key tension on the comics page, whereby the individual panel exists in tension with the sequential depiction of the storyline. Hatfield also notes sequence versus surface, whereby the page-as-a-whole contrasts with the individual panel contents. Ian Hague (2012) uses these ideas to expose the complexities of time apparent in chapter IV of Watchmen, where Dr. Manhattan visits the moon and reflects upon his own origin story. Thierry Groensteen understands the page layout literally as a nested structure, commenting that “The printed support (book or magazine) is itself rectangular, and as a consequence of the hyperframe of each page, the panels tend to enter into a mimetic rapport […] with the imposed form” (46). The boxes are nested within the page and so: “The strip, the page, the double page and the album are nested multiframes” (148). Will Eisner offers a similar interpretation, claiming that the page (within which there are multiple panels) and the panel itself are “frames” with which the creator attempts to control the narrative (Eisner 1996: 41). These observations on nesting within the page layout also inform my discussion (in Chapter 4) of comics’ embedded diegetic

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layers. Understood in this sense the page (or more accurately double-page) may also be considered as a metapanel (as a constant of form within a comic book which encloses narrative content and provides the only restriction over the number/size ratio of its panels) (Eisner 1996). As it is a signifier in itself that contains embedded signifiers (panels) the term “metapanel” seems apt. This chapter will look at three key areas of temporal/spatial interplay on the comics page which rely on iteration, repetition, flattened time, and the tension between sequence and panorama, and will unpack their processes using the gothic tropes of haunting, mirroring/doubling and the crypt. It will use these ideas to reapproach elements of narratology including Wolfgang Iser’s theory of aesthetic response, Gerard Genette’s ideas of temporality and iteration, Jacques Derrida’s thoughts on architecture and deconstruction, Charles Hatfield’s tensions, and Thierry Groensteen’s system of comics (and specifically his network of general arthrology, nested frames, and depth).

Haunted Space Comics literalize Iser’s model of literary experience whereby the text “passes through the reader’s mind as an ever-expanding network of connections” (Iser 1980: 116). Iser’s conceptualization as an ever-expanding “network” adds the dimension of space to that of time: as is apparent on the comics page. “As the reader’s wandering viewpoint travels between all these segments [… it brings] forth a network of perspectives, within which each perspective opens up a view not only of others but also of the intended imaginary object” (197). Resonances to external and internal events are thereby brought forth: creating extratextual, intertextual, paratextual and intratextual echoes. Andy W. Smith (2007) cites David Rabey who notes that “the permanence of these [images/text] allows for reverberate juxtaposition and studied recall” (Rabey 1989: 74) and the reader’s freedom and ability to identify and reflect upon connections and echoes between panels creates a haunted page. When dissecting and defining these effects Thierry Groensteen argues that three operations (gridding, breakdown and braiding) structure the “principal modalities” of comics: the space of the comics page. Groensteen defines his three operations for laying out the comics page as follows: firstly “gridding,” where the space of the page is divided into units. Next “breakdown,” which is the decision of what to put in what panel (the division of the narrative) and how (what will be word and what will be image), and the arrangement of the panels upon the page (site, area, shape and so forth). Groensteen points out that “Breakdowns and page layouts mutually inform one another” (143) and neither is superior or controls the other. Finally, braiding takes place—those references

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between panels that are not just sequential. This “additional and remarkable structuration […] defines a series within a sequential framework” (146). The series (which can be continuous or discontinuous) is a group of panels linked by iconic, plastic or semantic correspondences, as opposed to a sequence, which is a succession of images linked syntagmatically by narrative. Braiding series are therefore supplementary rather than being indispensible to the narrative. However, and while they inform the treatment of space on the page, all three of these processes can be woven into a gothic narratological model using the tropes of haunting, architecture and the crypt. Braiding, for example, creates Groensteen’s general arthrology and contributes towards iconic solidarity by allowing resonances from previous pages to come back and haunt us. Groensteen argues that “…braiding is generally founded on the remarkable resurgence of an iconic motif (or of a plastic quality), and it is concerned primarily with situations, with strong dramatic potential, of appearance and disappearance” (152). The repetition of the smiley badge in Watchmen is a good example of this. However, braiding can be just as apparent in the spatio-topia of the page as in its content: if a layout is repeated, just like content, we will recall its previous usage. Sandman: The Kindly Ones (Gaiman et al., 1996) is an excellent example of this, as it overlays a braiding series of both form and content over the narrative sequence. Figure 1 shows the character Lyta, who has been doubled and multiplied in various ways during her quest to revenge herself for the death of her son which has taken her through various alterities. After entering what can be perceived as either a world of myth or a hallucination, the panel where she wakes is triplicated; and we see Lyta as she appears in the waking world, Lyta as she appears in her hallucination or “myth world,” and Lyta as she appears in The Dreaming, as one of the Furies. The three panels are braided: linked into a series through their replicated form (equal size and shape) and content (in terms of Lyta’s pose and the disembodied perspective used); but are also distinguished from each other (through her different appearances). This flattens the temporal sequence in the narrative, and these panels are not sequential but instead concurrent—merging the three worlds as she wakes up. Groensteen continues that if there are enough resonances in a panel it becomes a place: What is a place other than a habituated space that we can cross, visit, invest in, a space where relations are made and unmade? […] A place is therefore an activated and over-determined site, a site where a series crosses (or is superimposed on) a sequence. Certain privileged sites are naturally predisposed to become places, notably those that correspond to the initial and final positions of the story, or the chapters that compose them [148].

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Figure 1. Lyta Hall, by Neil Gaiman, Marc Hempel and Daniel Vozzo, Sandman: The Kindly Ones, chapter 13, page 7, extract (© DC Comics).

The idea of a gothic “place” indicates a location haunted with significance, and I would propose this is exactly what Groensteen’s braiding is: a haunting, an echo of something previously existent in the story. Braiding therefore exists synchronically (in the co-presence of panels on page) as well as diachronically (during the reading process, where the reader recognizes these echoes). It thereby relies upon a dual understanding of time as both static and linear and an ability to perceive the page from both these perspectives: from an initial glance to a sequential reading. Gerard Genette’s model of narrative discourse discusses methods of conveying frequency (that is, repetition, or iteration) in written narrative, arriving at a nested structure of options (1980: 137) whose embedded nature seems extremely gothic. This treatment of time and space separates comics narratology from other media such as montages, collages or film storyboards. As Groensteen argues: “the linkage of shots in a film, which is properly the work of editing, carries itself out in a single linear dimension: that of time, while the panels of a comic are articulated at once in time and in space” (101). In addition, the layout of comics is conceived at the same time as the story breakdown, linking the two. In his discussion of Watchmen, Ian Hague (2012: 45) applies this idea to argue for innate difference between the two media: “Where the film viewer extrapolates the broader ideas from a series of images that move forward linearly at a fixed speed, the comic book reader must work with both the series and the whole to ascertain the meaning because they are confronted by that whole at the same time as the parts.” Hague argues that the comics reader must synthesize information from a variety of places (the page-as-whole, the comic-as-

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whole, the individual panel-as-whole, the iconic zones of text and image within this; and intertextual and personal knowledge to interpret contents) in order to read a comic: oscillating between the macro- and microcosm to (re)construct the story. This allows for haunting (whether of words or images) to take place at the level of paratext, comic book, double page spread, single page, and even within panels. I would extend this idea even further, to the level of the series and, in fact, the industry as a whole: if we consider for example the replication of scenes from Action Comics #1 (1938) in Mark Millar’s Superman: Red Son (2003), which add meaning by further linking Millar’s Soviet incarnation of this character with his origin. However, since such echoes are solely reliant upon the reader’s level of knowledge in order to be recognized (and thus exist), this will be discussed further in Chapter 5.

Ornamentation, Function and Scaffolding (Doubles and Mirrors) In Derrida’s Haunt, Mark Wigley discusses the use of architecture as a metaphor for deconstruction, identifying a tension between ornamentation and function. He demonstrates how, in The Critique of Judgment (1790), Kant separates the aesthetic eye from the eye of reason (taking delight in a building versus rational evaluation of it) and distinguishes between decorative buildings and functional ones. Wigley argues that this work attempts to subordinate architecture while being indebted to it. As such, he claims that aesthetics forces this discourse into a series of “double gestures.” He cites the use of architecture as a philosophical metaphor as “a kind of scaffolding to be discarded when the project is complete. The scaffolding that originally supports a structure is the party of structure that becomes ornamental. The structure of structure is, in the end, ornament. When philosophy reflects on its own completion it defines architecture as metaphorical” (1995: 16–17). Derrida’s use of the architectural metaphor famously centers on the Tower of Babel (1985a), defining this more explicitly in subsequent work as “an unfinished edifice whose half-completed structures are visible, letting one guess at the scaffolding behind them” (Derrida 1985b: 102). He continues: “If the tower had been completed there would be no architecture. Only the incompletion of the tower makes it possible for architecture as well as the multitude of languages to have a history” (Derrida 1986: 25). For Wigley the ruined tower thus becomes a “figure of deconstruction” (Wigley 1995: 24). I want to argue that the layout of the comics page (half-finished as it is, awaiting the reader’s input as discussed in Chapter 5) thus becomes an example of a (haunted) architecture that contains within it echoes and allusions, and

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also displays a double gesture in its ornamentation versus function. For example, on the page symmetrical or mirrored layouts may be used. Many Vertigo comics often seem to share a similar page layout that is mirrored vertically (for example, a wide first panel gives way to a central arrangement of smaller ones, before returning to a wider final panel) as seen in figures 6 and 7, both of which have a vertical layout that is (approximately) mirrored. Is this ornamentation or function? The wider panels frequently set the scene before the central ones offer a closer look at action or conversation, before a return to the “bigger picture” at the foot of the page. This is even used reflexively in Sandman #21: A Midsummer Night’s Dream, where the play being performed vertically bookends each page and four inset panels depict the literal “asides” of the audience during the performance (see Round 2008a for a fuller discussion). James Chapman (2011: 148) notes that comics like 2000AD were responsible for introducing visual innovations such as asymmetry or broken borders to British comics’ layouts and I point out the variety of panel shapes used in Misty in Chapter 2. The signifying potential of panel size and shape is drawn upon here. In terms of scaffolding, these layouts are based around intentional manipulation of a regular grid in order to enhance the meaning of content. Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons’ Watchmen is a key text to consider here. Like From Hell, almost every page uses a standard 3 × 3 grid. This is exploited in Part V (“Fearful Symmetry”) which is constructed symmetrically, including its central double-splash-page where layout is reflected both vertically and horizontally. Moore and Gibbons’ idea was to make the storytelling process invisible through regularity; reliant on function and scaffolding, and enhanced by the ornamentation that occurs at the center of chapter V (further supported by the paratextual designation of this as “Chapter V” rather than “Chapter 5”). The development of this by many of the Vertigo texts into a vertically mirrored layout combines signifying possibility (as lengthier or more distanced panels set the scene) with regularity. Essentially therefore this follows Bolter and Grusin’s (2000) model of remediation: as a dual drive towards immediacy (to forget the storytelling strategies) and hypermediacy (to develop the signifying possibilities of these). Page layout can thus be viewed in terms of ornamentation, function and scaffolding, and the places where these cross over are of particular interest.

Flattened Time (Mirrors and Doubles) A further possible representation of haunting is apparent in what Lew Andrews (1998) labels “continuous narrative” and Paul Gravett (2008) calls

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the de Luca effect, named after Gianni de Luca’s 1975 Hamlet adaptation (due to its extensive use throughout this comic, although it had appeared previously). This effect of showing multiple iterations of character(s) within a single image1 is also identified by Gravett in work from creators as diverse in style and era as Winsor McCay, Hergé, Dave Gibbons, Frank Miller, Joe Sacco and many more and also as having its roots in pre–Renaissance manuscripts and illuminations (the fact that the gothic can also be regarded as a form of medieval pastiche thus seems relevant here). Gravett (2008: 27–8) defines and summarizes this traditional technique: In short, [early] artists or engravers would portray several elements of a story within a single image, generally placing later events in the background. To the modern mind the contradiction of an individual character that reappears and faces his earlier self may seem peculiar, and indeed a sign of a primitive medieval world-view. In fact, if we are able to suspend belief as far as perspective is concerned and accept the illusion of a three-dimensional world represented on a two-dimension plane, why not suspend belief on the level of time-based perspective and accept that a multiple-instant “reality” can be portrayed in a single frame? […] as some of the examples cited above have shown, the return to “continuous narrative” is, on the contrary, often a sign of a far more sophisticated and avant-garde level of comics creation.

Gravett argues that de Luca’s sustained use of this technique in Hamlet marks it apart from its more common usage for a panel or two; however in brief moments of temporal disruption, usage often carries significance. For example, in figure 2, taken from Hellblazer: Tainted Love (Ennis and Dillon 1998b) John Constantine converses with the King of the Vampires in a four panel series across which both Constantine and the background remain static while the vampire (who is the only one to speak for pages at a time) moves. In this story, Constantine is utterly beaten (drunk and living on the streets), completely down-and-out, and so this use of haunting reinforces content and meaning as the medium only grants Constantine the status of a background rather than an active character. The relationship between diegetic time and aesthetic space on the comics page can be explored further using Gerard Genette’s literary model. In her consideration of the Fantastic, Christine Brooke-Rose (1981) provides an analysis of previous critical models (including those of Wayne Booth, Gérard Genette and Tzvetan Todorov) and genre-based theories (such as those of Philippe Hamon or Darko Suvin), using a formalist perspective. She applies the concepts of fabula (plot) and sjužet (its telling), which she relates to Gérard Genette’s terms of story time (“ST”) and narrative time (“NT”), respectively. Genette’s model uses the weighting of these two terms to define the text syntactically, offering the following system:

68 pause: scene: summary: ellipsis:

Part Two : Medium NT = n, ST = 0. Thus: NT ∞> ST NT = ST NT < ST NT = 0, ST = n. Thus: NT ST,” which she defines as a scene (due to the inclusion of narrative description) (315). Comics enhance this distinction between narrative and

Figure 2. John Constantine and the King of the Vampires, by Garth Ennis, Steve Dillon, Tom Ziuko and Stuart Chaifetz, Hellblazer: Tainted Love, page 49, extract (© DC Comics).

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story time still further, as panels with no narration (those that are either silent or purely dialogic) most obviously epitomize a ratio where narrative time = story time (“NT=ST”) while still remaining able to include visual or emotive elements such as expression, tone and so forth. In Understanding Comics, McCloud postulates six different word/picture combinations that make up the various types of panel, with examples of each (1993: 153). While interesting, his distinctions seem redundant in light of later comics criticism, which argues that in no instance is either word or picture rendered useless or separate from the other. The panel’s physical attributes (borders etcetera) prevent this by creating an association even if, in terms of content, there is no overt relevance. Using a Derridean notion of context, the inclusion of two elements in the same panel (and therefore within the overall context of a story), no matter how unalike they may be, forces the reader to combine them in whatever way they think best, drawing their own conclusions as to the meaning of the scene signified (albeit limited by the text’s interpellation and their own knowledge, ideologies and so on) in accordance with Foucault’s archive (which I shall return to discuss in Chapter 5). This approach is implicitly supported by Roland Barthes’ deconstructive process for press photographs, in which he examines text and image separately due to their being “contiguous” (having “separate defined spaces” on the page), rather than “homogenized” (as in forms such as the rebus [and, in my view, the comic-book panel] which fuse words and images in a single line of reading) (1977: 16). This theory is further informed by Genette’s narrative model. The panel is narrative time (NT), a hybrid signifier that represents a varying amount of story time (ST). I would argue that panel’s time-as-space arrangement of pictorial elements indicate the story time it represents, which its dialogic content (if any) further clarifies. However, the panel’s pictorial elements can also indicate NT as either less than ST (through the use of summary shots, such as panel 6 of figure 5, which will be discussed in greater detail in the next chapter), or greater than ST (when considering the amount of extraneous description and information conveyed by the composition and detail of the picture, as will also be discussed in Chapter 4). The relationship between time as depicted on the page (narrative time) and time as it passes in the diegesis (story time) is thus flexible and malleable: another gothic trope. This may be less surprising if we consider that words such as “short” and “long” apply equally to spatial dimensions as they do to time.

Depth and the Crypt These ideas can also be discussed in terms of depth, as figure 2 could equally be defined as “gutters laid over a single image” (or “image dissected to

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fit within a preset grid”) to create the illusion of sequentiality. Thierry Groensteen considers the positioning of text and image in terms of depth, debating whether word balloons are laid over or under the image (2007: 68–72). While this question seems irresolvable (and also largely irrelevant to this model which aims to approach image and text as welded together within a single panel-assignifier), what may be of use is considering the effect of text obscuring image, which makes omitted elements into encrypted “ghosts” and can therefore be deemed another type of haunting. Jim Aparo and Jim Starlin’s Batman: A Death in the Family (figure 3) uses this device to obscure the dramatic image of Robin being beaten to death: as a series of impact “effects” obscure the actual “showing.” This point will also be discussed further in Chapter 5 in the context of the crypt/gutter. “False” gutters can also be used to obscure portions of an image, making a panoramic shot appear sequential. This can be seen in combination with the

Figure 3. The Joker and Robin ( Jason Todd) by Jim Aparo, Jim Starlin and Mike DeCarlo, Batman: A Death in the Family, extract (© DC Comics).

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de Luca effect in figure 2, and also in figure 4 below. These marks in depth are used to obscure or to emphasize meaning: in figure 2 the vampire’s movement versus Constantine’s stasis adds significance to the content; in figure 4 the vastness of the sky is emphasized by the false panel borders: A writing that produces “hollowing, holes [and] lateral marks in depth” is predicated upon the logic of a certain spacing that exceeds thetic referentiality. A writing in which “images of gods [are] set, niched, embedded, driven in, tattooed on the columns” escapes traditional mimesis because it follows the logic of encryption, a writing practice that mimes the psychic process of cryptic incorporation. As writing, it produces what can best be called the correspondence of the uncanny [Castricano 2001: 127].

Continuing this issue of depth: backgrounds are also used throughout some issues of Sandman, for example in Sandman #6 (“24 Hours”) where they provide mood, or Sandman #3 (“Dream a Little Dream of Me”) where a hypodiegetic dream story underlies the pages (see for example page 22), with the diegetic narrative sequence overlaid. Sandman #6 also frequently manipulates page backgrounds: once Doctor Dee’s spell begins the page backgrounds are filled with abstract images over which the panels showing the diegesis are placed, subliminal images that offer additional perspectives on the story’s content. For example the repeated image of a sheep and a black border surround the panels where Judy unquestioningly follows Doctor Dee’s instructions and literally blinds herself (see figure 9, which will be discussed further in Chapter 5). Depth can also be used to emphasize close-ups on action (as in the Sandman: A Midsummer Night’s Dream example), where the panels showing the audience’s conversation overlap the panels showing the play as they talk over the performance. Figure 4 brings many of these effects together—moving down the (panoramic) page (broken up by gutters), the airplane advances closer in a de Luca effect (as it follows its natural flight path), with depth finally being used as an overlaid panel depicts the interior of the airplane’s cockpit. This analysis of the layout reveals the ways in which it emphasizes the content of the narration on this page. Like the page layout, this additive sentence also moves ever-closer: both literally, in its descriptive content (moving from “patchwork fields” to the interior of the cockpit, to the pilot’s laughter, to a more close-up description of sparkling “tears”) and in its information value (as “laughter” is clarified as “joy” but then modified as bitter-sweet by the inclusion of “tears”). These uses of depth emphasize meaning as backgrounds haunt and structure our understanding of the content of overlaid panels. Other narrative disruptions using depth can also be linked to haunting and the crypt, such as the breaking of panel borders. The visually compartmentalized structure of the

Figure 4. Airplane panorama, by Garth Ennis, Steve Dillon, Tom Ziuko and Stuart Chaifetz, Hellblazer: Tainted Love, page 125, full page (© DC Comics).

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comics medium itself calls to mind notions of fragmentation and the image of the crypt; and so moments where borders and divisions are transgressed seem gothic, and of narratological significance. Many gothic themes and tropes rely upon the breaking down of borders and divisions, such as Julia Kristeva’s abject, which occurs “at the border of my condition as a living being” (1982: 3) and is “a terror that dissembles” these borders and the sense of self (4), or vampire sexuality that disrupts gender roles through double penetration. In comics, the transgression of borders is most obvious when it occurs literally, for example as a character busts out of a restrictive panel frame, exploiting depth as their image is laid over the panel borders. But it can also be achieved through asymmetry and irregularity, that is, where a panel is drawn in an irregular shape, and thereby exploits the page’s haunted architecture: summoning a tension between ornamentation, function and scaffolding. As such, Chapman’s comment above regarding the use of irregularly shaped panels in British comics such as 2000AD further supports my focus on DC Vertigo’s British writers as contributing to this gothic movement.

Conclusion Gothic notions of haunting and the crypt can help clarify the layout of comics. The page breakdown is haunted (by co-present yet insubstantial surrounding panels), and its arthrology actualizes this through braiding and other conscious devices which create linked series of resonances that complement the narrative sequence. The space of the page is thus a half-built edifice. Its idiosyncrasies can be viewed in terms of ornamentation, function and scaffolding, and the moments where these definitions coincide or converge on a single panel are thus of particular interest. The treatment of the tension between text and image that I discuss in Chapter 4 can also be argued to be cryptomimetic, as the text is internal to the image/panel; yet also external, as its uncertain position in terms of depth demonstrates. It can be seen as both in front of and behind the panel, bringing into being a tension between two-dimensional and three- dimensional style, which further legitimizes an understanding of time as the fourth dimension. Depth is also used to transgress panel borders to indicate moments of significance. In this way, the breakdown of the comics page can be said to be haunted. This is because: 1. we can see the past, present and future laid out before us, creating intratextual echoes;

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2. ornamentation, function and scaffolding coincide, for example in the use of mirroring or doubling; and 3. time may be compressed or expanded. The page can also be defined as cryptomimetic, since: 1. within a single panel, text is simultaneously both internal to the image, but also external, due to issues of depth (a spatial dimension); 2. the (double-)page itself is a panel within which we find many others, sometimes subsequent to each other, sometimes overlaid and simultaneous; and 3. a divided page layout enables a gothic transgression of borders to add significance. A gothic structure is thus apparent in comics, as the narrative is presented in a non-linear manner where all moments co-exist on the page, recalling the gothic trope of haunting. The writing of a comic produces the space of the page whose layout is an architecture that employs ornamentation, function and scaffolding. Groensteen’s braiding, which creates general arthrology (the series) alongside his restricted arthrology (the sequence) can be viewed in this light, and as conjuring the ghosts of previous pages, for it can only be experienced sequentially. Echoing and (intratextual) haunting thus takes place at the levels of the comic book, the double-page, the page, and within the panel. Additionally, extratextual, intertextual and paratextual echoes are possible with reference to other cultural artifacts and practices, as well as with reference to the entire comics industry, the comic-book series, and so forth. Temporal disruption is used for example through the repetition of characters within a single panel or the flattening of time in summary panels. Mirroring and doubling may take place at the level of structure (for example as in symmetrical layouts), merging ornamentation and function, and exposing scaffolding; and depth is used for affect (for example by obscuring key images, emotive backgrounds, or transgression of panel borders). By linking semiotics to gothic themes, we can therefore identify a gothic structure within the comics medium.

4. Excess, Embodiment and Artifice “Have you never wondered, little bird, what it must be like to see the world through the eyes of a god?”—Sandman

Introduction Comics’ stylized art, ability to create and sustain mobile perspectives, and the interaction of words and pictures create worlds that interrogate our notions of fantasy and reality. This chapter will discuss how comics set their stories in alternate worlds that exist in self-conscious falsity and will approach these using the gothic notions of artifice, excess, embodiment and seeing. As noted in Chapter 1, gothic literature has often attempted to call into question its authenticity through various methods. It is apparent from the earliest gothic texts (such as Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto which claimed to be a translation by “William Marshall” of a 1529 manuscript by “Onuphrio Muralto”) to the contemporary (such as Mark Danielewski’s House of Leaves (2000) which uses footnotes to weave two stories together). Tactics such as first-person or unreliable narration, textual addendums, paratextual material, publicity stunts and so forth have been employed to create the illusion of authenticity (whether believed or not). K.K. Ruthven (2001) summarizes this fascinating history, focusing on a variety of authors whose identities problematize the question of authenticity and noting periods of particular dominance (including the 1760s when, three years after Walpole’s pretense, a fifteenyear-old Thomas Chatterton began to retro-fashion himself as “Thomas Rowley” to publish fifteenth-century poetry). Critical response to Gothic has frequently focused on such literary fakery. For example Fred Botting’s discussion of gothic simulations as reliant on “the play of the imaginary and real” defines this dialectic as another example of the double trajectory of Gothic (2007: 203). 75

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Similarly, gothic narratives often rely upon notions of excess, whether stylistically (ornate language, visceral images and descriptions); structurally (embedded and layered stories, multiple narrators, unreliable statements); or thematically (horror that is either “indescribable” or “beyond comprehension”). These tropes can be linked to the dichotomy of the seen/unseen, which can be conjured conceptually or linguistically in Gothic. Either we see too much (conceptually, an example such as the ghost or apparition, whose terror comes from the fact that it should not be there; and/or linguistically, if strategies such as visceral description and abject imagery are used), or we see too little (the concept of the never-revealed monster, for example; or linguistically the horror of “nameless things” that even the excesses of Lovecraftian prose “cannot describe”). Wendy Haslem (2008) argues that gothic projections are descended from experiments in “the limits of vision” explored by cinematic precursors, drawing on Immanuel Kant’s (1781) discussion of the split in perception between the seen and unseen. Michel Foucault’s discussion of the gaze as a way of looking that has variable ideological implications is also of relevance here. Foucault (1975) uses Jeremy Bentham’s panopticon as an example of a “loaded” gaze whose surveillance affects its subject’s behavior. However, the gaze is not just a way of looking at others’ behaviors but also at our own as socialization influences us to make ourselves the subject of our own gaze. In comics, stylized art and mobile perspectives do not allow the reader the freedom of a panoptic gaze but instead assign them a series of different perspectives that are defined here primarily in terms of their mobile dis/embodied position and their affect (through style, color, and so forth). As such, the gaze becomes a way of looking not just at others but also at ourselves (as in Laura Mulvey’s (1975) male gaze theory, for example). This chapter will discuss the stylization of the comics page by applying gothic notions of excess, materiality, authenticity, perspective and diegesis. I propose that comics offer an excess of style as words, images, emanata, and other icons are presented as idiosyncratic hand-drawn devices, separating signifier and sign through their materiality. Notions of authenticity come into question as the stylized nature of comics art, fantastic/fictional content, and the comicas-object’s status as a copy with no original further affect the treatment of visual and verbal representation in this medium. Competing perspectives are offered (both extra- and intradiegetic speakers and dis/embodied visuals) and swift plunges through diegetic layers (for example into flashback or fantasy) further contribute to the excess of the page. In earlier days of comics criticism, Scott McCloud (1993: 153–5) suggests six different “types” of word and picture combinations in comics. I have argued against this elsewhere (see Round 2007) as, where present, words nec-

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essarily either provide or connote additional meaning. If both word and image are present within a panel then treating them interdependently seems essential if seeking a holistic approach to analyzing comics. McCloud in fact acknowledges this when he claims that comics are “A single unified language” (1993: 47). The second critical wave of comics scholarship supports this viewpoint. Duncan and Smith (2009: 154) argue that: “Comic book reading is an integrated perceptual experience that involves not only the decoding of linguistic and pictorial symbols, but an understanding of the interanimation of meaning between the words and the pictures.” R.C. Harvey has argued for a definition of comics based entirely on visual-verbal blending, claiming that this is “the heart and soul of the art of cartooning […] in the best representatives of the medium, the pictures and the words work together to create a meaning that neither the words nor the pictures, taken by themselves, achieve” (Harvey 2010). Using Peircean semiotics, Anne Magnussen also argues that the signs within the comics panel must be analyzed not separately, but in the context of each other (2000: 195). Magnussen’s comments on the panel, page, doublepage spread and comic itself as signs inform my discussion of haunted panels in Chapter 3, where I argue that this embedded structure is characteristically gothic. However, for the purposes of this chapter I will focus on the interaction and affect of multiple and mobile perspectives that construct comics’ storyworlds. Pascal Lefèvre (2012: 71) suggests that we should approach form by breaking it down into artistic style, color and perspective and this informs my breakdown of representational strategies, which I have divided under the headings of visual/verbal play, artificiality and style, perspective, and diegesis. I will argue that a sense of gothic excess is created by the interplay of these notions and that analysis of comics’ storyworlds should consider these four angles.

Visual/Verbal Play Critics have presented many different ways of breaking down the drawn elements of the comics page. Scott McCloud (1993: 27) defines them as icons, and subdivides this further into representational icons (referring to concepts, ideas, philosophies, such as symbols or logos); practical icons (of language, science and communication, such as letters, numbers and notational devices for mathematics, music and so forth); and pictorial icons (which resemble their subjects with greater or lesser degrees of abstraction). Randy Duncan and Matthew Smith (2001; 2012) suggest that images can be divided into sensory diegetic (the physical reality of the world); non-sensory diegetic (the internal reality of the world, e.g., emanata, thought bubbles etcetera); and hermeneutic (author’s commentary on events). However, these types of cate-

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gorization of individual elements are not compatible with a holistic approach that aims to treat the panel as signifier and analyze its internal components in relation to each other. As such, this section will analyze the possible relationships between the panel’s visual and verbal elements to argue that the tension between the visual and verbal strands (Hatfield 2005) is a significant factor in creating an “excess of meaning” in comics. Through this, diegetic meaning (i.e., the significance of events shown with reference to the plot) is frequently doubled as additional layers of extradiegetic meaning are created through the interplay between word and image within the panel. Critics such as R.C. Harvey (who emphasizes verbal/visual interplay), Will Eisner (who argues for the “primacy of the image”) and Thierry Groensteen (who focuses on iconic solidarity) have emphasized the visual qualities of comics over the verbal. I interpret Eisner’s “primacy of the image” in its literal sense, i.e., that the image is what we will see first, although acknowledge that its meaning can dominate the panel or overrule textual meaning.1 McCloud suggests that whichever dominates can be flexible, as in his “interdependent” panel where “words and pictures are like partners in a dance and each one takes turns leading” (1993: 156). With neither element able to claim absolute authority, the relationship between word and image becomes flexible and a key component of panel analysis. Critics such as McCloud have focused on the differing signifying strengths or limitations of word and image—in McCloud’s case, arguing that pictures are received information (i.e., instantly recognizable) while words are perceived (i.e., they require interpretation). Within semiology this distinction of course does not hold true, as Hatfield (2005) argues, using the work of W.J.T. Mitchell amongst others. Further, the drawn nature of both in comics further complicates this (already dubious) distinction and as such this section will not focus on ways in which each codify and convey meaning (for further discussion of this area see for example Duncan and Smith 2009; Miodrag 2011) but instead is concerned solely with the interplay between the two. If we consider Gerard Genette’s terminology, we perceive the comic book panel as narrative time, representing a variable amount of story time. However, in fiction the relationship between narrative time (or intradiegetic experience) and story time (or extradiegetic experience) is more complicated than Genette’s presentation of it. Genette’s terms imply that there is a “natural” story which the diegesis reconstructs. Of course, this is simply not true—the fictional story only exists as a narrative, and what we deem “story” can only ever be artificially created from the diegesis. This leads me to the argument that the comic book panel can be both signified and signifier; there is only the diegesis, the fictional alterity, and the illusion of time.2 Comics draw both word and image together into a single signifier (see

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further below) but the relationship between them can vary wildly. There thus exists a tension of “code versus code,” as Charles Hatfield (2005) identifies. Hatfield argues that the implications of word and image are frequently played against each other in comics: “to gloss, to illustrate, to contradict or complicate or ironize the other” (37). These varying effects double the meaning of the panel, for example as word or image either echo or complement each other (Barthes’ “anchoring”); or exist in a subversive relationship, as one contradicts or complicates the diegetic meaning of the other. This tension makes up part of the signifying properties of the panel itself. Examples of this are numerous—and frequently humorous. For example, in The Killing Joke (Moore and Bolland 1988) the Joker creates a ghost train ride he hopes will drive Commissioner Gordon insane. A picture of the door to the ride opening and the train itself approaching is accompanied by the Joker’s speech: “So when you find yourself locked onto an unpleasant train of thought … madness is the emergency exit … you can just step outside, and close the door on all those dreadful things that happened.” The text supports the image (which shows an unassigned/extradiegetic viewpoint of the door to the ghost train) and thus doubles its content by echoing its meaning (see Round 2005a for further discussion of this scene). A similar example is also apparent in Sandman #1 “Sleep of the Just” where a lack of sleep has driven a soldier in the trenches insane. Here the extradiegetic narrator comments: “It’s sad. Stefan Wasserman went over the top” (#1, Gaiman et al. 1991: 11) and the words ironically support the image of a deranged Wasserman staring into space, breaking the fourth wall to look directly at us. The gaze assigned to the reader here has ideological implications and so the combination of words and pictures gains in affect by offering an ironic commentary that critiques war and its consequences: aligning Wasserman’s magical catatonia with real conditions such as post traumatic stress disorder, “shell shock,” and “sleeping sickness.” Subversive examples also exist. For example, in Preacher: Gone to Texas (Ennis and Dillon 1996) Tulip O’Hare is telling her companions about her involvement in an attempted assassination. While her narration answers the question “Were you scared?” in the negative (“Hell no”), the flashback dialogue belies this: Tulip’s narration is juxtaposed with an image of her standing nervously muttering “Oh, shit” (#1, Ennis and Dillon 1996: 22). Similarly, in Doom Patrol (Morrison et al. 1992) Cliff Steele/Robotman asks a companion “…is this a book or is it real ?” (#21, Morrison et al. 1992), referring to the “black book” that he is holding, but breaking the fourth wall to look directly at the reader. Here, the image complicates the simple statement. Again, the reader’s viewpoint contains ideological meaning that interrogates notions of literary worth as applied to comics.

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These instances of doubling can exist at an intradiegetic or extradiegetic level. Their combination within the panel means their juxtaposition is always available to the reader but not necessarily to the characters within the diegesis or storyworld. For example, the Joker’s dialogue is heard by the other characters, and his puns on “doors” and “trains” may be recognized by them; although it is arguably more apparent to the reader as we are explicitly shown a door alongside the dialogue within the panel content. However, the Sandman narration is unheard within the storyworld, and so its combination with the image only resonates with the reader. Similarly, the other Preacher characters only hear Tulip’s speech; they do not view her memories as we do; just as the Doom Patrol characters only understand Steele’s question as it relates to their storyworld. Doubling is a key trope of the gothic, as is apparent from some of its most famous texts. Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde (1886) deals with the divided personality as the good Doctor physically transforms into the monstrous Hyde. Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818) draws heavy parallels between creator and monster (further reinforced by recent interpretations such as Danny Boyle’s 2011 theatrical production in which the two lead actors swapped roles). Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890) revolves around a similar device where Dorian’s portrait aesthetically embodies the evil of his soul. Although most obviously apparent in comics’ parallel of the superhero and supervillain (also explored by The Killing Joke), comics’ use of visual/verbal play frequently creates a gothic doubling of narrative meaning by addressing the reader on two levels at once.

Artificiality and Style Mark Currie raises the question of view and vision, commenting on the “tension between seeing and writing […] in contemporary narratology” (1998: 127) since seeing overrules the authority of verbal narrative. For Currie (and others), the idea of the signifier removed from its signified pervades the postmodern notion of writing. Writing is therefore seen as a “fall from presence” (82) and its existence invokes questions of origin—referring to the moment of speech when the signifier was uttered, uniting sign, signifier and even the signified (by invocation). However, the materiality of the word still remains, as explored by writers such as James Joyce, Gertrude Stein and B.S. Johnson, for example in House mother normal (1971) where Johnson writes: Crêpe paper. Crêpe? crêpe.

Crêpe, crêpe, what a word. Crêpe [ Johnson 1971: 34].

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Materiality separates the signifier from its sign, for example through repetition as here. Defamiliarization through iteration can also have the reverse effect, as in Stein’s line “A rose is a rose is a rose,” about which she claims that, despite the artificiality of iteration, “in that line the rose is red for the first time in English poetry for a hundred years” (Stein 1947: vi). In postmodern narratology seeing overrules writing and reading, not only due to notions of the sign and its origin, but also as a consequence of the realistic medium seeing generally requires: as in filmic narration, where the camera will “reveal the truth of past events as a reliable contrast to their narration in words” (1998: 126), as in Tulip’s anecdote. Of course, opposing opinions also exist: for example Norman Bryson argues that some religious art is based on the primacy of the word and that only “instructive” images with a message have value (1981: 1). However, whereas film can only deceive through actual deception (“implausible rubber masks and improbable doubles” [Currie 1998: 126]), comics’ use of overtly stylized art subverts this. This is because there is no truth or realism inherent in the mode (drawing ) or style (often nonrealistic), and seeing in comics is therefore elevated to the same fictional status as writing within this medium. A good example of style and mobility as constructing gothic inauthenticity and the hesitation that Tzvetan Todorov defines as a condition of the Fantastic can be found in Sandman: The Kindly Ones (see figure 1 from previous chapter). One effect of these haunted and reiterated images is to validate all three potential worlds that Lyta finds herself in: encouraging the reader not to dismiss two of the three versions as unreal. The reader is forced to hesitate as throughout The Kindly Ones echoes link the pictures of Lyta in her myth world with others showing her in the waking world, braiding these images together. Although the hallucinatory quality of Lyta’s myth world and the doubling of its characters with people and objects in reality (see #62, Gaiman et al. 1996: 19) could imply that it is entirely fictional, other events belie this. For example, a homeless man comments of Lyta: “She’s got snakes in her hair. And she’s not alone in her head any more” (#61, Gaiman et al. 1996: 17), which is how she does indeed appear in her myth world. Hesitation also appears frequently in the semantics of this story: themes of perception are emphasized, for example in the multiple naming of the Corinthian, or the definition of Morpheus as “A puh-point of view” (Gaiman et al. 1997: 44). Notions of singular reality are thereby denied more than once (for further examples and discussion please see Round 2012c). Wolfgang Iser takes pains to establish that “literary language” (the text) is not attempting to imitate reality. He points out that a “continual process of transformation” (switches and interactions between the different perspectives of author, reader, character and narrator) “leads back into itself and not into

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a composite image of reality” (1980: 102–3). As such, the signified of the comics panel is its own diegesis. Although Iser acknowledges that “signs by definition refer to something outside themselves” (141) he also points out that the “image-building” that takes place during the act of reading eliminates the subject/object division as “the image is a manifestation of an imaginary object” (140). This model follows his approach by defining comics’ language as a deviation from (rather than an imitation of ) normal speech acts. If viewed this way then comics (like other forms of literary language) become an example of a performative speech act that brings into being its own story. Annalisa di Liddo identifies this in her discussion of Alan Moore’s oeuvre, saying “performativity is present in every work where Moore turns self-reflexive and plays with metafiction, in every page where he reminds his readers of the ephemeral line that separates what we call reality from narrative, history from tale.” Di Liddo names comics “an intrinsically performative medium […] where the illusion of mimesis is incessantly broken by the blatant antirealism of the lines that intertwine on the page” (2009: 168). Comics’ stylized art therefore creates a self-conscious alterity; one that is depicted with conscious falsity, and can reinforce fantastic content. As such, every world in comics is an alterity, no matter where it claims to be. Rosemary Jackson’s seminal work on fantasy as subversion introduces two important notions to the discussion of fantasy literature: “alterity” and “paraxis.” She claims that “Fantasy re-combines and inverts the real, but it does not escape it: it exists in a parasitical or symbiotic relation to the real” (1981: 20). Fantastic worlds are therefore alterities—“this world re-placed and dis-located” (19), and Jackson defines this process of transformation and replacement as paraxis— signifying “par-axis,” being that which lies alongside the main body (or axis) (19). Jackson’s optical metaphor (paraxis is a technical term referring to an illusory area of perceived unity after light refraction), alerts us to the significance of perception and the relevance of Gothic. Although Jackson’s work is concerned with defining the Fantastic/fantasy (she uses the two terms interchangeably), it seems arguable that all fictional worlds are alterities, and those used in comics especially so, since they are realized at a visual as well as a verbal level.3 For example: Batman is a comics superhero who lives in Gotham. No “real life” Gotham exists; and although comparisons with downtown New York (or Chicago, in the case of Christopher Nolan’s films) are well-documented, the relationship remains one of inspiration rather than representation. Gotham is, therefore, the place we see on the comics page or on the cinema screen. I would extend this argument to even those locations that do exist independently of their fictional representations, such as the New York which appears in the Spiderman comics/movies: even at first glance we can see this is not the same

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city as “our” New York. Two important additions exist: The Daily Planet newspaper, and Spiderman himself. Even in comics that are factual and purport to represent non-fiction, the narrative filter exists: Joe Sacco’s Palestine (1992), for example, does not depict the “real” city, but Palestine as experienced by Joe Sacco. The act of narrating, of telling the story, instantly selects and shapes the content, and what is offered to us can never be the same as the “real.” The condition of inauthenticity is made more explicit in comics since, unlike the television or cinema screen, what comics offer us is not a created set or disguised location, but a drawn image that is itself the thing it represents. It is a signifier with varying temporal value (as argued in the previous chapter, where an image can represent a single moment, or a scene, or a summary) but at the same time it performs its own signified: the diegesis. In this way comics enter the hyperreal and, like gothic literature, bring into question their own authenticity. Traditionally, the hyperreal is evoked through a notion of the original: it can be identified in our privileging of branding over product; in treating reproductions as the “real” thing, and in mass culture. Comics overtly deny the concept of the “real” (through their stylized, fictional content) and exist only in a mass-produced state (there is no “original” comic artifact that is then duplicated/copied). Pages of art exist, sketches exist, scripts exist and so forth: but there is no primary or unique artifact of the comic with what Walter Benjamin would call an original “aura.” Comics thereby evoke the hyperreal through an excess of style that relies upon notions of postmodern doubling and of excess. Style and color also have emotive signifying qualities that further enhance this falsity, and of course this applies to all elements of the comics panel as well as its entirety. This is because, as noted, words in comics are hand-drawn just like images. McCloud acknowledges this in his analysis of Rene Magritte’s “The Treachery of Images,” commenting of his reproduction of this picture within Understanding Comics: “Indeed, this is not a pipe. […] It’s a printed copy of a painting of a drawing of a pipe” (1993: 25). Pascal Lefèvre (2012: 72) argues that the static and stylized nature of comics art emphasizes its (pseudo) hand-drawn qualities. As such, artwork and text both become an image of sorts: “Pictures and words have different characteristics and functions, but they both appear on the comics page as images” (Duncan and Smith 2009: 155). In addition to narrative and dialogue, there are also numerous emanata (images with a signifying quality beyond the literal, such as speed lines, sweat beads, stars for dizziness and so forth), as well as desperation devices such as sound effects (“POW!”). The drawn status of what we may call the “verbal” strand of comics means that words never “just” provide a soundtrack: connotation and other inferences made by the reader all affect the meaning of the panel, as Jan Baetens (2001) has argued. Style therefore becomes essential to

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any analysis or interpretation of comics. The manner in which a word is drawn can indicate as much as the word itself, and so comics blur the lines between image and text, while also holding the two in tension within each other as they are incorporated into a single signifier (the comics panel). Comics art, then, initially complicates realism and authenticity. Having its roots in caricature, its general style frequently tends towards excess and even the grotesque (see for example Dawe 2013). However, the coexistence of multiple artists on long-running titles makes the falsity of comics art even more explicit. Long runs on titles such as Sandman contrast various artistic styles: consider Marc Hempel’s non-realistic cartoonist style that combines pop-art and ligne claire in The Kindly Ones (1996) against Charles Vess’s penciled pages for The Wake (1997), or the artistic diversity of Worlds’ End where each embedded story is created by a different artist, with the framing pages that return us to the Worlds’ End Inn all drawn by Bryan Talbot. Comics art thereby has a kind of self-consciousness already contained within it: the knowledge of its own creation and creator. Style in comics also has a long history of signifying through connotation. The vast variety possible demonstrates this. For example, the French ligne claire style pioneered by Hergé uses equal strong lines and limited contrast, often using cartoonish characters against realistic backgrounds. British and American children’s comics frequently use a more cartoonish or caricatured style with varied line widths and simplified faces and bodies. Early American comics, particularly in the adventure and superhero genres, were dominated by a more realistic style perhaps inspired by pulp magazine illustrations. The American and British underground brought in extensive cross-hatching and emotive line-work, for example R. Crumb’s “neurotic quill lines” that signify worry, anger and so forth. A trend for painted artwork spread in the 1980s (Adlard in Round 2013b) and some artists still work in a heavily realistic style. In contemporary British-American comics therefore the stylistic scope is vast and carries multiple levels of signification. McCloud (1993) points out that not just characters but also backgrounds can emote by having a psychological effect on the reader that we then ascribe to the character we are currently focused on, as is apparent in seminal artworks such as Edvard Munch’s The Scream. In Arkham Asylum (Morrison and McKean 1990) the Joker’s hair is an indistinct green mist that follows him around, its indefinite and invasive nature symbolizing confusion and anarchy. The Joker’s dialogue in this comic is similarly affect-driven and anarchic in appearance (and content)—it is literally unconfined (never enclosed within a speech balloon) and in a process of escape. By contrast Batman’s dialogue is precise, neat and closed-off; encircled by neat geometric ovals. Color and font signify here too—the Joker’s speech connotes danger and anarchy through its color

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(red), font (punky, made up of multiple lines) and size (irregular); whereas the color, style, size and content of Batman’s words are understated, minimal and uniform. More extreme non-realistic seeing can also be used in comics, for example to convey emotion or demonstrate state of mind. For example, when standup comedian Esmé is electrocuted by a live microphone in Sandman #8 (Gaiman et al. 1991) the background scenery in the panel (which has been minimal anyway) completely vanishes and color becomes non-realistic. Instead we see a tri-color abstract picture of Esmé colored purple, surrounded by an orange flash, on a plain black background. Her scream (“YEEEEAGK!”) is similarly stylized compared to the typeface used for both dialogue and narration up until this point—it appears within a speech balloon with jagged edges and the font is considerably larger and made up of thick scratchy black lines. Stylized words like this feature heavily. Like Arkham Asylum and many other titles before it, Sandman uses color and font throughout to distinguish the speech of its titular character Dream, whose dialogue always appears in white font on a black background within a balloon whose edges are wavy and ephemeral, signifying this character’s immortal and often serious nature. Another example of stylization that both conveys emotion and disrupts authenticity by reminding us of its material presence can be found in Hellblazer: Fear and Loathing where a character comments “M’I TUO FO YM ECAF” (Ennis and Dillon 1997c: 54). Font and size remain regular here but the reversed order of the letters requires interpretation by the reader that disrupts the diegetic immediacy: supporting the story content as the form of the words stresses their meaning (as spoken by an inebriated character). It should be noted that often these types of “emotive seeing” are attached to the feelings of a particular character, as in both the examples discussed here, and so it could be argued that the signifying properties of color and line also have an impact on perspective and diegetic depiction (for example if we are seeing things literally colored by a character’s emotions then arguably this could qualify as an intradiegetic visual). I move now to a discussion of this area.

Dis/embodied Perspective In comics, panels often move quickly between different diegetic layers— one panel may assign an extradiegetic (or disembodied) viewpoint to the reader (such as a bird’s eye view of a scene), while the very next one may give us the embodied point of view of a character in the story (intradiegetic). As Lefèvre (2012) notes, perspective and composition therefore also affect the presenta-

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tion of the comics alterity. Again, I would argue these exist at a level of excess. Unlike prose fiction, comics can be infinitely mobile in presenting their narrative. They can immerse us in the story by giving us the literal point of view of a character, show us a scene from a physically impossible viewpoint, jump between extra- and intradiegetic points of view, and so forth. Such strategies have frequently been used effectively in art. William Hogarth’s Gin Lane (1751), for example, assigns its viewer a physically impossible angle of sight, situating us floating somewhere above the steps in the foreground. The dizzying sensation this produces and the acute angles of the buildings contribute to the picture’s contrast with its counterpart Beer Street, where the viewer’s feet are firmly planted on the ground and the surrounding buildings conveyed in straight lines and right angles. Similarly, and as noted in the previous section the composition, style and coloring of a scene also affects the way we interpret the story’s events. Scenes can be portrayed literally or use internal or metaphorical images, and the framing of a panel limits how much information we are given. The mobility possible here (where we can leap between different points of view and different perspectives on the same scene, without being limited by what is physically possible) creates an excess of perspective. This section will focus on the mobility of perspective and the effect of inconstancies and (dis)embodiment. Wolfgang Iser defines the (literary) text as “a series of changing viewpoints” (p. 68), which he also labels a “serial arrangement of perspectives” (1980: 103). The reader has to occupy certain (and variable) standpoints at various points. For Lesser the literary text is an “overdetermination” with different levels of meaning, but this excess also arises from what Iser names the “indeterminacy” on the part of the reader (48)— that is, the interpretations they choose to privilege (or neglect). However, as the reader is led towards certain standpoints (whether perceptual, ideological or so forth) their position takes on a degree of determinacy—that is, the act of reading is not an entirely subjective one. Jodey Castricano (2001: 35) argues: “The work of mourning requires that a space be created within the self so that the other can be assimilated, digested, made part of us. That ‘self,’ nevertheless, is constituted only in relationship to an other who is never assimilated but who necessarily remains other, outside, over-there, never to be ‘devoured.’” Scott McCloud puts this in a simpler way, arguing that the stylization of comics means that in the world of the cartoon we see ourselves (1993: 36). Here McCloud seems to be relying on the notion of pareidolia (the tendency to find significance in random data, such as seeing faces in clouds), which doesn’t consider the deliberate positioning of the reader. I will therefore use Castricano’s summary to consider what happens when the reader is given the embodied, perceptual point of view of

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Figure 5. Jesse’s story, by Garth Ennis and Steve Dillon, Preacher: Until the End of the World, page 44, full page (© Garth Ennis and Steve Dillon. Courtesy of DC Comics).

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a character within a comic, immersing them in the diegesis. Depending on the character in question, this also has ideological implications. Close discussion of figure 5, which is a single page taken from Preacher: Until the End of the World (Ennis and Dillon 1997a) demonstrates this mobility.4 Panel 1 gives us a close-up of Tulip’s face from an unassigned viewpoint (therefore extradiegetic and disembodied). However panel 2 then offers an embodied position: looking sidelong at Jesse through Tulip’s eyes. We have been seamlessly transported to an intradiegetic position. Panels 3–4 then illustrate Jesse’s memories (arguably a hypodiegetic level as a story (memory) embedded within the diegesis), as signified by the switch from dialogue to narration that frames his words (indicated by a change from speech balloons to narrative boxes). These two panels offer us the embodied intradiegetic viewpoints of both Jody and the child Jesse from within this flashback/memory. Panel 5 then returns us to the main diegesis, but with a disembodied extradiegetic perspective (and one that has additional affect from a (lack of ) color and composition—the background has been removed and Tulip has been cropped out of the panel: both color and composition emphasize Jesse’s isolation and empty despair (doubling the affect already given by his pose: eyes closed, looking down despairingly). Finally, panel 6 returns us to the hypodiegetic level but with an extradiegetic perspective (i.e., unassigned and disembodied). The mobility and inconstancy here is impressive. The story is told entirely from Jesse’s point of view and therefore logically can only be viewed from his position or with the disembodied distance given by an extradiegetic stance. However his tale is conveyed from two different intradiegetic positions, as well as an extradiegetic one. These are used for affect, as we first inhabit Jesse’s powerless position (indicated by the low-down angle which forces us to experience Jody’s abuse as he thus addresses us directly with his insult “Fuckin’ little crybaby”); before the very next panel shows us a hysterical yet defiant child and, embodying Jody’s position, we experience the full force of the child Jesse’s angry glare. Mobility is used for affect: it immerses the reader in the scene by granting us the perspectives of all involved characters and giving us closer understanding of the other participants than we would otherwise have. The contradiction apparent in these mobile juxtapositions leads me to suggest that embodiment is the key factor here and that the viewpoint of the comics reader may be either embodied or disembodied. Castricano cites Mikhael Bakhtin’s definition of “character zones” as: These zones are formed from the fragments of character speech […] from various forms for hidden transmission of someone else’s word, from scattered words and saying belonging to someone else’s speech, from those invasions into authorial speech of others’ expressive indicators (ellipsis, questions, exclamations) [2001: 316, my emphasis].

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She suggests that such shifts are apparent in both contemporary gothic and horror fiction (such as Stephen King) and spectral critical writing ( Jacques Derrida) and thereby defines “the subject as multiple and indeterminate, as a discursive textual effect brought about through syntactic markers, pronominal shifts, and citational uses of other texts” (Castricano 2001: 63). Just as Derrida defines the protagonist as an effect of citation, for Castricano narrative and character are constructed through the incorporation of “other voices” into the authorial voice—a gothic process of absorption that is exemplified by the multiple and mobile perspectives of comics.

Diegesis In this way, leaps between embodied and disembodied points of view and between diegetic layers disrupt the idea of a coherent diegesis. Stories, anecdotes, flashbacks and so forth (Gerard Genette’s hypodiegetic level) are embedded within the tale and story levels are easily moved between. Lecercle (2001) identifies embedded narratives in classic gothic texts such as Frankenstein (1818) and points out that Dracula (1897) makes use of multiple points of view and a range of voices (except its eponymous character, of course). Earlier books such as Melmoth the Wanderer (1820) or The Saragossa Manuscript (1804) also rely upon layered narratives and embedded stories, hidden cryptically within an overarching narrative, as discussed in Part One. Comics’ use of single issues and trade paperbacks typically allow for wider story arcs that encompass the plots of single issues and their mobility of voice and view provides for a plethora of narrative voices and perspectives, both visual and verbal. Neil Gaiman’s Worlds’ End, the eighth Sandman trade paperback, makes use of this sort of gothic structuring and in so doing stretches the potential of comic-book language. Written in the tradition of works such as The Canterbury Tales, the main story is set at the “Worlds’ End,” an inn where travelers from many different fantasy worlds are sheltering from a “reality storm.” Each tells a tale in turn, many of which incorporate other stories, locations and times. In this sense the construction of Worlds’ End is similar to that of gothic novels such as The Saragossa Manuscript and Melmoth the Wanderer, whose structures overtly use and exploit the reader’s suspension of disbelief. This is not only due to their convoluted narrative frameworks but, more generally, to the nature of Gothic. As already mentioned, Worlds’ End is composed of six comic books drawn by various artists, each telling a new tale framed by the setting of the inn (drawn by Bryan Talbot). Slides between the present-day, retrospective narration

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(which generally remains as the intradiegetic voice of the character telling the story) and the past dialogic voices (that are the subject of the tales), are easily sustained by the medium. However, in Sandman #55 (“Cerements,” which is the story of Petrefax, an apprentice in a mythical City of the Dead, whose inhabitants are trained solely in funeral rites), other characters tell their own stories within his tale as part of one such rite (see figure 6). This requires disruption of the “boxed narrative versus dialogic content” structure used in the other Worlds’ End stories. Here, as an aid to clarification, the various levels of narrative are printed in differently colored boxes. This method is introduced before the storytelling funeral rite begins when Gaiman allows the story’s characters to speak both in dialogic speech balloons and narrative boxes. It is in these stories-within-stories that the medium is able to showcase its vast potential. Within Gaiman’s Sandman story arc (level I), we have the story of the inn as told by the character Brant after the fact (II), within which the story “Cerements” is told by Petrefax (III), within which the character Scroyle tells his tale (IV), which itself contains a story told to him by Destruction (V). Differently colored narrative boxes are again used to sustain the complexity of the structure, enabling the transitions between the levels to be effected smoothly. In this regard it is important to note that such color-coding may be used to distinguish either story level or speaker (as in figure 6 where both Petrefax and Master Hermas converse within the green narrative boxes and Petrefax’s level III narrative is otherwise depicted in yellow). In “Cerements” the structure of Master Hermas’s tale is the most impressive, being about his old teacher, Mistress Veltis, and the stories she told to him and another apprentice one stormy night. The third and final one of these level V tales, although still narrated by Hermas, exemplifies the easy transition from narrative to dialogue allowed by the medium and contrasts with the aforementioned level IV and V tales which are told entirely through narrative boxes, all dialogue being reported. This transition is effected by the use of inset panels, emphasizing the point that the dialogic immediacy is part of the tale currently being narrated, and is sustained by the combination of narrative and dialogue it uses (figure 7). Depth (in both the literal sense, and the diegetic sense, as we plunge deeper into the embedded story) therefore also requires consideration as part of the excess of the comics page. Thierry Groensteen and Charles Hatfield both discuss the tension between individual panel, series and sequence. This is a tension relying upon depth, on two ways of interpreting the panel contents. As discussed in the previous chapter Groensteen looks at word balloons: claiming their presence creates an opposition between the “textual zone” and the “image zone” (as text balloons are frequently two-dimensional, which contradicts the threedimensional artistic style of the panel’s artwork) and this “generates a tension”

Figure 6. Cerements, by Neil Gaiman, Shea Anton Pensa, Vince Locke, Mark Buckingham, Sandman #55 (“Cerements”), Sandman: Worlds’ End, chapter 5, page 8, full page (© DC Comics).

Figure 7. Mistress Veltis, by Neil Gaiman, Shea Anton Pensa, Vince Locke, Mark Buckingham, Sandman #55 (“Cerements”), Sandman: Worlds’ End, chapter 5, page 20, full page (© DC Comics).

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(69). He points out that often text balloons are treated as superimposed over a panel, whereas actually they could just as easily be understood as existing behind it: a hollowed-out image revealing the text/page behind (69). A similar notion informs his analysis of inset panels, where he argues that “the inset translated a relationship of the type meanwhile, when the traditional intericonic void is generally equivalent to a then” (89). This again seems a question of depth, similar to that identified using text balloons. Groensteen argues that the inset implies a notion of “meanwhile,” in contrast to the “then” which the “intericonic void” (gutter) creates. A third spatial dimension (depth) is being used to indicate that these elements of the story take place “at the same time” or should be merged: in this instance the narrated tale giving way to dialogic immediacy, rather than following subsequently to it. We plunge into the story, accessing this narrative level directly. I would like to propose that here the iconic zones of text and image—and within these even the narrative boxes and speech balloons—exist at different levels of depth, in order for this dimension to help construct the story. Returning to figure 7: Hermas’s narration of Veltis’s tale initially begins at a summary level while the image shows her telling the story, and as it proceeds it gives way to the image in question (“And then she told us that when she was a girl she had broken a flask of preserving fluid…”). The subsequent shift to the dialogue that continues the tale is then presented in panels that are laid over/under these images. Interpreting layout this way means that we can understand the reading of comics as a process whereby we work our way into the story, experiencing it in a more immediate manner (via direct dialogue): a change in depth signals that we are going deeper into the story. The medium’s hybrid structure has a myriad of techniques at its disposal, enabling it to sustain different story layers without either narrative disruption (as seen in Potocki: 152) or a flattening of story layers to preserve the narrative flow (Potocki: 49). Its structure is able to sustain strong contradictions and interruptions—even a leap between layers of story for just a single panel, as demonstrated (also see Sandman #55, 1994: 19). The use of a different color or typeface may be a fairly simplistic method of enabling multiple narrative voices, but it is effective, particularly when we consider the inconstancies or complexities of its use (as Ian Hague notes in his [2012] discussion of Watchmen). However, within the layout of the page (or metapanel) the possibilities for positioning are much more exciting—such as the use of inset panels, the signifying possibilities of panel shape, size or color, or the opportunities for juxtaposition (whether by using adjacent panels or in the creation of patterning or syntagmatic reading possibilities). In his essay on The Saragossa Manuscript, Martin Schell comments that “rather than counting the levels of the story it is more useful to recognize

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points of closure where some of the inner levels resolve” (Schell 2002: 1). This point will be discussed further in Chapter 5 in terms of the active reader-asrevenant. Hidden stories in Worlds’ End can be identified in this way—for example Charlene Mooney’s story of her life, which ironically begins “I don’t have a goddamn story” (#56 1994: 5). Similarly, the story of the inn itself is implicit throughout the tale (Bender 1999: 178) as we are treated to varying (and sometimes contradictory) pictures of it—again in the “gaps” between the more obvious tales being told by the travelers. In this sense content echoes structure (or, put another way, semantics follows syntax) as we identify gaps/gutters that are far from empty and without import. The most important implication of these hidden stories is comparable with our discovery, confirmed only in the final two pages of Worlds’ End, that what we are reading is in fact Brant’s telling of his story to a barmaid (thus creating level II of the structure). In this sense he can be paralleled with Alfonso in The Saragossa Manuscript as a character who has transcended his status to become an author: Brant (who does not tell a tale at the inn) has evolved from a level II character to a level I. The trade paperback form allows this realization to become the climax of its story arc, adding a further frame to the inn’s events and thereby reinforcing their credibility (referencing gothic authenticity as in The Castle of Otranto). The effect of introducing this new status of Brant’s only after the tale is over is to create another story level within the trade paperback. Although at the beginning of Worlds’ End the narrative is obviously his, it is swiftly discarded in favor of dialogic immediacy when Brant first arrives at the inn. Only when we discover that his narrative is still ongoing and that he is, in fact, telling this story to another character (the barmaid), can we identify the main narrative as intradiegetic (and more accurately as autodiegetic, as Brant is the main protagonist of this encompassing story arc). The overall structure of the Worlds’ End trade paperback is thereby revealed as being identical to that of the individual tales (all of which are told by an autodiegetic narrator and also use a transition from narrated panels to immersion in dialogue). This deduction is only made possible by the trade paperback form, currently rising to dominance in British-American comics (Round 2010) and so contemporary comics have become yet more gothic in format and excess. The reader’s position changes with our awareness of this extra level of story: we move from being situated unwittingly inside the text (alongside the barmaid to whom Brant is speaking) to outside, again evoking Castricano’s notion of cryptomimesis. Extratextual markers in gothic literature traditionally serve a similar function, to immerse the reader in the world of the text, as also seen in Watchmen’s use of textual addendums. The fluctuating position of the reader can be perceived here too, for example when reading the “Tales of the

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Black Freighter” sections (a hypodiegetic tale: a comic read by a character within Watchmen). As shown by the excess of diegetic levels within Worlds’ End, embedded narrative structures found in traditional and postmodern gothic texts have parallels in the competing story arcs made visible by the various forms of comics. Each individual comic book’s plot is in turn part of a wider-reaching storyline (generally 4 to 8 issues long) whose conclusion marks the end of another trade paperback collection. These collections themselves, of course, are also sections of the ongoing story as a whole. By contrast, the graphic novel form (as a single, lengthier comic book) stands alone. In this way the medium of comics draws attention to narrative possibilities that, to date, have been best illustrated by the experimentations and extratextual motifs of gothic literature.

Conclusion If “postmodern art is not so much ambiguous as it is doubled and contradictory” (Hutcheon 1988: 87), then comic-book art is postmodern and gothic in the extreme as it denies notions of realism and the notion of the original via its overt status as a reproduction. I therefore suggest that pathological excess and gothic performativity are apparent in the multiple and mobile perspectives present within comics. In addition, the gaze assigned to the reader carries ideological implications in terms of its affect. The literal pictorial view assigned by the panel (which can be an intradiegetic/embodied character view) is frequently juxtaposed against contrasting elements such as an extradiegetic or disembodied narrative voice, or constant shifts in visual perspective. Comics contain an excess of style (color, line, emanata), an excess of perspective (embodied or disembodied), an excess of diegesis (that is frequently disguised or otherwise hidden), and a doubling of meaning (achieved by the relationship between visual and verbal elements within a single performative signifier): creating a gothic affect that problematizes notions of authenticity, reality and sight.

5. Revenant Readers, the Crypt and the Archive “Time is the only constant. For the living it never stops… For the dead it doesn’t matter…” “And for the undead?” “For the undead, time is a joke to be laughed at!”—American Vampire

Like the undead, comics readers have access to all times within the text. While reading, they may see the page as a whole, and within it the current panel, as well as the previous and subsequent ones, as discussed in Chapter 3. But as well as negotiating the haunted page and responding to its architecture, comics readers also become partial-authors: as the medium demands that the “gaps” between panels are filled in order for the narrative to progress. The gutter between panels contains events that are not shown yet are fully apparent to readers of the story and in this sense can be redefined as the crypt. It exists in a state of temporal disruption, as its contents cannot be realized until we have moved past it. This chapter will use Jacques Derrida’s definition of the crypt and Michel Foucault’s notion of the archive to consider the spectral activity of the reader as a “ghost in the gutter.” It will draw on comics theory including the formal studies of Thierry Groensteen and Scott McCloud, and on narrative theory from critics such as Wolfgang Iser and Jodey Castricano.

Background Narrative literary theory today takes greater account of the reader than ever before. The emergence of reader response theory in key texts from Louise Rosenblatt (1938) and Wolfgang Iser (1978) sparked a train of critical thought that stresses the importance of the reader: a notion integral to comics where the reader must actively participate in order to create a linear, coherent nar96

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rative from the static, fragmented page. Both Rosenblatt and Iser argue that the text is little more than marks on a page, like a road map, and the story (or journey) cannot exist until it is experienced by a reader. Iser’s theory of aesthetic response postulates reading as an experience that arises from a dialectic made up of reader, text and their interaction. Since the text situates the reader in multiple and variable positions, reading is not a purely subjective experience and an implied reader can be theorized. In this, Iser follows other critics: Michael Riffaterre (1966) postulates a “superreader” (a palimpsest of available responses to a text) in his early work; Stanley Fish (1982) focuses his audience analysis on “interpretative communities” and the “informed reader.” This analysis will use the term “reader” similarly: not as a real or individual reader, but as a constructed figure that nonetheless may bring individual interpretation and idiosyncratic knowledge to bear on their experience of the text, as the freedom of reading comics allows. Theories such as Roland Barthes’s death of the author (1967) and Michel Foucault’s author function (1969) illuminate the constructed nature of romantic authorship1 and bestow new credibility on more deviant forms of writing while sustaining the focus on the reader. The discursive functions of literature have also been discussed by other critics, such as Edward Said’s view of the text as a power struggle (Said 1979, 178). The comics medium demands that the reader work with the creators during the process of reading, for example as regards interpretation, reading direction and so forth. Reading panel sequences within a comic also involves many extratextual, intertextual and intratextual interpretative processes. Although the medium has ways of emphasizing its point such as repetition, lengthened or borderless panels, inset panels, or “bleeds” (where a panel runs off the edge of a page or into another), interpretative issues such as timing are generally at the mercy of the reader’s internal collaboration. As noted in Chapter 3, the reader ascribes time to a given sequence based on their familiarity with the events shown (extratextual knowledge): a pause in a conversation, for example, will commonly be perceived as a few seconds. However, since most readers have never been involved in many of the dramatic situations found in comic books they can also use intertextual knowledge drawn from movies, books and similar to provide the necessary sense of timing and draw out reading, along with intratextual knowledge (i.e., that taken from within the comic book/series). In this way the reader becomes a contributory author: using their own assumptions and experiences to produce an individual story from the comics narrative, a process which exemplifies reader response theory. The text is literally an event created by the efforts of both reader and writer in collaboration, using the material product. Different readers with different knowledge levels (and particularly those reading at different times, in different locations) will

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bring different interpretations to bear on the text. As well as being affected by the strategies discussed in the previous two chapters, these interpretations are also limited by the discourses surrounding the act of reading and the ideologies of the individual reader. The reader thus becomes an interpellated subject (as the comic addresses them in a certain way, attempting to elicit a particular reaction to characters, themes, events and so forth). Additionally however, Michel Foucault (1975) argues against assumptions that the individual-assubject can be self-governing and so the reader’s interpretation will be further limited by the ideologies and discourses that surround them. Foucault’s analysis of “The Statement and the Archive” demonstrates that the statement is not a closed bearer of meaning but “an incomplete, fragmented figure” (1972: 125). Description or analysis of a group of statements (in this instance, a text) does not “uncover” their meaning or foundation but establishes it through what he names a “positivity” that is a quality of the surrounding discourse(s). The positivity extends beyond individual oeuvres, books or texts and thus has unity; it is defined by Foucault as “play[ing] the role of what might be called a historical a priori […] a condition of reality for statements” (127).2 Meaning thus becomes “articulated in accordance with historical a prioris, thus characterized by different types of positivity, and divided up by distinct discursive formations” (128). Foucault names these systems of statements the “archive” which is not the sum of all the texts and documents of a culture, but rather the reason for diversity within its competing texts and interpretations. It is not a collection of statements, but that which defines their mode and which is the system under which they function: Beneath the language (langue) that defines the system of constructing possible sentences, and the corpus that passively collects the words that are spoken, the archive defines a particular level: that of a practice that causes a multiplicity of statements to emerge as so many regular events, as so many things to be dealt with and manipulated. It does not have the weight of tradition; and it does not constitute the library of all libraries, outside time and place; nor is it the welcoming oblivion that opens up to all new speech the operational field of its freedom; between tradition and oblivion, it reveals the rules of a practice that enables statements both to survive and to undergo regular modification. It is the general system of the formation and transformation of statements [Foucault 1972: 130].

I propose to apply this concept to the use made of the gutter in comics. Scott McCloud famously identifies the involvement of the reader here using the dramatic (and gothic) example of an axe murder. He states: “I may have drawn an axe being raised in this example, but I’m not the one who let it drop or decided how hard the blow, or who screamed, or why. That, dear reader, was your special crime, each of you committing it in your own style” (1993: 68). McCloud’s approach suggests we connect the series of panels by filling in

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the gutters using our own logic and experiences, a technique he calls “closure,” and he further states that each reader fills in the gaps in their own style— although similar, no two can ever be identical. The gutter has been extensively analyzed by comics theorists (Uhlig 2013; Low 2012; Barnes 2009; Miller 2007). Uhlig (2013) states that “according to Wolfgang Iser, the gap is an integral part of all fictional narrative as it ‘is always a matter of leaving openings to draw readers on’ (Postema 2011: 5). This implies that gaps are responsible for engaging the reader, who must produce inferences to construct meaning in a narrative.” For Uhlig, the gutter can therefore be viewed as a form of direct address or invitation to a ghostly reader not-yetarrived, which invites them to insert their interpretations under Foucault’s system of the archive. However, the gutter’s temporal situation is more dubious than simply inviting interpretation from readers of different times and cultures. Scott McCloud initially argues that “closure” takes place in the space between panels, and some academics have continued to follow this perspective. Mila Bongco writes: “In sequential art, although nothing is provided either textually or graphically, experience tells us as readers that something must be there and so we make the leap ourselves from one panel to the other. We provide the intervening actions and do this no matter how long or large the interval is between one panel and the next” (2000: 65, my emphasis). Later critics have engaged in more complicated temporal analysis. Thierry Groensteen (2007: 113) writes that “the gutter (provisionally) cancels the already read panel in order to allow the next panel to exist in its own right, in terms of a complete and compact form.” Duncan and Smith (2009: 164) say similar, arguing that: “The process of incorporation and the flow of the narrative in the reader’s imagination is facilitated by repetition and change from panel to panel.” Neil Cohn (2010: 135) more directly refutes McCloud’s claim that the narrative action of closure takes place within the gutter, observing that “the gap cannot be filled unless it has already been passed over, making closure an additive inference that occurs at panels, not between them.” Sara Witty (2010: 8) attempts to reconcile these critical approaches and argues for a dual evaluation, claiming that the gutter “is filled by the reader’s act of closure, not only applying the signs of one panel to the next, but applying them to the space of the gutter itself.” However, by using McCloud’s (1993: 70–74) six types of panel transition to define the gutter activity, Witty’s argument is necessarily focused on the shown events of panels. Returning to more general narrative theory, Wolfgang Iser also specifically identifies the reading experience as a process of gap-filling, stating that “every moment of reading is a dialectic of protension [looking forward] and retension [looking backward]” (1980: 112). This process is what Groensteen and Cohn have noted in their analysis of the activity that takes place in the gutters. Iser

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comments that “the incorporation of the new requires a reformation of the old” (159) and this is what occurs during the reading process as the reader passes through the gutter and on to the next panel. The “blank” of the gutter/crypt is not a given ontological gap, but is filled with projections that are then either realized or cancelled out. “The structured blanks of the text stimulate the purpose of ideation to be performed by the reader on terms set by the text” (169). Reading thereby becomes “an active process of composition” (49); of “conflict and solution” that is “both constituted and performed within” the reader, rather than unfolding before their eyes as a spectacle (47). However, the gutter itself is (in aesthetic terms) nothing more than a blank border . Its “space” (as defined by Witty) is conceptual rather than actual. As such, and rather than viewing the reader activity here as a synthesis of two adjacent panels, I redefine the events of the gutter as more properly belonging to the Derridean crypt: a sealed space that is the “interior” of each panel. “As both the hiding of a secret and the hiding of that hiding, the crypt cannot simply take its place in the topography it preserves” (Wigley 1995: 144) and as such it is not the white space of the gutter that appears on the surface of the page. Rather than unshown events being present here, they are contained within the “crypt” or interior of each panel: secret and hidden, and thus can only be realized retrospectively. As Wigley (1995: 145) continues: “the division of a space by a wall is disturbed by the internal fracturing of the walls by the crypt. The crypt organizes the space in which it can never simply be placed, sustaining the very topography it fractures.” Considering the reader’s activity in “crypting” the unshown content of the page as subject to Foucault’s concepts of discourse and positivity is consistent with Witty’s argument, allowing the gutter/crypt to become a space in which Foucault’s archive operates. This chapter will therefore approach the activity of the reader (here named a revenant) in this manner, using gothic tropes to expose the interpretative processes they bring to bear on both the shown and unshown content of the page.

The Gutter-as-Crypt In “Fors,” Derrida uses the metaphor of the crypt, as a sealed, secret place, to define the internal space where the Wolf Man keeps his repressed, encrypted memories and fantasies. He defines it as “a safe: sealed, and thus internal to itself ” (1977: xiv), saying that its contents are known but never seen. Derrida draws on the physical properties and connotations of the literal crypt (sepulcher, tomb, grave) and also uses the word as a verb (to crypt: to manipulate a secret code). Derrida thus also names the crypt an “artificial unconscious” as its contents are created as a cipher and written on its wall only through this

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process. It is a space within the self that codifies through fracture, holding its contents secret, as “the living dead” (that is, repressed thoughts that in the case of the Wolf Man appeared in the form of dreams). Jodey Castricano uses Derrida’s ideas to claim that narrative is an encrypting process, and argues for a narratology focused on decoding, decomposition and the acknowledgement of multiple textual voices and meanings. This statement seems applicable to the gaps on the comics page, where the events of the gutter/crypt are not shown yet undeniably present in the diegesis. A process of “crypting” takes place that realizes the contents of the gutter/crypt as the reader views the next panel. They can only deduce elements such as character movements, temporal shifts and so forth by looking at the next panel. Through the process of recognizing its contents, they produce the content of the gutter (“crypting”). I thus define the gutter/crypt as the interior of this panel (whose shown content is its exterior). Since reader knowledge, discourse and positivity all structure their act of reading, the process is indeed, as McCloud claims, specific to each individual reader, and, in accordance with Groensteen and Cohn, takes place retrospectively. Castricano claims that: In terms of textual production, cryptomimesis writes the other “even if they do not exist, even if they are no longer, even if they are not yet.” And what makes possible the coming of the other in a work is, as cryptomimesis demonstrates, always a question of haunting, which is both a legacy and a promise to come [Castricano 2001: 134].

The gutter/crypt exists in this dual state of “legacy and promise” (looking forward and backward), with its contents only realizable retrospectively by a reader who has not yet arrived. During the act of reading, Iser argues that the “blanks” in the text “give[s] rise to the reader’s projections” which must be constantly readjusted as he moves forward: “the structured blanks of the text stimulate the process of ideation to be performed by the reader on terms set by the text” (1980: 167). “The incorporation of the new requires a re-formation of the old” (159) and so the gutter/crypt is a “blank” that can only be realized retrospectively. It is the interior of the next panel: the reader must move between each panel’s outside and its inside to identify what has gone before. Castricano’s model also allows for this temporal disturbance, for example when she says: “My speculations lead me to consider that in both the so-called Gothic and Derrida’s work, what is at stake is the performance of a ghostly inheritance and a debt” (Castricano 2001: 9). The comics reader inherits the content of the previous panel. They pass over the gutter/crypt, gaining a debt of interpretation once they view the subsequent panel (in order for the diegesis to make sense to them). In more general gothic terms, this could be considered an inheritance and a legacy. Castricano continues: “The crypt, therefore, is

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not to be thought of merely as a metaphor for the unconscious, ‘hidden, secret, underground, [or] latent’ nor as a ‘literal meaning’ (‘Fors’ xiii), but rather as a term referring to a writing practice that takes into account a secret, a tomb, a burial, and a return—aspects of what Derrida calls ‘metaphoricity itself.’” (Castricano 2001: 29) The terms “burial” and “return” again seem to reflect the temporal situation of the gutter. The gutter/crypt is most frequently the site of temporal exclusion, then, as the narrative proceeds from one moment to the next, or makes a leap across diegetic time. For example, in Preacher: Gone to Texas (see figure 8) the deaths of Jesse’s congregation take place between panels: we proceed directly from a panel where his (unseen) congregation are commenting on his behavior (“Fuck’s up with the Rever’nd?” “Fuck’s he trynna say ?”) to one where they are already dead: depicted as skeletons with the flesh burnt off their bones (32–33). This is a dramatic example of what generally occurs in the gutter/ crypt. The (exterior) image of burning corpses contains within its interior (the crypt) the moment of their inflammation, which remains unshown but nonetheless apparent. As Derrida says: “The crypt is thus not a natural place [lieu], but the striking history of an artifice, an architecture, an artifact: of a place comprehended within another but rigorously separate from it, isolated from general space by partitions, an enclosure, an enclave” (xiv). As an interior to the artificial exterior of the panel (and thus an “artificial unconscious”) the panel directs interpretation by interpellating the reader. We thus comprehend the events of the crypt within it, as past and unseen. The processes of Foucault’s archive also operate here by allowing multiple readings to co-exist, for example as readers bring different ideologies to bear. In terms of figure 8 this might include such elements as the level of suffering experienced by the congregation, or the explanatory reasoning they attach to it (a religious reader, say, might find this scene more problematic than an atheist; or might assume divine intervention). The text’s positivity (as an irreverent piece of pop culture) certainly limits the possible interpretations, as does the interpellation of the reader, since Preacher’s narrative consistently debunks grand narratives such as religion. However, there are no formal limits in place and readers of a different persuasion, or from a different culture, or with no knowledge of the comic or its author function might have very different expectations of its events. Until further explanation is given by the comic, whatever interpretative strand the reader has decided upon will feed forward into their interpretation of subsequent gutters. The reading of the comic thereby becomes an enactment of the archive that allows for different responses structured by a priori knowledge and the text’s positivity and surrounding discourse. Preacher invites irreverent, atheist, subversive readings with variety possible within them as each new discovery leads to a revaluation of previous assumptions.

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Figure 8. The gutter/crypt/archive, by Garth Ennis and Steve Dillon, Preacher: Gone to Texas, pages 32-33, extracts (© Garth Ennis and Steve Dillon. Courtesy of DC Comics).

Roger Whitson (2006) uses Lacanian psychology to argue that comics situate unpresentable events in the gutters, and Alan Moore and Eddie Campbell make devastating use of this effect in chapter ten of From Hell, which shows the death and mutilation of Marie Kelly, drawn out over thirty pages. Although the reader may think they are merely watching the progress of Gull’s cuts, a panel at a time, the static nature of the artwork means that the motions (and therefore the cuts) occur between panels, as the unshown crypt of each

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new image, and are, in fact, our own. In a discussion of The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, Laura Hilton (2011) considers the use of invisibility in Edward Hyde’s torture, rape and murder of Hawley Griffin, the Invisible Man, which takes place over six pages. Hilton argues that the scene is especially effective as it never shows Griffin’s body but instead only indicates his distress and pain verbally, which “allows each reader to independently imagine the horrific image [of Griffin’s body]” (2011: 205–6). The gutter/crypt can also be the site of spatial exclusion, for example of events too graphic to be shown on the page. Jim Aparo and Jim Starlin’s Death in the Family (1988–89) famously (and controversially) shows the death of Jason Todd, the second Robin, who is beaten to death by the Joker with a crowbar. Rather than electing to have the blows take place between panels, Aparo and Starlin instead show the downstroke of the Joker’s crowbar in each panel, with the blow disguised by an “effect” indicating the impact and Robin’s body excluded spatially from the panel (see figure 3 from Chapter 3). Sandman #6 (“24 Hours”) makes use of a similar device, following the tone of both the above examples as it deals with the torture and deaths of a group of people in a diner. The blurred motion lines indicate that we are shown Judy putting out her own eyes with kitchen skewers as part of the second panel in this sequence, but her eyes themselves are spatially excluded from both panel two and panel

Figure 9. Judy, by Neil Gaiman, Mike Dringenberg, Malcolm Jones III, Sandman #6 (“24 Hours”), Sandman: Preludes and Nocturnes, page 21, extract (© DC Comics).

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three (see figure 9). The gutter/crypt here becomes black, making a further connection with her lack of sight. Sandman #6 frequently manipulates its backgrounds and gutters in this type of way: once Doctor Dee’s spell begins, these become filled with abstract images such as clocks, sheep and Dee himself. The gutter/crypt is thus an “absent space” that nonetheless has representational capability in terms of both space and time. As such it can be considered as an example of the “negative capability” of the comics medium. It can also, in sophisticated examples, be used as both simultaneously: for example Hellblazer #3 (Delano et al., 1992 [1988]) brings both spatial and temporal exclu-

Figure 10. Death in the crypt, by Jamie Delano, John Ridgway, Alfredo Alcala, Hellblazer: Original Sins, chapter 3, page 10, extract (© DC Comics).

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sion together (see figure 10). John Constantine appears in a borderless panel that nonetheless contains a gutter on its right-hand side where the page ends, from which come the noise “RAOOOWK” and the dialogue “Oh Rod, please … you beast, you’ve drunk it all!” “Heheheh!”). Constantine then discovers the body of a dead cat in the next panel. Here, the gutter/crypt has simultaneously operated as both a site of spatial exclusion (as the sounds accompanying its death and the killers’ comments are shown within the panel) and temporal exclusion (as Constantine must continue following the cat’s killers before stumbling over its body in the next panel). As such, “not showing” is possible: 1. within the panel (for example where events are obscured by effects or emanata or other devices; 2. outside the panel’s temporal scope (when the moment of an event is buried in the gutter/crypt); and 3. outside the panel’s spatial scope (when the location of an event is buried in the gutter/crypt). Multiple interpretations of unshown events exist, structured by Foucault’s system of the archive, which relies upon: 1. the reader’s knowledge; 2. the text’s positivity; and 3. the surrounding discourse(s).

Addressing the Revenant Reader In interpreting the actions of the gutter/crypt, the reader must move forward and backward in storytime, like a specter or ghost—an applicable term if we consider the etymology of “specter” and “spectator” as from specere (to look). Speaking of cryptomimetic writing, Castricano says: The effect is a complex and paradoxical textual structure that extends an invitation to the reader to learn how to countersign. While that invitation might be understood as learning to write the way the Wolf Man spoke, it can also be understood in terms of solicitation and provocation. This is why, according to Derrida, readingwriting is “something one can never do alone,” because the structure of the crypt always implies an other, a revenant that is yet to come [Castricano 2001: 51].

If the reader is this “Other” or “revenant” then the serialization of comics is a further relevant factor in this regard. Alongside interpreting the diegesis, the reader also has an active role in putting together the paratextual material of the comic. This is exploited by titles such as Alan Moore and Kevin O’Neill’s

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The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (Titan Books, 1999–present) which includes Victorian-style adverts, and classic texts such as Watchmen which include extracts from (fictional) biographies, other comics, news stories, psychiatric evaluation files and so forth as part of its diegesis. Even in more standard monthlies, a paratextual dialogue is created (historically this occurred through letters pages and so forth, a more up-to-date equivalent would be via on online forums or Twitter), and creators write and publish titles whose narratives frequently look forward to both the next issue and their reception by the reading community. The use of cliffhangers may therefore also fall under this analysis of the reader’s ghostly presence. Iser comments that serialized storytelling requires a “focal point of interests” for the implied reader, and that the cliffhanger (or “cut”) thereby encourages greater participation: “the interruption and constant prolongation of tension is the basic function of the cut” (191). This effect is enhanced in comics by the presence of the gutter/crypt, which creates a series of little “cuts” across the page, as well as ones of greater significance at the end of every page and double page, and one of great significance at the end of a monthly issue. In such instances, the cut often contains an awareness of its own site of significance, for example as can be seen in Sandman #55 (“Cerements”) where suspense is used in the bottom right-hand panel (a significant “place” according to Groensteen) of two subsequent pages. First the embedded story told by Petrefax is cut short by an interruption as he narrates: “…but I only learned more when I was raised from prentice to journeyman, and swore on the Bagulkal that I would tell—” (Gaiman 1994: 23). Suspense is then used again in the last panel of the very next page, which is the final one of this issue, when in response to Brant’s demand that someone must have “a better explanation” as to why they are all trapped in the inn, the owner cryptically replies “I do” (24). The comic then abruptly ends, doubling the effect of the cliffhangers by implicitly also addressing the reader with this affect and encouraging them to draw parallels between the various “levels” of narratives used in this comic’s nested structure (which will ultimately be further complicated, as noted in the previous chapter) by using an identical narrative technique of suspense to end both stories. Moments of explicit direct address (use of second-person) also occur and, as linguistic terms rather than being defined in relation to the diegesis, can be held distinct from the use of embodied visual perspective that I discuss in Chapter 4. Sandman #7 (“Sound and Fury”) opens with a direct verbal address to the reader (i.e., second-person narration): “Listen: You can hear the screaming” (#7, Gaiman 1991: 1) and ends with a similar statement (“The only noise is the gentle, even cadence of people asleep. In, out, in, out. Listen. You can hear it” [24]). Jamie Delano and David Lloyd’s Hellblazer spin-off The Hor-

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rorist (1995–96) also uses direct address to open both its volumes (“You’re walking alone in a cold world—not here, or there, but somewhere in between. A stranger, both alien threat and exotic promise. You’re asking for it, really” and “So, how about you? You got the cold there, too?” (1995: 1; 1996: 2). These examples merge the reader with a character in the comic, problematizing narrative identity through doubling. The technique is also used at the end of Sandman where the reader is given the embodied visual perspective of the character Daniel (including sight of his/our hand opening a door) while the (disembodied) narrative addresses us directly in our capacity as revenant reader: “And then, fighting to stay awake, wishing it would go on forever, sure that once the dream was over, it would never come back, … you woke up” (#72, Gaiman et al. 1997). As the end of the main narrative arc of Sandman (the final three issues are stand-alone stories focusing on peripheral characters) these words have metafictional significance. The multiple and mobile perspectives discussed in Chapter 4 are thereby set against the strongly contrasting notion of our own identity as observer, as controlling devices (such as direct address, the narrative voice or switches in visual perspective) within the text remind us. Both Fredric Jameson and Slavoj Žižek discuss the phenomenon of the gothic as a transgenerational haunting: “that manifestation of the voices of one generation in the unconscious of another” (cited in Castricano 2001: 16). The disruption of the boundary between subject and object seems particularly gothic as it situates the reader as a ghost moving through the text, and in breaking down these borders can even be defined as abject.

Textual Decomposition The final role the ghostly reader performs is to interpret the shown content of the page, using extratextual, intertextual, paratextual or intratextual information. As well as the usage of real-life knowledge already discussed, parodies and pastiches of other texts frequently appear in either word or image, and (as these are often not overtly stated) can therefore be defined as echoes that the reader must identify and interpret. These are particularly apparent at points where the reader knows more than the characters, and may lead to interplay between word and picture, as discussed in Chapter 4. Castricano comments that “the crypt serves as a de/compositional principle predicated upon detachment, dissolving, disintegration” and goes on to discuss Abraham and Torok’s reading of the Wolf Man’s famous dreams, in which they demonstrate the workings of citation by tracing how the Russian

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phrase “It was night” (“notchiu”) becomes the homophonically similar “not you” (Abraham and Torok 1986: 34). She argues that this “demonstrates how the inner workings of the crypt are predicated upon the ear as well as the mouth…” (Castricano 2001: 33–4) and I would claim that comics exploit a similar tendency: the reader must use a process of decomposition in order to recognize echoes of two different types: reflecting and absorbing. Firstly there are reflecting echoes. These fall into three sub-categories. I have already discussed the intratextual echoes of word and image that come from within the comic book (as examples of haunting, Chapter 3), which Thierry Groensteen defines as the processes of braiding that create “iconic solidarity” across the comic as-a-whole. Paratextual echoes are also noted in Chapter 3 as the reader uses the architecture of the page to create the diegesis. However, intertextual echoes may also be drawn from other (fictional) texts outside the diegesis and take place in either word or image. For example, the concluding pages of Sandman #7 (“Sound and Fury”) firstly show Dream in a Technicolor fantasy world telling Doctor Dee he is going to “take you home,” before the characters return to Arkham Asylum where they are greeted by Jonathan Crane (the Scarecrow, Batman) in full regalia, before Dee finally concludes “There’s no place like home” (#7, Gaiman et al. 1991: 20–21). Dee’s use of Dream’s ruby in this comic may also be a more subtle nod to Dorothy’s ruby slippers and so, when taken together, echoes of L. Frank Baum’s The Wizard of Oz inform this text. Reflecting echoes can also be achieved stylistically, for example in “Moving In” (Sandman #11, Gaiman et al. 1990) where Jed’s dream sequences pay homage to the style (both visual and verbal) of Winsor McCay’s Little Nemo in Slumberland. Finally, real-life (extratextual) events may be echoed in the comic, for example the London riots depicted in Hellblazer: Rake at the Gates of Hell (Ennis and Dillon 2003). Reflecting echoes could be said to be examples of detachment (in the sense that Castricano uses the term), where quotations or images are taken from another source and used to give an extra interpretative level to the story. Secondly, there are echoes that take the form of acts of absorption and overwriting. Again, these may relate to either earlier events in or about the comic (intratextual and paratextual); fictional texts (intertextual); or events/ people in the real world (extratextual). For example, “Preacher Special: The Good Old Boys” offers an alternate (if satirical) perspective on the characters Jody and T.C., overwriting their representation as straight villains in the previous collected volumes. Likewise, in Dixie Fried Arseface tells his story in which Jesse, Tulip and Cassidy are the villains, complete with an image of them as degenerates, in which Jesse is burning an American flag and Cassidy wears an “I heart Libya” t-shirt (Ennis 1998a: 112). Intertextual absorption is also possible, where external fictional narratives

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can be absorbed into the comic’s diegesis, a process which Sandman (and before it, Alan Moore’s Marvelman/Miracleman) exemplifies. Moore’s revival of Mick Moran hinged on the discovery that the original 1970s Marvelman adventures were in fact deliberate hallucinations created by Dr. Gargunza while Moran and his companions languished in a government laboratory. In Sandman Gaiman follows a similar strategy by writing other comics titles and characters into his comic. The golden-age Sandman superhero is subsumed into his fiction, as he explains his activities as a consequence of the capture of Dream: “Wesley Dodd’s nightmares have stopped since he started going out at night” (#1, Gaiman et al. 1991: 18). Similarly, The Dreaming (where the Sandman resides) is populated by characters such as the storytellers Cain and Abel, keepers of mysteries and secrets respectively—and original hosts of the DC horror comics House of Mystery and House of Secrets into the 1970s—thus implying that these comics were “told” from The Dreaming. The third type of echo absorption (extratextual) relates to real world events and characters, and can be seen in various examples from Hellblazer, where it is often used to make a political point: for example one vampire’s intention to pop over to “Buck House” and “take a pint out of Big Ears [Prince Charles]” (Ennis and Dillon 1998b: 16). His companion dissuades him, claiming that “I’m told he’s been utterly insane since the Calibraxis possession. They keep him in a rubber room and won’t let him out without enough valium in him to floor a whale” (Ennis 1998b: 16). The dialectic between creator implication and reader inference creates both reflecting and absorbing echoes of this type—they rely upon reader knowledge. In this way the reading of comics becomes truly individual and truly gothic, as per Sanna’s (2008) definition of “Gothic as a discursive site which absorbs and infiltrates” which draws on the work of Robert Mighall. These echoes are examples of dissolving and disintegration, as the comic in question overwrites other texts or events: redefining what we had been believed up until that point. It effectively performs the act of an (inauthentic) metanarrative, drawing in and subsuming other texts and genres in a gothic process. Such echoes are seldom made explicit but those readers who recognize them are practicing a form of decomposition as they deconstruct the narrative/ reconstruct the story by identifying and separating out such influences and resonances.

Conclusion In “The Death of the Author” Barthes argues that the creation of the text takes place in the “here and now.” Castricano claims this means that:

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…the reader also becomes the writer which is, again, another function of writing. Thus, in Derrida’s terms, the ear of the other and the crypt are performatives: textual structures (of desire) that also bring forward the uncanniness implicit in Barthes’ propositions in that they bring into the picture the performativity of mourning and haunting. To crypt, therefore, implies translation, the invention of a text that is nevertheless tied to another which is living on as a condition of that invention [Castricano 2001: 50].

The processes used by the comics reader seem spectral and cryptographic in their nature. They rely upon a use of retrospective valuation to deduce the unseen content of the page which is hidden in the gutter/crypt: a sealed space that exists as the interior of each panel in both spatial and temporal terms. The reader is invited to occupy specific positions and their interpretative acts demonstrate the processes of Foucault’s archive. This ghostly reader-as-author is further brought into the text through dialogic means such as the invitation of paratextual material and cliffhangers, as well as via direct address that can, for example, double their identity with that of a character within the story. Finally, the level of extratextual, intertextual, paratextual and intratextual interpretation required demands that the revenant reader must decompose the haunted narrative in order to recognize echoes (that may be either reflecting or absorbing). These processes make the act of reading in comics truly gothic.

Retrospective: Putting the Monster Together Looking Backwards In this section I have proposed that, rather than separating and classifying the compositional elements of the panel or page, we should instead reflect on its strategies to build a holistic approach to comics analysis. My gothic model thereby suggests that the reader should consider the comic using the following terms: the presence of haunting; the excess and use of (dis)embodied perspectives; and the role of the revenant reader in the gutter/crypt/archive. This analytic approach to the formal layout of the comics page allows consideration of the structural and formal elements that convey and complement the manifest content of the comics narrative (i.e. the diegetic story). Their use and interactions with each other create a spectral framing that realizes Iser’s act of reading through the demands they make on the reader. It is this “productive matrix which enables the text to be meaningful in a variety of different contexts” (Iser 1980: 231). Identifying the productive matrix of an individual comic book gives a picture of its gestalt potential for meaning and so by using this to criticize the text (rather than reducing its processes to a more general system or taxonomy) we can approach it on its own terms and identify the ways in which it constructs meaning. The approach can be summarized as follows: Haunting and architecture: • Intratextual and paratextual echoes (of content or layout) at multiple embedded levels. • Intersections between ornamentation, function and scaffolding. • Mirroring and doubling (of content or layout). • Temporal disruption (repetition or flattening/stretching of time). • Use of depth (obscuration; indicating focus/asides/diegetic levels; use of backgrounds; transgression or removal of panel borders). 112

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Excess and embodiment: • Supportive or subversive relationship between panel contents that doubles meaning. • Excess of style (color, line, emanata, effects). • Excess of perspective (embodied or disembodied). • Multiple/hidden levels of diegesis. Ghostly reader: • Direct address to the reader or implicit invitations (cliffhangers, paratextual material). • Using the processes of the archive in crypting or decomposition, as follows: • Crypting: creating the unshown events in the gutter/crypt/archive, which can be: ❒ within the panel (obscured through emanata, effects, or false gutters); ❒ outside the panel’s temporal scope; ❒ outside the panel’s spatial scope. These unshown events are buried in the crypt (the interior of the panel) and contain the potential for multiple interpretations (via the archive). • Decomposition: interpretation using extratextual, paratextual, intertextual or intratextual information, to: ❒ interpret the shown content of the page; ❒ identify echoes relating to earlier events in the comic; about the comic; from other fictional texts; or events/people in the real world. These echoes may be reflecting (taken from another source and used faithfully to give an extra interpretative level to the story) or absorbing (taken from another source and revalued through acts of absorption and overwriting). These shown events contain the potential for multiple interpretations (via the archive) based on the reader’s knowledge and surrounding discourses. These strategies may not all be present in each comic, but a text’s tendency to use some (and not others) should be read as indicative of its potential for meaning and thereby they should form the basis of the critical approach we use to analyze it. The following case studies demonstrate this at the level of the page, the prequel, the individual comic book, and the series.

Case Study I: “The Game” House of Mystery #178 (Neal Adams, DC Comics, 1969) In “The Game,” Neal Adams makes use of the page’s architecture to create a sense of the uncanny. Angular panels are first used when protagonist Jamie, caught out in a storm, decides to shelter at “the old Unger House” which he “is not even supposed to go near,” and persist for the rest of the story (with the exception of the foot of page six where Jamie’s father is reasserting normality and a right-angled panel is used to reinforce this point). Haphazard and angular shapes feature in particular on the page where the two children begin playing the mysterious board game together. However, looking closely at a single page (shown at figure 11) reveals the ways in which Adams uses the gothic potential of the comics medium to create atmosphere and subtly indicate the central motifs of his story. Depth and layout are both used within the page architecture to indicate the bed that will be the central location and conjurer of the story’s uncanny content: the bed appears at the centre of the page and transgresses the panel borders above it. Its wooden post appears again at the bottom right of the page (a place of significance), where it is shaded so as to gleam, and again cuts across all three of the panel borders shown on this page. It is bigger than Jamie’s head in this instance and so size, position and depth are all used to draw attention. The page contains other examples of haunted architecture: its first panel shows Jamie out in the valley during a torrential storm. The branches of a tree are used to create ersatz panel borders but in fact this is a single panel in which Jamie is repeated four times in an example of haunting using the de Luca effect. Our perspective zooms in on his face during the course of these first three “panels,” which enhances affect by displaying his fear and panic. The thought bubbles are actually only assigned to one of these images (their emanata ties them all to the final picture of Jamie) but are used to direct the eye across these four different iterations of the character. 114

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Figure 11. The Game, by Neal Adams, House of Mystery #178 (© DC Comics).

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Perspective and excess are also used to create a feeling of unease, as in the central panel which uses giddying angles to create a sense of mirroring in the interior of the house; the floor slopes off towards us on a disconcerting plane and there are no interior walls. This makes the central image of the bed (supported by the strong vertical lines of its poles and the definite right-angles of its frame) even more effective. Perspective remains disembodied, which fits with the tone of the story—we are helplessly watching Jamie transgress one of horror’s oldest tropes (entering the “old” house he has been told to stay away from). Typography is used to emphasise his amazement (“WOWEE!”) as is language (the bed is introduced with his statement “Empty! No walls… Nothing except for… that!”). The bed thus becomes a nameless thing, further indicating its uncanny potential. The final panel has his face in extreme closeup, with emphasis on the eyes, perhaps encouraging the knowing reader to recall the centrality of this motif to pre–Code horror comics—we wonder what Jamie will see in the bed, and how it might damage him. Other than this the reader is not invited to do much here except watch—architecture and excess are instead the primary strategies used by Adams on this page to create and sustain a sense of uncanny helplessness.

Case Study II: “House of Secrets Promo,” House of Mystery #182 ( Joe Orlando, DC Comics, 1969) In “House of Secrets Promo” (figure 12), the strengths of the comics medium are used to add interest to the page in which Cain introduces new sister title House of Secrets. In terms of architecture, the page is mirrored vertically, with a single panel in the top and bottom rows, and a central motif of circular panels. The top row contains a bleed between the two “panels,” allowing for Cain to be repeated uncannily in the same space as he first addresses the reader and then turns to look out of the window. Panel borders are transgressed by both Cain and his two monstrous companions, whose feet invade the space of the second row. The switch to circular panels is both ornamental and functional: it draws attention to the middle row, the shown content of which (Abel’s house) is the subject of this page. The page, as a promo, gives a lot of information, and subversive relationships between word and image make up part of this excess, for example in the juxtaposition of Cain’s gargoyle with his unthreatening name (“Gregory”) and status as a “pet.” Cain’s final words are similarly subversive, working against the shown content of the page as he tells the reader that House of Secrets will “be on sale in August! Don’t buy it!” The circular panels at the center of the page are functional as well as ornamental, since they indicate that the reader is being assigned an embodied intradiegetic perspective: that is, the view through Cain’s binoculars. Existing alongside this shift of perspective (between disembodied and embodied) is the direct address of the reader in both word (“Well, well, well … you finally made it here. Come on over to this window…”) and image (the first and last panels in which Cain breaks the fourth wall to gaze straight at us). The strategies all work together to immerse the reader in the page and create an intriguing sense of the uncanny. 117

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Figure 12. House of Secrets Promo, by Joe Orlando, House of Mystery #182 (© DC Comics).

Case Study III: Prequel to iZombie #1 (Chris Roberson and Michael Allred, DC Vertigo, 2010) iZombie’s protagonist is Gwen Price, a zombie/gravedigger who can pass for human as long as she eats a brain every month to prevent her from losing her identity and memories, an act that also gives her access to the deceased’s memories. The opening seven pages of iZombie were included as a preview to the series in the Vertigo anthology House of Mystery Halloween Annual (2009). Gwen and her friends (ghost girl Ellie and wereterrier Scott) are trick-ortreating and interrupt a masked man about to torture a helpless male captive. I will describe the analysis page-by-page in order to demonstrate this process before summarizing in more analytical terms. iZombie opens with a yellow extradiegetic narrative box indicating we are in “Eugene, Oregon” and subsequent narration in contrasting purple boxes. The space/time dichotomy is summoned here since, while the first narration only tells us about place, the second narrative strand deals in time, telling us it is “Halloween, when all the ghouls and goblins come out to play.” While the use of two distinct colors indicates this is a different voice, probably belonging to an intradiegetic character, it remains disembodied (as it is unidentified). The narration then comments supportively on the first panel’s visual content, for example in the phrase “Some of the monsters stay home” which refers to the occupant of the house shown, indicating impending menace. The establishing shot of the street then gives way to smaller panels showing the house’s interior at the foot of page 1. Like the narration, visual perspective also remains disembodied throughout the first two pages, however the second page begins to disrupt the panel layout by using more acute angles as scalpels are revealed, building towards a dizzying bird-eye shot perspective for the final panel, which is wider than the 119

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rest, quite literally having a wider scope (and giving us more information). The disorientation caused by both doubles the effect of this page’s final panel, which reveals a captured chained man. The narration in this panel (“Between Halloween and a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, I’ll take the stick, thank you very much”) comments subversively on its contents, which show a long sharp metal rod being brandished by the house’s occupant, presumably with the intent of using it on his captive. This also references older horror comics’ injury to the eye motif for those readers with this extratextual knowledge. Page 3 then offers some shifts in perspective: panel 2 uses emotive background images and coloring, as well as a disembodied over-the-shoulder shot that nonetheless (in cinematic terms) aligns us with the potential victim, before panel 3 moves to the embodied point of view of a character’s hand pressing the doorbell. The central panel on this page offers a wide shot of the downstairs of the house, before the final row of three panels first uses spatial exclusion (showing the voices of the characters outside, who we assume may be the police: “Come on, open up!”), then embody the perspective of the house’s owner as he reaches for a mask, and then finally exploit the space of the page in a final cliffhanger as the door is opened (“Is there some … something I can do for you, off … off … officers?”) This bottom row thereby offers the reader the perspective of the potential murderer through all three devices: we are aligned with his assumption that the police are outside, just as we embody his visual point of view. The devices used on these first three pages build tension, disorientate the reader, and raise questions and expectations. Page 4 then refutes all these assumptions, being a splash page that reveals Gwen, Scott and Ellie (who are trick or treating) as the unwanted callers. It indicates that Gwen is our narrator (“if they think I’m putting on a mask, they’re nuts”) as the only unmasked character in this scene and this is reinforced by the use of color (her skin matches the narrative boxes). An extra level of irony is in fact present here in the form of a reflecting intertextual echo that refers to cult zombie film Shaun of the Dead and to the iZombie series as a whole. This is because Scott really is a werewolf and Ellie really is a ghost; so in fact Gwen (who is a zombie but here is dressed as Shaun) is actually the only one masking her identity. Perspective is then used again as Gwen breaks the fourth wall in panels 2 and 3 of page 5, as she says “Quit stalling. Make with the trickor-treat already”—statements that arguably the reader has been directing at the comic until this point in terms of its narrative debunking and slow reveal. The final panel of page 6 is shaped to resemble looking through the eyes of a mask or similar, with its black border reminiscent of a balaclava or costume; the upward-looking angle indicates the reader is most likely embodying the perspective of a nearby child in Halloween costume, looking at the trio. The remainder of the prequel gives us some exposition from Gwen on her job

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and her friends, and hints at (though does not explicitly state) her zombie status through her narration, which adds to her dialogue (“Oh, Ellie”) by conveying her simultaneous internal thoughts (“My friend the ghost-girl will believe anything”). Page 7 is the first time a “typical” Vertigo layout (of both vertical and horizontal symmetry) is used. The final wide panel of page 7 is a summary panel that seems outside the main diegesis as it shows the main characters from the first story arc (many of whom have not yet been introduced) in tableau. Given the Halloween context, which might mislead readers into thinking this is a diegetic scene of a selection of costumed characters, this arguably seems a hidden extradiegetic level. It is further enhanced by the use of color (red sky) and lightning/effects lines that frame Gwen, as well as perspective (since all the characters are breaking the fourth wall to look directly at the reader). The background emphasizes Gwen’s central position, and she stands in a stereotypical zombie pose, indicating the irony of the overall series. In summary: Haunting is not used extensively in the iZombie prequel, which is not terribly surprising given these are the opening pages of a series. Backgrounds (where present) are pure black and irregular panel shapes are used subtly (for example acute angles to indicate increased tension). Traditional tropes (for example the use of panel size and depth to indicate a switch to an interior or a closer focus on a scene) also feature. However, excess and embodiment are key to the narration of this prequel, which opens with anonymous narration and disembodied visual perspective; echoing its content which aims to raise suspense and questions to entice readers into the series. Switches to an embodied visual perspective are brief (occurring only in two single panels) where they are also employed to mislead the reader: again increasing suspense. Color and style are used to indicate emotional mood; and a hidden level of extradiegetic summary is apparent in the final panel. Finally, the revenant reader is engaged through the space of the page, as cliffhanger panels are positioned to raise tension further, and is never directly addressed. The majority of the narrated sentences begin with “I,” stressing iZombie’s titular focus on identity (knowing readers will also recognize an allusion to I…Vampire! that indicates a humanized monster). Reflecting echoes of other texts and the series-as-a-whole thus invite the reader to use intertextual knowledge to increase the sense of irony. Using this model thus reveals the ways in which the iZombie prequel uses the comics medium to enhance its creation of suspense and mystery, just as its manifest content raises questions to which it only offers partial answers. The textual strategies it uses also indicate this comic’s knowing awareness of its own ironies, which are also apparent from its title (that both flags up its subject matter and emphasizes personal agency) and its treatment of the zombie (both traditional as a brain-munching gravedigger, and non-traditional as heroine and individual).

Case Study IV: “Sleep of the Just,” Sandman #1 (Neil Gaiman, Sam Kieth and Mike Dringenberg, DC Comics, 1988) The first Sandman comic sets the scene for the events of the series, showing the capture and imprisonment of Morpheus by magician Roderick Burgess: the consequences of which will be the catalyst for the series’ plot. Burgess and his cult attempt to trap Death but instead capture Dream/Morpheus. They imprison him for over seventy years (causing a bout of “sleeping sickness” across the world) before he finally escapes and revenges himself on Burgess’s son with a nightmare of eternal waking. Sandman #1 signals its gothic content from the opening page, which contains standard motifs of gargoyles, a creepy isolated mansion (complete with very British servant who leaves the door on the chain, opening it just a crack with a “Good afternoon, sir”), and a disembodied narration in a parchment-style box that indicates only date (“June 6th, 1916”) and location (“Wych Cross, England”). These elements imply this story will be a prequel, and connote Gothic’s revivalist tendencies. The background on this page is in fact a splash page that shines through in panel 4 and it sets the scene, showing Professor Hathaway looking worried and clutching his book. The perspective flits between the disembodied (jumping from a wide opening shot to a dizzyingly aerial view) and embodied (Professor Hathaway). The layout is mirrored (the top and bottom panels both show a long view of the house, and the page’s most gothic elements (Hathaway’s use of the ornate door knocker to produce what is doubtless a hollowsounding echoing hollow, and his entry into the house) take place in the gutter/crypt.

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Haunting and Architecture Various pages in issue #1 use ornate architecture, for example when Burgess is first introduced (2). Ornamental frames border the page (metapanel) during the spell-casting which snares Morpheus and its build-up (4–7). These frames are also prefigured on page 2 (where Burgess gets the Magdalene Grimoire, the last remaining necessity for his spell), although they merge with the décor of his office here. This page framing returns again at the end of the issue, when Morpheus casts his spell on Alex (35–39), and thus ornamentation signifies magical activity. Page 3 also uses its architecture reflexively, positioning the introductions of Ellie Marsten, Daniel Bustamonte, Stefan Wasserman and Unity Kinkaid within the gates of Burgess’s mansion: their stories are quite literally shaped by his actions. Later, when they “began to wake up” (33) the page uses a 3 × 3 grid for the first time (albeit with some panel borders removed), and this explicit display of scaffolding perhaps indicates that “normality” is beginning to return. Page layouts throughout the issue carry meaning: for example page 25 where the top row is split into three panels, the second into two, and the third composed of just one, as Alex repeatedly returns to offer Morpheus a deal. Haunting via the repetition of panel shape and composition is used here to stress the cyclical nature of his visits, and the diminishing number of panels gives a sense of a countdown to some sort of resolution. Other examples of significant layout might include page 31, which is vertically mirrored around a jagged central panel, showing Morpheus entering and then leaving Mort Notkin’s recurring dream. Panel shapes like this also carry signification: for example Alex’s claustrophobic nightmare on page 34 is conveyed through a series of narrow panels as he experiences his house as a labyrinth. Many panels in this issue are irregular: shaped like prisms or (when showing Morpheus’s point of view from within the crystal dome he is trapped in) circular with a fish-eye perspective (see further below). In this way the architecture of the page stresses the unnatural and magical events of the story and the antithetical perspectives and attitudes of its main characters. Depth is also used to emphasize transgression as panel borders are broken: most obviously during the summoning ceremony the Order conducts, for example the knife Burgess holds cuts across the panel borders (5) just as his ceremony transgresses the normal order of things. Depth is used again most effectively at the close of the issue, after Alex is cursed with eternal waking: a single panel showing him in the “real” world/main diegesis is distinguished from the hypodiegesis of his dream through depth, and the position (whether over- or under-laid) varies between the two facing pages.

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Excess and Embodiment Repetition is combined with embodied perspective when Morpheus escapes, as we are shown three repeated panels of the guard Frederick’s dream of his beach holiday from the embodied point of view of Morpheus. The images include his/our hand reaching in to take a handful of sand. Architecturally, the lack of borders (as these panels run off the bottom of the page, which is where Morpheus’s hand reaches in from) emphasizes this further. While Frederick’s dream is ostensibly a hypodiegetic level, blurring our position with that of Morpheus hides this, as the dream’s events have reciprocity with the main diegesis (Morpheus will use the sand to escape from his prison). The most obvious use of embodied point of view comes from the visuals assigned to Morpheus while in his crystal prison: his fish-eye perspective makes his captors look warped and inhuman (see for example page 12). Non-realistic color is used as Alex’s “eternal waking” nightmares reveal themselves as such (38–39) along with stereotypical horror tropes such as a melting face and a decapitation. Colored text is used to emphasize moments of extreme stress, such as the final “COME!” that summons Morpheus (7), or Alex’s entry into eternal waking (“NO!” [38]). Morpheus’s speech and narration are colored black with white typography, a style that will continue throughout the entire series, and grants his first words (“Trapped. Observe” [12]) uncanny weight. The issue contains a few examples of interplay between word and image in the pursuit of black humor. After transforming from a cat, Morpheus taunts Alex “Cat got your tongue?” (35); Stefan Wasserman “went over the top” (11), and color is also used as Wasserman’s shell-shocked face is an uncanny green hue. Excess is thus used to emphasize monstrosity and call attention to horror and black humor.

Ghostly Reader The revenant reader is required to perform a number of decompositional acts in reading Sandman #1. These mostly include recognition of intertextual and extratextual echoes, setting the tone for the entire series. The issue draws on many of the tropes of magic and horror: Morrow and Hildebrandt (2007) suggest that Burgess’s incantation might reference the Tarot (coin, stick, song and knife corresponding to Disk, Wand, Cup, and Sword suits), and also note the use of the names of historical pantheons of gods and demons. The summoning spell and ritual also recall British horror film The Devil Rides Out (1968). In this movie, Satanic cult leader Mocata chants “With salt I summon thee, with hair I summon thee, with blood I summon thee”; in Sandman Roderick

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Burgess recites “I give you the blood from out of my vein… and a feather I pulled from an angel’s wing […] I summon with poison and summon with pain.” While the incantation may not be identical, the mise en scène shares many elements (including runic circle and chanting, cloaked acolytes), and Morpheus’s prison is also similar to the circle of chalked runes the Duc de Richelieu and his companions will use to protect themselves at the end of the film. Morpheus’s appearance (conveyed in flickering red [7]) also echoes the demonic apparition that entrances Rex later in the film. These supportive echoes lend credence to Gaiman’s scene. In a similar manner, Burgess’s introduction and reappearance in circular panels (2; 17) also resonate with the EC horror comics, whose hosts often appeared in such panels. Absorbing intertextual echoes are also present, for example in the retcon of Wesley Dodds, the golden-age Sandman, shown in his costume on page 18, whose activities are here overwritten as a response to Morpheus’s imprisonment. Similarly, Morpheus’ use of sand to put his captors to sleep (29) coheres with the traditional powers of the Sandman in children’s stories, and so Gaiman begins to overwrite both these versions with his mythological figure. Morpheus’ use of the line “Lord, what fools these mortals be” (36) (from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream) is not just a literary reference but also coexists as an intratextual supportive echo and an act of intertextual and extratextual absorption (since Dream will be revealed in Sandman #19 as the first play William Shakespeare is commissioned to write for Morpheus: overwriting both the play’s content and its history). Multiple extratextual absorbing echoes continue throughout the issue: Burgess is situated as a contemporary of Aleister Crowley (he mentions him explicitly as a competitor on page 4) which fits with the period and location specified on the opening page. Burgess is also visually reminiscent of Crowley in later life, doubling and reinforcing the parallels between them and lending authenticity to his activities. Minor events such as the killing of a cat (17) may also have parallels in Crowley’s life; such activities were referenced in his libel suit against Nina Hammett (Guardian 1934). The battle of Jutland that Professor Hathaway mentions (2) adds further credence to Gaiman’s time period. More strikingly, however, the sleeping sickness (Encephalitis Lethargica) that Ellie and Unity are diagnosed as suffering from (20) is a real epidemic that spread around the world between 1915 and 1926. It has never recurred (except for isolated cases) and never been explained. This event in world history is overwritten by Gaiman in a grand absorbing echo, explained as a consequence of Morpheus’s capture. Even the zombie tradition is referenced here, via in the sleepwalking Daniel Bustamonte (“The superstitious say he is zombie, a walking dead man” [20]). Various cultural references also appear, most obviously in Mort Notkin’s dream which features

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American celebrities including Marilyn Monroe, Elvis Presley and John Wayne (31). The reader’s knowledge of events and people thereby affect how they decompose the page, demonstrating the processes of the archive. In this way, processes of haunting, architecture, excess, and decomposition are all used to situate Sandman #1 as a gothic story and to set in motion the strategies Gaiman will develop and use throughout his series.

Case Study V: The New Deadwardians, #1–8 (Dan Abnett and I.N.J. Culbard, DC Vertigo, 2012) The New Deadwardians is set in a post–Victorian England where the upper classes are composed of vampires (“Youngs”) and the lower classes made up of zombies (“Restless”) and humans (“Brights”). The plot follows Chief Inspector George Suttle who discovers a wider plot than he imagined as he attempts to solve a series of murders of “Youngs.”

Haunting and Architecture The comic uses a symmetrical regular page layout on most pages, with even, regular panel borders. Exposing its scaffolding in this way gives the impression of impassive and methodical regularity. The gutters and page borders are white throughout the first six issues, as George proceeds methodically through the case. Towards the close of #7, however, panel borders become more angular as Mr. Salt lies to George, telling him that he has been using his body to perform these murders. The diegesis we have been following literally disintegrates with these words, which is replicated by the panels’ sudden switch to an angular shape and the disappearance of their borders for the first time in the entire series. This change is both ornamental and functional as it comments on the story content by continuing the whole time George believes Salt’s story, until Louisa exposes the story to him as a lie and the panels return to right-angled normality. Page borders also vanish during this time, but return for issue #8. In this final issue, however, these borders and backgrounds are dark grey/brown, providing a different mood (perhaps indicating George has learnt too much?) as the case closes. 127

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In general, throughout The New Deadwardians wider panels set the scene and smaller close-ups provide focus, exploiting the relationship between scaffolding, ornamentation and function. For example, issue #6 uses the space of the page in pursuit of a dramatic reveal of information over its first three pages, showing George and Bowes conversing in a traditional pub garden, before a wider shot (which takes up two-thirds of the third page) reveals them to be surrounded by Restless pressed up against its fence. Repetition is used near the start of issue #3, where the slow progress of George’s cab journey is indicated by the background characters moving slowly past the car window while George and his driver Bowes are repeatedly drawn in the same positions with the only variation being their head movements and facial expressions. Repetition of panel shapes and composition also dominate the build-up to George and Sapphire’s lovemaking in issue #6, used to build the (sexual) tension moment to moment. A larger panel with a birds-eye view then breaks this pattern (and echoes content as we quite literally “see it all”), indicating that the event has happened between pages. Mirroring also appears, for example pages 6–7 of issue #4 combine a layout that is mirrored across the double page with repetition of panel contents as George and Sapphire converse. Each issue of The New Deadwardians opens with a three-panel page which is actually a single image with false gutters overlaid. This may visually represent the class distinction that forms the basis of the comic’s plot, as the upper section of each picture (representing the highest strata of society, composed of less people) is always considerably smaller than the lower section (representing the “masses”). Another disguised panoramic panel combined with the de Luca effect is also employed as George and Lady Hinchcliffe descend a spiral staircase (#5), further supporting this analysis as their discussion is again class-based (discussing “The Sons of Adam,” a Masonic-sounding society which she then describes as “a squalid little drinking club”). The reader may also draw on intertextual knowledge of the wider vampire and zombie tradition as regards the class divide implicit in these two figures, which is used as an absorbing echo to support Abnett’s metaphor. Laying the blame at Queen Victoria’s door and the inclusion of magic and Masonic references may also be implicit intertextual homage to Alan Moore’s From Hell (also supported by the ending of the tale where the truth of the case is covered up). The majority of layouts are regular and symmetrical, with the main device used being repetition to emphasize moments of either monotony or high tension. The only transgression of the regularity of layout in the entire series occurs during issue #7 when George believes Mr. Salt’s lies and holds himself responsible for the murders. Haunting and architecture are thereby used to convey the mental state of characters and to indicate confusion and deception.

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Excess and Embodiment Interruptions to the disembodied point of view are most frequently used to enter the hypodiegetic level. However, when we see George’s memories of the war (#2) these are most frequently from the perspective of one of his Restless victims about to be slaughtered. These scenes also employ orange coloring to signify danger and explosions. In the opening pages of issue #7 George gets drawn into a street brawl and the panels here do show his intradiegetic viewpoint, shaded in amber tones to indicate the violence. Embodied perspectives are also combined with a breaking of the fourth wall (#3), where George and a mass of Restless gaze at each other through bars and we are assigned the perspective of each in turn, which is first heralded by a sidelong glance towards us from a zombie as George narrates “But otherwise, we are all equally dead” (my emphasis). Color, font and typeface are also used here as a dog barks loudly at George through the cab window: the use of large red lettering signals danger and volume, with the abstract background echoing this. By contrast, George’s entrance to Zone B near the end of #4 uses a series of dramatic disembodied perspectives: an aerial view, followed by a head-on view of the front of his car (the motion lines on the ground further emphasizing its movement directly towards us). Dramatic disembodied perspectives appear again in issue #5, when Lord Hinchcliffe’s hunting party is out shooting zombies: the reader is first given a viewpoint situated directly between the hunters and their prey and looking down the barrels of firing weapons, then a dizzying jerk to a high-up aerial perspective, then a return to the midst of the massacre, this time facing the zombies. Excess and sight are thereby used in the pursuit of drama: these instances introduce hypodiegetic memories and signal affect (such as danger) through color and style. At other points, embodied perspectives allow writer Dan Abnett to extend his metaphorical point (the undead as different strata of society) to also apply to our current society (via a direct gaze at the reader). Disembodied perspectives are also used at key points to create dramatic effect where there is no direct involvement in violence.

Ghostly Reader The case George is investigating is interwoven with his increasing affection for Sapphire and, in terms of the reader’s activity and the shown/unshown, these are handled quite differently by the narrative. Perhaps in keeping with its period sensibilities, explicit sexual activity is not shown (although one panel of nudity appears) and George and Sapphire’s lovemaking takes place between panels (#6). Conversely, however, the street brawl George gets into (#7) shows

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the impact of his punches, rather than excluding them from the panel or covering them with effects/devices. Violence and the pursuit of crime thereby become interwoven through this use of the crypt, with George regaining some of his humanity via his dedication to the case and his relationship with Sapphire (as the story ends: “I seem to have got my appetite back” [#8]). Alongside George’s rehumanization, the content of the story also echoes gothic themes such as inversion, authenticity, inheritance and humanity. Inverted morals and standards abound: for example as when Sapphire tells George “the boudoir can be a more honest place than the confessional” (#3). Towards the end of the story, ideas of age and youth are again inverted through the use of the euphemism “Young” (to describe the vampire upper class) as a priest says to George “Then you are older than you look” to which he replies “Because I am Young” (#7). Authenticity is summoned through the artist named “Pretendleby” (originally misnamed as “Pendeleby”) (#3), who is then later revealed as the magician and poet Mr. Salt. The gothic theme of inheritance is also raised in the false solution given in issue #5, which raises doubts as to whether Lord Hinchcliffe is the actual victim (“He puts it in my head and then makes such a strenuous effort to deny it, drawing even more emphasis on to it”). The gothic trope of under-determined signifiers is also brought into play through the euphemistic naming of the vampires/humans/zombies.

Summary The story as a whole revolves around uncovering the past reasons for the Restless epidemic (blame for which rests with Queen Victoria) and the consequent recreation of the upper classes as the Young. It thereby becomes as much about George’s attempts to regain his humanity as about the solution of the crime, which further ties into its metaphorical focus on social class. The formal points noted above all emphasize these narrative strands: haunting is used to demonstrate the rigid construction of society and its monotony, as well as to build tension at key points and emphasize the moments where George’s faith in his world becomes shattered. The embodied perspectives offered and the hypodiegetic story levels operate from the perspectives of the victims, with George’s perspective only being used to stress moments of diegetic violence. Embodied perspectives and the breaking of the fourth wall also encourage the reader to relate these notions of hierarchy and humanity to our own society (if this is permitted by their knowledge level and archival situation). The absorption of vampire and zombie literary history by Abnett’s story and the references to British history also invite us to invest the text with intertextual and extratextual knowledge to further enhance the class metaphor being played out.

PART T HREE : C ULTURE AND C ONTENT

Introduction Looking Forwards This section will consider the cultural context of comics and gothic at the most recent fin de siècle and identify some of the parallels that can be drawn between them. It is particularly concerned with situating the emergence of DC Vertigo with respect to the critical histories given in Part One and with addressing the (sub)cultural standing of comics in relation to Gothic. Chapter 6 looks at goth subculture and comics fandom and uses critical theory and ethnographic research to identify parallels between the two in terms of commodities and style, acts of consumption and performance, and the role of hegemony and community (via clubs and conventions). It identifies the ways in which both subcultures have been incorporated into the mainstream and argues that they rely upon similar internal paradoxes as regards ownership, consumption and identity. Chapter 7 then considers the comics industry in light of the common gothic practice of absorption. It reflects on the uses made of this strategy by DC Vertigo, looking closely at examples taken from Sandman and The Unwritten. It argues that Vertigo brought together gothic narrative strategies that were becoming popular in British and American comics around the millennium, and that the imprint’s subsequent commoditization has had a lasting impact on the comics industry in both countries. Chapters 8 and 9 then offer complementary cultural readings of the development of two gothic figures (the vampire and the zombie) in contemporary media and in comics. Both archetypes have enjoyed increasing popularity around the turn of the century and may be said to currently dominate the contemporary horror genre. Chapter 8 focuses on the penetrative gaze of the vampire and how this has been conveyed and developed across multiple media incarnations and particularly in comics. It concludes with analysis of 131

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examples from I…Vampire!, Preacher, Sandman, The Unwritten and American Vampire using the model established in Part Two. Chapter 9 offers an analysis of the zombie in terms of science and magic, discussing its development and treatment in comics and other media, and concludes with discussion of The Walking Dead, Chew, iZombie, Revival and Crossed.

6. A Comparative Study of Goth and Comics Cultures “Bite me, fanboy”—Lobo

This chapter will draw out some of the shared qualities of Goth and comics cultures, particularly with regard to cultural practice, costume and performance, identity, fandom and commodification.1 After reviewing critical research into subcultures and fandom, it will consider elements such as style and behavior and draw parallels between commodities and acts of consumption and performance, in order to argue that both Goth and comics cultures rest on shared paradoxes and tensions between groupthink and individuality that are perpetuated by the industries they revolve around. I am using a very broad definition of “popular culture” that refers to all that is outside high culture and the romanticist view of literature. I use “popular” as a neutral alternative to “mass,” and take culture to refer to both process and product. I do so with John Fiske’s critical model in mind, which identifies popular culture as the process of making meaning from the commodities of the culture industries (Fiske 1989: 20). Gothic literature (as a subversive literary movement that has led to the popular genre of horror) and Goth culture (as a subculture whose style and practice are inspired by both literature and music) both fall under this definition of popular culture; as do comics and their readership. Comics themselves (for example the rise and fall of the underground and fanzine markets, and the subsequent graphic novel redefinition) can be understood using Dick Hebdige’s analysis of the recuperation of subcultures by mass culture, a process by which the subcultural product is commodified (becomes mass-produced and has its innovations frozen), and its ideology reclaimed (the processes of the Other are trivialized or naturalized) (Hebdige 1979, 94). The creation of over two hundred comics-inspired movies by Western mainstream cinema to date with well over half of these emerging during the last 133

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twenty years, together with the changes in comics history detailed in Part One, establish comics as popular culture artifacts.2 The marginalized status and subversive stance of early gothic literature attracted a subcultural audience. This may be one explanation for gothic literature’s use of extratextual markers and addendums to raise the question of veracity in its pursuit of an emotional reader response: as a consequence of its divided readership. For example, on publication of The Castle of Otranto in 1764 the literati certainly knew it to be fiction; what is less clear is how this text was perceived by its mass audience. A divided audience is also often apparent within the culture of mainstream comics, where the intertextual reuse of characters and the length of serialized texts results in “in-jokes” or rules and motivations that are unintelligible to an uninitiated reader. Outside the subculture there is also a divide between the “average reader” and the “fanboy”3: for example in the movie X-Men (2000) when Wolverine is given his black, armored costume and another character comments “Unless you’d prefer yellow spandex?” (his original comic-book costume). However, both Spooner (2004) and Hodkinson (2007) argue against the use of textual analysis to define cultural practice and so this chapter will draw on my own observations and ethnographic research into Goth and fandom practices, alongside critical material already published on these areas, rather than their representation in media or fiction. Martin Barker’s work on audience response is distinguished from reception studies and fan studies in its attempt to relate audience engagement with media to wider personal, political and cultural engagements. Barker considers the competing definitions of discourses and conducts empirical study that seeks to engage with dislikes as much as likes and to reflect upon the reasoning for these, using textual analysis alongside quantification of number and type of critical reviews and responses to specific texts (see for example Barker and Brooks 1998; Barker 2008; Barker 2012). This chapter will take a similar approach, using data taken from personal interviews and performing textual analysis on selected comments and commodities along with reflection on the wider social context.4 My discussion will focus on the consumption and production apparent in the stylistic, visual side of Goth culture and the comics fandom practices of conventions and cosplay. Early critical work views subcultures as existing outside the dominant ideology of society: Hebdige draws on the work of Roland Barthes, describing subcultural style as the consciously constructed equivalent of an advertising image (Hebdige 1979: 101) and defining it as a challenge to mainstream culture. However, these critics also acknowledge that the media not only record resistance but situate it within the dominant framework of meanings so that subculture becomes incorporated “as a diverting spectacle within the dominant mythology” (Hebdige 1997: 131; see also Stuart

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Hall 1977). This is achieved via the conversion of signs into commodities and the ideological relabeling and redefinition of behaviors—and so this chapter will also discuss the uses of commodities and the commodifiction of both subcultures. Finally, it will consider the role of hegemony and community in maintaining identity within these groups, looking at clubs and conventions.

Critical Background The first wave of subculture criticism, from the Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies (Birmingham University, U.K.), created a “heroic” model for these groups which defines them as discrete, identifiable movements within a linear unfolding of history. Subcultures were viewed as inherently political: examples of grassroots resistance to a hegemonic mainstream. Of this work, Dick Hebdige’s Subculture: The Meaning of Style (1979) is the most wellknown, and discusses the visible qualities of subculture and its performance by youth groups, focusing on the British punk movement. Hebdige defines subculture as a reaction to the mainstream, and punk as a political act that effectively juxtaposed two forms of deviance: social and sexual. Socially, punk dislocated itself from its parent culture and signified an abstract workingclassness through rituals and dress (while hiding personal origins). It set this alongside sexual “kinkiness” in a (successful) attempt to shock the most liberal of observers (1997: 140–1). Hebdige argues that punk’s adoption and combination of diverse styles and motifs signaled its resistant and anarchic qualities, for example by adopting symbols such as the swastika. He defines this as a process whereby the swastika’s denotative meaning (fascism, racism) was removed and its fetishized meaning (shock, hatred) retained. “Confrontation dressing” (Vivienne Westwood) of this type thereby allows the objects appropriated by a subculture to be stripped of their connotations and transformed into “empty” fetishes (Hebdige 1979: 136). Hebdige’s study of subcultures and their relationships to society concludes that “Cut ups and collages, no matter how bizarre, do not change so much as rearrange things, and needless to say, the “explosive junction” never occurs: no amount of stylistic incantation can alter the oppressive mode in which the commodities used in subculture have been produced” (Hebdige 1979, 130). But the groups themselves and their commodities do, of course, evolve and change. Hebdige notes an essential distinction between the first and second waves in both punks and mods (as the original “faces” and “stylists” defined themselves against the “kids” and “scooter boys”) and concludes that “the distinction between originals and hangers-on is always a significant one in subculture” (1997: 141). Such exclusionary processes will be considered in this chapter.

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Given such fluidity, issue has been taken by later criticism with the neo– Marxist definition of the term “subculture” in the CCCS model: both as outdated (given social developments such as media saturation) and as flawed (deemed insufficient to capture the fluidity of lifestyle patterns). The second wave of subculture studies around the 1990s thereby moved from the semiotic to the sociological. This led to a redefinition of the concept and critics offered different labels, including neo-tribe, lifestyle, scene, postmodern subculture and bünde. Paul Hodkinson (2004: 140) discusses these, noting that they contain notable differences of emphasis. However a focus on the qualities of group distinctiveness, identity, commitment and autonomy emerges, which Hodkinson (2002) names “cultural substance” (as opposed to cultural fluidity). “Post-subculture” studies thereby proceed from the position that “any ‘intrinsically’ subversive quality to subcultures [is] exposed as an illusion” and resituates itself within the political, cultural and economic realities of the twenty-first century (Weinzierl and Muggleton 2003: 5). Subcultural practices may be approached in terms of Bordieu’s (1984) taxonomy of taste, distinction, and cultural capital (as three key concepts to analyze youth culture); performativity (Butler 1990 and 1993); and fluidity (Maffesoli 1996). The role of the media (in all formats: broadcast, print, digital, homemade) is recognized as central to both the formation and sustenance of subcultures as it has been acknowledged that subcultures are not unmediated sites (Thornton 1995). A similar development can be seen in critical approaches to fandom. Gray, Sandvoss and Harrington (2007) summarize early critical work (Fiske 1989; Fiske 1992; Jenkins 1992) which approached fan activity as a site of power struggles performed by a subordinated group. This first wave of scholarship sought to rescue fandom from its etymological connotations of fanatical obsession and recognize its positive attributes (Bacon-Smith 1992; Jenkins 1992). Fandom was defined as a guerrilla activity and, applying de Certeau’s (1984) notion of “poaching,” critics argued that fans were “active participants in the construction and circulation of textual meanings…” ( Jenkins 1997: 508). To identify as a fan “is to accept what has been labeled a subordinated position within the cultural hierarchy, to accept an identity constantly belittled or criticized by institutional authorities. Yet it is also to speak from a position of collective identity…” ( Jenkins 1997: 507). Early scholarship thereby emphasized the positive connotations and creative acts of fandom, stressing its use of intertextual networks and paratextual knowledge, and smoothing over its internal disagreements and less constructive acts (“fan-tagonism”). It sought to reclaim previously denigrated activities (letter writing, fanzines, conventions and so forth) and can be viewed as a rhetorical exercise in normalizing caricature; revaluing the fan-as-Other. Again, later waves of criticism have refined this approach, not least

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because the cultural landscape has changed, as has our understanding of mediation and cultural practice. Jenkins’ notion of fans as Textual Poachers (1992) and reproducers of meaning gave way to his definition of the entertainment media as a Convergence Culture (2006) where fan activity and opinion are courted by producers, and texts themselves begin to reflect and respond to their audiences’ needs and desires. The changing position of fan audiences (from being ridiculed to respected) makes sense in the context of the move from media broadcasting to “narrowcasting” (aiming a program at a relatively small audience, for example as defined by interest or location). This has resulted in a new social status whereby (effectively) we are all “fans” to a greater or lesser degree and are now judged on our choices of object and surrounding practices (Gray et al. 2007: 2–5). The term “fan” is ideologically loaded. In his research into Judge Dredd fandom, Barker (1993) defines “fan” as an industry category and argues that many 2000AD readers (who he names as “Committeds”) differentiate themselves from this label in search of legitimization. While Brown’s (2010) research identifies use of the term as self-description in readers of Milestone comics, both labels are claimed by Locke (2012) to fall under Sack’s (1972) view that young people’s categories are devices to assert control over their cultural activity and are thus sites of struggle. Locke (2012) puts forward the idea that the choice of label is a revolutionary act and that fans mobilize meaning for different purposes: for example demonstrating their commitment by allowing themselves to be viewed through a potentially derogatory category. Thus the third wave of fan studies now considers fandom and its uses in the context of our everyday lives, as a component of modern life. For Gray et al. (2007: 7) fandom is not an “a priori space of cultural autonomy and resistance,” nor the subversive pleasure that Fiske claimed. Instead “being a fan has become an ever more common mode of cultural consumption” that shapes the way in which we enact everyday life. Contemporary work on fandom now blurs the boundaries between high and low culture (see Gray, Sandvoss and Harrington 2007) and demonstrates that a broader definition of the text/ object, which takes into account the multiple paratexts and contexts that might be used to interpret it, is required. For example, fans of Buffy may be aware of different texts, intertexts and paratexts that they may have encountered at very different points (such as the movie, television show, comics, novels, merchandise, spin-offs such as Angel, interviews, documentaries, behind-the-scenes footage, other shows starring the same actors, and so on). In addition, they may come to this program as fans of horror, Joss Whedon, the actors, fantasy, the vampire tradition, feminism and so forth. As such, they may approach Buffy from all (or none) of these perspectives or from a different angle entirely. Definitions of both text and audience need to be capable of sustaining these varying approaches.

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Such models reconcile reader autonomy with textual production by proposing a dialectic process whereby fandom may create, reshape or reject textual meaning. The radical expansion of fan culture (out of the ghetto and now focused around high and mass cultural artifacts and practices) prompts Jenkins (2007: 364) to muse: as fandom becomes such an elastic category, one starts to wonder—who isn’t a fan? What doesn’t constitute fan culture? Where does grassroots culture end and commercial culture begin? Where does niche media start to blend over into the mainstream? […] there may no longer be a “normal” way of consuming media. Maybe, as some subculture studies folks (Bennett and Kahn-Harris 2004) are arguing, there is no longer a centralized or dominant culture against which subcultures are defining themselves. Maybe there is no typical media consumer against which the cultural otherness of the fan can be located. Perhaps we are all fans or perhaps none of us is.

Polhemus’ (1996) notion of a “supermarket of style” seems applicable here, as partial membership of multiple subgroups characterizes the majority of society and subcultural style flows between different groups and may be put to a wide variety of performative uses (not least the pure aesthetic). Goth makeup no longer signifies any knowledge of Goth music; a Batman t-shirt no longer indicates familiarity with the comics. The following sections will therefore first look inwards, and consider comics and Goth subcultures in terms of their internal distinctions and fluidity, their performance, and their commodities: identifying points of similarity within their respective practices, self-definition and productions. It will then turn its gaze outwards and reflect upon how the cultural capital and substance of these groups is perceived and has been used by their own textual objects, and other (external) media.

Looking Inwards: Goth Culture Although, in general, Goth culture is easily identifiable from the outside (as befits its focus on appearance and surfaces), internal divisions and multiple influences collide within this social space and practice. Goth subgroups are examples of the culture’s multiple iterations and facets and so, as Catherine Spooner argues, require an analysis that explores “the localized production of meaning, in different contexts […] Goth is a community, with shared interests and concerns, not a prescriptive identity” (Spooner 2012: 363). Therefore, in keeping with the focus of this book, and given the limited space available here for discussion, this chapter will look at the Goth subculture in Britain around the millennium, although many of its conclusions may be more widely applicable.

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The historical development of Goth culture has been documented by many critics,5 who identify various launch points such as Joy Division’s Unknown Pleasures, the early work of Siouxsie and the Banshees, or (most commonly) Northampton band Bauhaus’s release of “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” (1979). Spooner (2012: 350) cites this release as “the inaugural moment of Goth culture”: arguing that it crystallizes key Goth elements and thus begins the shift of emphasis from punk’s shock tactics and aggression towards Goth’s intellectual posturing and the macabre. “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” (and, indeed, the band name Bauhaus) signals Goth’s intellectual posture (the former by citing the actor who played Dracula, rather than the character himself, the latter by referencing German impressionism) and also signposts its links to horror cinema and Dracula as quintessential vampire literature. It looks backwards to Universal’s horror films of the 1930s, and Lugosi’s death over two decades previously in 1956. It also invokes tensions between play and danger (by referencing “camp” older horror while the slasher film was making its debut in the 1970s, and also through the irony implicit in the death of a vampire), depth and surface (the lyrics focus on color and gothic images of coffins and bats), and nature and artifice (the actor Lugosi versus the character Dracula). Despite this moment of cohesion, attempts to define Goth in more precise terms have often struggled. In this Goth epitomizes some of the problems with using the static term “subculture” that are summarized above. Hodkinson concludes that “an overall emphasis on dark horror imagery” (261) is key to the culture and its style but attempts to define Goth in more specific terms than this often seem to falter. Some scholars define Goth as an act of transgression, for example Siegel (2005), who suggests Goth is “inherently disruptive” and remains defiantly subcultural; unlike gothic literature which is now canonized and features on school syllabuses. Van Elferen (2012: 135) also argues that “Gothic is a transgressive gesture” that becomes embodied and visible in the music, clubs and style of its “ghostly” participants. However, critics such as Botting (2007) focus instead on the commodification and performative aspects of the culture to identify internal contradictions. For example, Botting discusses the performance of a gothic lifestyle as a “horrealist” activity which seeks to create something authentic out of the inauthentic, and points out the paradox of falsity inherent in trying to “live” a gothic lifestyle (for example posing as a vampire, drinking blood and so forth). These types of enactments are extreme however, and the more usual practice of “everyday” Goth (confrontational make-up and clothing) sustain the culture’s inauthenticity by relying on make-up and inappropriate dress. Even body modifications (such as horns or vampire teeth), although sometimes permanent, enact the inauthentic as being additions that signify the “unnatural.” As Goth is made more visible by the media (for example in the wake of the Columbine high school shootings

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in Colorado, U.S.A., 1999; or the death of Sophie Lancaster in the U.K., 2007), attempts at authentic practice are instantly reflected back by the media and so, as Botting claims, the “simulation spins on” (212). This continues to support Dick Hebdige’s (1997: 133) claim that the way in which subcultures are represented in the media makes them both more and less exotic than they actually are. Given the canonized literary Gothic, Spooner (2012) argues that many of the priorities of the literature are now more clearly present in the lifestyle. Steele argues that gothic fashion is “obsessed with the past” (2008: 104) and Spooner (2012) agrees that a concern with history is represented in dress and appearance (through “spectrality, dereliction, and decay”). In previous work (2008) she identifies this both thematically (via memento mori motifs, steampunk and Victorian styles) and literally (via ripped or torn clothing, holey materials, lace-up items). She notes “an attitude of Baudelairean dandyism by valuing artifice above nature, and embracing beauty in decay” (2012: 350). Hodkinson (2007: 262) also looks backwards, offering a more detailed list of the diverse influences and subgenres (musical and otherwise) incorporated into the Goth scene, which range from Romantic art, poetry and literature to twentieth-century horror cinema; musical influences from 1980s pop and independent acts (androgynous style, synth music); the mechanical beats and UV trappings of 1990s underground dance music, particularly techno; S&M and fetish imagery; punk (as the process of bringing fetish clothing to the high street); and some of the trappings of alternative rock (piercings, tattoos, hair dye, combat trousers, black jeans, big black boots, and “the humble band T-shirt”—which last he notes is often overlooked). Spooner (2004: 203) argues that gothic clothing demonstrates “a complex and ever-evolving sense of self […] in which surface and depth continually are articulated through and played off against one another.” There is a tension in this style, as surface (reflective material, shiny silver jewelry, slick PVC) meets depth (the holes in fishnet, layering, textured leather). The clothes themselves problematize their very existence. This tension can also be extended to the wider incorporation of futurism in the image as Goth culture can also be argued to be looking forward; as Botting claims “Gothic cedes to cybergothic” (Botting 2007: 209) and UV accessories and reflective clothing have gained increasing traction since the 1990s. Botting (2007) also notes a continued inauthenticity in these visions of the future. Expansion does however promote internal tensions within the community as the scene continues to develop both musically and stylistically, for example towards EBM (Electronic Body Music) or “Emo” (Emotional). For example Spooner (2012) cites the opposition between “Eldergoths” and “Babybats,” and Goths often speak disdainfully of Emo as “diet Goth” or “Goth lite.”

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Hodkinson’s (2007) work takes a sociological approach and uses ethnographic research to reveal that individual Goths feel very differently about the relative importance of various elements to their lifestyle, such as fetishism, vampire literature, music, clothing and so forth. His survey found that community and socializing were the dominant reasons for participating. As such, Goth culture is not just internally diverse in appearance, but also contains a wide variety of tastes and preferences between both individuals and different subgroups, grouped beneath a “remarkably coherent visual style” (Spooner 2012: 350). It is hierarchical and subdivided: newcomers to Goth clubs or festivals often remain on the periphery until their faces become familiar enough to be included. Identity in Goth culture is therefore performed through surface appearance and fetishized commodities, meaning the Goth scene both supports and contradicts the original (Marxist) conceptions of subculture and demonstrates the value of new critical approaches that view subcultures and their practice as fluid and flexible. As Hodkinson (2004: 139) notes: “Essentially, the Goth scene, rather than symbolically subverting capitalism, functioned as a highly specialized consumer grouping whose participants required a variety of media outlets and businesses in order to learn about and purchase the commodities that made them collectively distinctive.” Outfits certainly involve creativity (both in terms of cut-ups/DIY and also imagination/daring) but also incorporate purchase power of specialist items. Before the internet granted unrestricted access to specialist clothing and footwear, availability of “good” clothing was restricted, arguably leading to more creativity (rummaging through charity shops, vintage clothes stores and so forth) and community (swapping tips and making trips to cities with a good “scene” and therefore good shopping). The paradox of construction versus commodification is echoed by Goth’s drive for individuality around a strongly-coded visual identity as participants in Hodkinson’s ethnographic research confirm: “looking too similar to another Goth was sometimes liable to be frowned upon as evidence of lack of individual creativity” (Hodkinson 2004: 137—although my own research indicates this is always frowned upon) and his interviewees claimed that an initial conformity would be followed by developing one’s own style. Goth music and scenes take account of this diversity. Slimelight, London (arguably Britain’s most famous and long-running Goth club) was in the 1980s a members-only Goth and fetish club with a strict entrance policy. Newcomers needed to be signed in by a current member as a guest and membership had to be endorsed by two current members. However, although today it is still ostensibly “members only” the door policy does not reflect this and even the once-strict dress code has been relaxed. Certain issues of etiquette (such as a ban on photography) still persist however. Slimelight features separate floors

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for different musical subgenres (techno and cybergoth upstairs; older/classic Goth downstairs), allowing them to exist in parallel. This goes against the (somewhat romanticized) description of the linear progression that van Elferen gives of Goth clubs and festivals, where she claims the music progresses during the night, from old school Goth (“evoking past times”) to EBM (“mixing machinic and human desires”) and ending with the “martial stomp” of cybergoth (2012: 141). In multi-room clubs, clubbers move between floors according to their mood (an act that reflects the “supermarket of style” model). Such diversity is also apparent in van Elferen’s description of the myriad of dancing styles, ranging from classic Goth dance move of “wiping the cobwebs” to the cybergoth “stomp” (2012: 143). A more irreverent umbrella term in general use from my experience is “the Goth four-step” which derogatorily merges all of these styles back into a single, basic movement. Spooner notes that “Attempts to define Goth style usually resort to a list of components” (2012: 350) but it seems instead that the practice of Goth and its subculture can be more effectively summarized as enacting a series of tensions, including: • A much-vaunted individuality versus a strongly coded visual style. • Isolation and introversion versus a tightly knit (and often cliquey and hierarchical) social scene and community. • DIY tropes (torn clothes, holes) versus expensive and elaborate costuming. • A reciprocal relationship with its own media and artifacts.

Looking Inwards: Comics Culture George R. R. Martin (2003) names comics fandom the “bastard stepchild” of science fiction fandom. A degree of authenticity and credibility has been bestowed upon sf fandom, both in terms of its longevity (beginning in the 1930s, and specifically traced back by Jenkins to the letter columns of Hugh Gernsbeck’s Amazing Stories) and its function. Jenkins claims that letter columns “provided a public forum by which fans could communicate with each other and with the writers their reactions to public stories” and notes that multiple critics suggest it was this interplay that allowed science fiction to emerge as a distinctive genre in the 1930s and 1940s ( Jenkins 1997: 520). Comics fandom began some decades later in the 1960s, as detailed by Bill Schelley (2001), an enthusiast and producer of fanzines since the 1960s including the well-known ’zine Sense of Wonder (1967–1973). Schelley defines comics fandom nostalgically, as a small community where everyone knew each other. A discussion of ’zines is beyond the scope of this chapter (for further

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information see for example Sabin and Triggs 2000; Sabin 1993 and 1996; Robbins 1999; Nelson 1989; Burns 1978) but there is no doubt that their popularity (if not their very existence) was aided by the underground market in response to the restrictions of the Comics Code. Critical attention towards ’zines has been significantly kinder than that shown to comics themselves. Interestingly, while Fredric Wertham is reviled by the industry for his biased and hysterical reading of horror comics in Seduction of the Innocent (1953) and its role in the construction of the Comics Code, his lesser-known The World of Fanzines (1973) takes a completely opposite stance regarding the production of meaning and fan activity surrounding comics. Here, Wertham praises the fanzines for being free of censorship and commercial interests: arguing that they occupied an overlooked space in history of American folk culture and defining them as a positive social activity (in terms of a communityspirited communication act) and a form of implied social criticism of the mass media (for a full discussion see Beaty 2005). The comics fan stereotype of the “fanboy”: a fat, male, middle-aged loner, socially inept and still living with his parents, has dogged comics enthusiasts and entered mainstream mimetic culture (for example via “Comic Book Guy” from The Simpsons). However, comics fandom is significantly more diverse than this. Pustz (2000) uses ethnographic and textual analysis to detail the diversity and hierarchy present in comics fandom, drawing distinctions between the fanboy (characterized by Pustz as obsessively interested in the plot and character minutiae of mainstream superheroes) to the literati reader (interested in alternative comics and more highbrow titles). The long-running serialization and level of intertextual knowledge required by the industry (even blockbuster titles like Watchmen and Sandman reward the knowing reader, as has been noted in Part One) means that “comics literacy” frequently determines a fan’s place within the culture. Despite the respect given to intertextual and encyclopedic knowledge, “fanboy” is sometimes also used derogatorily within the culture, for example by those who may be less interested in continuity detail or collecting. In this sense it allows the user to implicitly defend their own tastes as less extreme, and also frequently to distance themselves from the mainstream perception of comics as—still!—all about superheroes. “Fangirl” has also entered usage as the female equivalent, again denoting obsessive admiration, but frequently with a gendered connotation. Fangirls are often stereotyped as having crushes on writers, characters or other idols, or as more interested in the emotional and romantic elements of a series, and the term is often linked to “(relation)shipping”: the label for those fans whose enjoyment of a series hinges on its romantic partnerships. See for example Johnson’s (2007) discussion of the internal conflict between Buffy the Vampire Slayer “fans” and “shippers” regard-

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ing season 6, which was felt by hardcore fans to be weak but beloved by some shippers for finally presenting a relationship between Buffy and Spike. Internal divisions and conflict also exist within fandom, as evidenced by Henry Jenkins’ self-definition as an “aca-fan” and the distinctions he notes between “Trekkies” (the stereotype of an obsessive Star Trek fan, never used as an identifier by the fan themselves) and “Trekkers” (the identity claimed by fans in place of this, as participatory members in the culture surrounding this show). Within comics readerships, diversity as regards the small presses, the underground, the mainstream American titles with their “star creators,” and so forth exists. Readers are keen to define themselves and their tastes specifically: “I used to read a lot of indies” “One favorite is […] a fairly obscure European one” “Not a fan of the spandex brigade (e.g., DC and Marvel), I like more edgy stuff.” Longevity is another significant point with many readers expressing nostalgia, sometimes self-consciously (“I’m already showing my age!”) or reflecting on their own relationship with various titles (“[I] lost track when I moved away” “Tried reading the new DC stuff when it ‘rebooted’ (god I hate that word!) recently but […] the old ones really are better” “I’m not sure about the New 52 […] found it all a bit too ‘clean’”). In addition, as more properties become adapted into cinema and television, there emerges a new readership brought to the “original” texts via its subsequent reworkings. Whether they are welcomed or dismissed as latecomers depends on the text in question and the esteem it is held in by the pre-existing audience (for example as seen in responses to season 6 of Buffy). Comics fandom thereby has its own (strong!) internal disputes and tensions, and later criticism has focused on “anti-fan” practices (see for example Gray et al. 2007) which define and defend identity through vitriolic response to certain texts. Johnson (2007) notes the propensity towards deification and vilification of auteur creators (such as the trust shown in Joss Whedon compared to the anger directed at Buffy producer Marti Noxon, for example). However, as Jenkins identifies in Convergence Culture, a shift has taken place both in terms of how fans are viewed, and how they are participating. Commodities are central to this. Comics fandom has always focused on the comic-as-artifact, the collectible item, as has been widely publicized. Lincoln Geraghty’s Cult Collectors (forthcoming, 2014) examines comics cultures of consumption and collecting, arguing that the fan convention space has become less text-centered and more commodity-centered as merchandise and toys, rather than just the fictional text, have become objects for trade, nostalgia, and a focal point for fans’ personal narratives. However, comics fandom also supports a more modern view of fandom as regards its subject, as argued for by Gray et al. (2007: 22), who claim “what is needed is a broad definition of texts that is not based on authorship, but on texts as frames of realizable mean-

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ings that span across single or multiple communicative acts, including visual, sound-based and written communication […] we need to reflect on textual boundaries” (22). Without wanting to disappear into a sea of poststructuralist insecurity, this means that not just people (authors, auteurs) and titles (comics, franchises), but also characters, events, props, merchandise, experiences and so forth can all be viewed as “texts” that are the subject of fan attention. The dominance of star writers within comics imprints such as DC Vertigo (see Round 2010 for a fuller discussion) supports this conceptualization, although it is worth noting that comics fandom has always sought out and used such knowledge. Steve White comments that “I used to follow creators, you know, you would pick up a book because it was drawn by an artist whose stuff you really liked” and even before writers were credited, comics letters pages famously contained literary detective work from readers, trying to identify the writers and artists featured in previous issues (Round 2005b). The author function remains powerful and fans will be led by creators to try new or unexpected titles (“Simon Bisley is a god” “[I buy] the odd WH40k comic if Kev Walker is involved” “It’s not my sort of thing but I saw it [Crossed ] was Ennis so I picked it up”). Although online forums and Twitter have now largely replaced comics letters pages (arguably leading to greater visibility and freedom in comments), early letters pages served a similar function in creating a dialogue between creator and reader. The move from fan to creator is one that has always been facilitated by the industry and this is never more visible than at conventions, another space where fan identity is enacted. These have been the subject of some critical attention: like Goth culture, comics culture coheres around a community, although great changes have been wrought over the past half a century. In the U.K., an ever-growing strand is the “aca-fan” conference (to borrow Henry Jenkins’ self-definition), with events such as the Dundee Comics Day or Leeds Thought Bubble bringing together academic study and creator talks. In the U.S.A., the academic Comic Arts Conference runs as one strand (that is, a series of panels in a single room) of the main San Diego Comic-Con International and, although I doubt it features on the radar of the average fan, is notable for not only presenting global academic research but also conducting its own ethnographic research on the Con experience via The Power of Comics’ Field Study program, which allows undergraduates to research different aspects of the Con. In 2012 this included projects on the volunteer experience, dichotomies of dealer/consumer attitudes, aggression in geek culture, the disabled experience, cosplay experiences, and research into the different sorts of Cons guests experience due to their choice of panels. Personal experience and ethnographic research into U.K. comics conventions give a general sense of change, both in terms of the event itself and its

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attendees. While in general the type of merchandise sold has “remained absolutely consistent—back issues, figures, t-shirts, trading cards, all that stuff,” the weighting between comics and other commodities was felt by many to have shifted (“SO much more general merch being sold now (tees, posters, figures, etc.) rather than just actual comics”). There was a divided opinion as to the presence of small press and independent creators, with just over half the respondents feeling that there had been a “rise of the small press—over the years, Bristol certainly became more and more about independent publishers, and […] from the last two LSCC’s it looks like that tradition is continuing.” Others however felt that there were “a lot more small/independent/ kitchen table publishers at these things in the old days, selling photocopied tat. That said, a table at a con was probably cheaper back then, plus these days even a tiny comics producing outfit can produce professional standard stuff.” Marvel (and to a lesser extent, DC) were seen to be largely neglectful of the U.K. (“DC always sent people (Usually marshaled by VP Bob Wayne) but Marvel never sent anyone. […] I always get a little sad when I see how amazing the U.S. panels are […] I always felt that given the huge amount of British talent in comics, very few of ’em ever turned up!”) although it was noted by other respondents that the “official presence” and visibility of both publishers was increasing (“At Kapow [2012] it was all about selling the movies, which of course only the big publishers can do”). The decline of the Eagle awards at the Bristol convention was also cited as an example of the lack of clout the U.K. conventions have. The motivation to attend cons was universally agreed to be access to creators (“It’s still amazing when you can walk up to people whose work you adore and you can just chat to them!”) although the expanding scale undercut this for some respondents (“With so many more people going to them now, the queues to meet a writer or artist you like are just ridiculous—60 percent of your day is stood in queues […] it’s like a really boring theme park”). Given the crossovers between British and American creators and properties, there was a slightly odd ambivalence towards the dominance of America, with one respondent saying “I often feel like we don’t have our own identity. I think they should be party events rather than doing a Lidl version of a U.S. con.” Another respondent also identified this trend, reflecting that globalization and the internet had affected both the commodities (the drop in comics for sale might be “because people buy them all from Amazon or something”) and the practices of U.K. conventions (the increase of cosplay could be because “we now have ready access to photos/footage of the Japanese and Korean kids, and how seriously they take it over there”). He concluded: “With such a massive percentage of our geek content coming from Asia and the States, it makes sense we’d seek to emulate how they celebrate that culture.”

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A shift in convention attendees was also identified. Steve White comments that after a hiatus of five or six years “in 2002 I went to the Bristol convention for the first time and couldn’t get over the amount of young girls that were there, and I kind of think science [fiction] has really opened up for girls, things like Buffy and Xena and that kind of thing really put females on the comic map, as it were…” (Round 2005b). The convention goers I interviewed who had begun attending cons after this (from the early 2000s) also commented on a marked increase in the number of women and the number of teenagers even during this time period (“More teenagers definitely, and an increase in women” “In the early ones I went to, it was like prehistoric geeks— fat blokes with an aversion to deodorant and lacking in manners […] but slowly over the decade you started to see more and more teenagers turning up […] and even though it’s still more men than women, at LSCC the gender balance was closer and there was a real spread of ages, which was really encouraging (and makes for a much better atmosphere).” Reasons put forward for this included “the shift in media acceptance of comics and SF (Comics movies and Doctor Who for the most part)” and teen interest “for Manga to start off with, but then cosplaying for the most part.” Cosplay was felt to be “ingrained in the con culture now, which is fantastic.” Style in comics culture takes two forms: cosplay (dressing up as characters, for example at conventions) or the more usual merchandising of t-shirts. Cosplay has received some negative criticism as being reduced to “dressing up” (or in some cases “stripping down”) particularly as regards female convention goers and certainly there is a strong exhibitionist tendency in some choices of outfit. In this, cosplay can be said to share some motivations with Goth style— it is there to be looked at, and it signals the wearer’s identity through their taste. It also echoes Goth costuming in terms of performance and source. Although also heavily merchandised and turned into commodities, there is also a strong grassroots and DIY impetus behind many costumes, particularly as regards events such as Cosplay Parades, which now feature at many conventions (see below regarding the San Diego Comic Con Masquerade). Homemade costumes receive greater respect at conventions than bought ones (as long as they are done well, that is). As such, rather than simply copying an image that is (literally) owned and controlled by the hegemony of the industry, cosplay contains an assertion of individuality through its construction as well as in the participant’s choice of character. Convention cosplay is more than just an outfit, it is a performance, as cosplayers perfect the appropriate pose to accompany their clothing and will perform this many times (it is not unusual for “traffic jams” to be caused by an ever-increasing group of photographers snapping pictures around a group of characters).6 Unlikely poses or combinations of characters (Batman and Bane hugging; a group of twenty adult Gotham

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villains surrounding a single toddler dressed as Batman) or re-gendered characters (for example “sexy” Mario and Luigi; or a R2D2 bathing suit with blue fishnets and silver platform boots) make for better photographs and so there is subversive potential in both the appearance and the performance of cosplayers. Comic-Con International (San Diego, CA) is the largest in America and the third-largest in the world (after Comiket, Japan and Angoulême, France). I’ve attended twice (2010, 2012) and have been overwhelmed by the scope and scale of this event (see reviews in Studies in Comics 1.2 and 3.2 for more detailed summaries). Comic-Con International began in 1970 with less than 200 attendees and by 1980 (the heyday of comics collecting) this had expanded to 5,000. By the time the gimmicks had been discarded and the collector’s market was dying, the games and cult entertainment industries had got involved, and so the Con continued to grow: Jenkins (2012) cites 15,000 attendees in 1990; 48,000 in 2000; and 130,000 in 2010, filling the convention center to capacity (and co-opting nearby buildings such as the Hilton Hotel). When the Con is in town its attendees equate to a tenth of the entire San Diego population. Henry Jenkins (2012) describes it as “nothing short of extraordinary,” pointing towards its increasing diversity: Comic-Con is “more racially diverse than most other U.S. based fan conventions, [and] increasingly a site of visibility for female fans (after Hollywood and the news media showing a decade long preoccupation with fan boys as the center of their outreach to their audience).” However, Comic-Con’s expansion from a small comics-focused convention to a wider popular culture event has been the focus of dispute between comics fans who feel that a focus on consumerism and non-comics events has now taken over. An attendee of British conventions commented: “It feels too much like a commercial feeding frenzy now; lets pack a load of geeks into an aircraft hanger and sell them crap […] I start getting bored, frustrated, dirty and disillusioned with the whole culture (which, when the culture is based around imagination and illusion, is a dangerous thing).” Henry Jenkins (2012) also discusses this shift (in less virulent terms!), commenting that “one of my big ambivalences about Comic-Con is how much it now emphasizes fans as consumers rather than fans as cultural producers. There’s a small alleyway tucked in the back corners where fan clubs have booths to attract new members. There are panels where fan podcasts are being recorded, where fan fiction is being discussed, and where costumers trade tips with each other. For the most part, however, Comic-Con International puts the professionals in the center and the subcultural activities the conference was based on at the fringes.” Hall H (which shows previews of cult TV series and big movies) seats 6,500 people and in 2012 (where its previews included The Hobbit, Total Recall,

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Game of Thrones, The Walking Dead and Twilight) queues formed days before the Con even began. The freebies and attention given to the fans here demonstrates the industry’s wish to court fan approval when launching new movies or series. I followed up on this comment and in a personal email, Jenkins commented: “I have reasons to hope that fans will learn to be more effective at using this access and influence towards their own ends. It is degrading to see so many fans groveling for freebies or spoilers, rather than using this environment to lobby for their own interests.” He went on to cite the “very different role” of Tokyo Comiket or the Comics Market to the Japanese manga scene, where “there is a strong focus on Otaku culture, especially on grassroots cultural production, especially the production and sale of dōjinshi. Dōjinshi are comics produced by amateurs, often through clubs, or at least by people who are currently operating outside the commercial industry in Japan. These kinds of grassroots productions represent the bulk of what’s on display at Comiket, and the convention functions as a market place where fans can discover each other’s work, and where the industry can recruit new talent.” Jenkins points out that there is “not an equivalent event for amateur comics artists in the United States, though there is certainly some space for small and mini-comics producers at some of the alternative comics events held around the country.” He cites fan fiction as having much more of this type of focus in its conventions but points out that intellectual property law means the industry does not get involved in these types of events and, of course, it is precisely the interaction between industry and fans that creates convergence. A Con like the San Diego one serves many purposes, as Jenkins (2012) has also noted: it is at once an invasion (of San Diego), a homecoming party (celebrating its humble beginnings), a publicity event (for the media to find the next big thing ), a jury (as producers woo fans towards new shows), a consciousness-raising session (where the fan base can reclaim their texts from the mainstream), a costume party (cosplay is rife), a networking event (enabling fans to meet creators and producers, and also emphasizing the number of fans turned pros in this industry), a marketplace (the 57,200-square-meter Exhibition Hall stretches the entire ground floor of the convention center and is crammed with all the comics and merchandise anyone could ever want), a means of life support (access to old issues and encouraging interest in these, for example in the push to save monthly comics), a classroom (the Comic Arts Conference), and a ritual (annual events such as the Masquerade or the singa-long screening of Buffy the Vampire Slayer episode “Once More with Feeling”). Just as this episode of Buffy self-consciously uses the tropes of musical theatre, so too does the knowledge of its own cultural practice feed back into

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the products of the industry both in terms of the variety and quantity of merchandise marketed to fans, and also in terms of the literature defining them. For example, Neil Gaiman parodies subculture in his depiction of a convention for serial killers in Sandman #14 (“Collectors”). Ironic in the extreme, “Collectors” can be read as commenting on postmodern society and its “replacement of the proletariat by the cognitariat” ( Jencks 1989: 44)—mocking associated corporate notions of group training and team building with the presence of hundreds of serial killers sitting on folding chairs in a grim parody of any corporate conference. But on another level Gaiman is probably also referring to the industry’s love/hate relationship with fanboy practices as displayed at comic conventions. This is indicated by the title (like comic fans, the Collectors come from all walks of life, only united by an obsession for collecting) and other plot elements such as the numerous panel discussions (a staple of comic conventions). Essentially, the whole grim story is suffused with irony and black humor: mocking both within its subculture and without. As a gothic text it combines the new (the convention setting ) with the old (unlawful killing) in a hilarious juxtaposition. Fan response to this issue swiftly identified this; according to reader Glenn V. Morrison: “the metaphor was obvious” (letter printed in Sandman #19). Morrison interprets the parallel as social commentary, specifically regarding the idea that “insanity” is not an explanation of behavior, whether applied to serial killers or fanboys. Such inwards-looking conclusions are emblematic of the obsessive nature and strict internal rules of fanboy culture (Morrison goes on to query a date mentioned in the issue that he believes to be inconsistent), and also reference Gothic in this way. Susan Sontag’s “Notes on Camp” (1964), when taken in conjunction with shows such as The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975), similarly emphasize notions of appearance and style in this context: Not only is there a Camp vision, a Camp way of looking at things, Camp is as well a quality discoverable in objects and the behavior of persons. There are ‘campy’ movies, clothes, furniture, popular songs, novels, people, buildings […] This distinction is important. True, the Camp eye has the power to transform experience. But not everything can be seen as Camp. It’s not all in the eye of the beholder [Sontag 1964, 107].

In this way the fanboy’s self-conscious attention to detail (as evidenced above in Glenn Morrison’s comments and criticisms) and the cosplay performance are acts designed to reinforce comics’ subcultural status. Just as Sontag distinguishes between Camp as a viewpoint and as a quality inherent to some objects, comics fans can transform a text by creating an unwanted association with another, while other texts may deliberately contain such intertextual references. The polysemy of interpretation allowed by fandom as a practice that

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engages with multiple paratexts (the combination of which varies according to context and the individual fan) is noted by Gray et al. (2007: 24) and supports Barthes’ (1977) identification of multiple meanings and Foucault’s (1972) discussion of the archive, as noted in Part Two. Jenkins (2012) links the development of the San Diego Comic-Con and its increasing diversity and absorption of other popular culture artifacts and practices with a more general shift in media consumption: “Today’s television has moved from an appointment-based medium where viewers watch programs at scheduled times to an engagement-based medium where people seek out content through many different media (from Hulu and iTunes to boxed sets of DVDs) on their own time and as their interests dictate. Today’s ComicCon is shaped by the idea of the fan not as a collector, but as an influencer.” He thereby concludes that “Comic-Con is a microcosm of the dramatic changes transforming the U.S. entertainment industry.” The “rules” of fanboy subculture have, in this way, created a Hegelian dialectic of an apparent master/slave relationship, where merchandising increases exponentially and convention attendees “grovel” for freebies but at the same time the industry more actively courts fan approval every year. As such, comics culture and its practices may be paralleled with Goth as demonstrating and enacting a series of tensions, including: • A cohesive outward-facing identity (in defense of comics) versus internal antagonism as regards specific titles, genres, imprints, character. • Deification of auteurs versus virulent expression of fan opinion. • Hegemony of licensing and intellectual property/copyright versus the subversive use of costume or literary production (fanzines). • A reciprocal relationship with its own media and artifacts.

Looking Outwards In this way the symbols and tropes of comics and Goth are adopted in turn for mainstream consumption: Byron (2012: 72) argues for Gothic as a brand, as does Botting (2007). However this process is perhaps better viewed as an enactment of David Punter’s redefinition of Gothic as a mode (rather than a genre). Byron claims that things are “gothicked up” (2012: 72) and Mighall (1999: xxv) suggests “Gothic is a process, not an essence; a rhetoric rather than a store of universal symbols […] Epochs, institutions, places and people are Gothicized, have the Gothic thrust upon them.” As Hebdige acknowledges: “the creation and diffusion of new styles is inextricably bound up with the process of production, publicity and packaging […] Youth cultural styles may

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begin by issuing symbolic challenges but they must inevitably end by establishing new sets of conventions; by creating new commodities, new industries or rejuvenating old ones” (1997: 132). “Geek chic” has similarly pervaded the high street in recent years, as identified and exploited in mainstream sitcoms, such as The Big Bang Theory (2007–present). Popular culture sits alongside comics at Comic-Con International. Comics tropes are used in mainstream cinema: franchises such as Batman, Spiderman and Superman are consistently rebooted, and films such as Suckerpunch (2011) draw on imagery and archetypes from comics and gaming. The altered position of fans is apparent when comparing the priorities of Tim Burton’s Batman (1991) against Christopher Nolan’s trilogy (2005–2012). During production, Burton responded to complaints from the fans regarding the casting of Michael Keaton by saying “This is too big a budget movie to worry about what a fan of a comic would say” (Pearson and Uricchio 1991: 184). By contrast, studios now court fan approval, both in the terms identified above (advance screenings at conventions and so forth), but also more subtly, by promoting auras of authenticity and faithfulness around adaptations and products. Will Brooker (2012) identifies the ways in which Christopher Nolan’s Batman associates itself with the comics industry (rather than the previous movie or television franchises) both explicitly (DVD extras, interviews) and implicitly (background images on DVD extras). Although Brooker goes on to debunk the alleged faithfulness of Nolan’s Batman to comics history, pointing out that its claims rest on a few texts, an image of fandom is being used to authenticate this franchise and sell it to the mass audience. I would suggest a few different reasons for this shift. Firstly, to attract the “built-in” audience that adaptation offers, by reassuring the existing fanbase that this movie will respect their relationship with the title and character(s). Secondly, as a reaction to previous adaptations, that attempts to distance this work from those versions that received a negative reaction. Thirdly, to capitalize on the emergence of “geek chic” and fandom practices in mainstream culture. The communication context is relevant here: thanks to the internet, fan views are more widely heard than ever before, both on forums and as contributory reporters to other media sites (Bleeding Cool and so forth); and also due to established review sites that advertise their fan credentials proudly, such as Ain’t It Cool News. However, a cynical abandonment of fans is often apparent after an adaptation has passed its early stages: for example after a tightly plotted first season, AMC’s television series of The Walking Dead then stretched its second season to twice the number of episodes with the same budget, resulting in some obvious “filler” episodes (particularly after the mid-season break) and receiving negative comments from fans. Contradictions abound in the discourses surrounding this adaptation, which claims

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to be faithful to the comic yet simultaneously names itself “AMC’s The Walking Dead” in advertising and voiceover, and departs from the comic’s plot almost instantly (albeit still following the majority of character and major plot arcs). The creators argue this is an attempt to please both sections of their divided audience; artist Charlie Adlard points out that “we sell 40,000 monthlies each month and […] the first airing of each episode is probably watched by five million people […] The actual comic readers are a small percentage of the general audience” (Round 2013b). The mainstream embrace of fandom is also apparent in the emergence and popularity of fantasy on channels such as AMC and HBO. The first episode of season 3 of HBO’s Game of Thrones (2013) was the most-watched on HBO to date, and also the most-downloaded new episode in history (more than 1 million within 24 hours of the premiere being shown) (Lyden 2013). Tellingly, HBO do not object to this, with their only comment being that they feared fans would receive an inferior product this way. Online critic Graeme McMillan cites director David Petrarca as saying, “No, it’s great. It really helps the show’s cultural buzz, and it does not impact the bottom line because HBO has more than enough money to keep making the show” (Lyden 2013). The creation of a “buzz” ultimately becomes the bottom line, as a big enough buzz can sell any product (just consider Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code [2003], or the digital phenomenon of E.L. James’ Fifty Shades of Grey [2011]). As McMillan identifies: “this makes HBO the center of a cultural conversation about illegal downloading, about streaming content, about the production of content and distribution of content, which is probably somewhere they really want to be” (Lyden 2013). It is also emblematic of the role of fans in creating (if not sustaining) popularity. It demonstrates the changing structure of modern media, as narrowcasting replaces broadcasting, and television scheduling gives way to on-demand viewing. The broadcasting location for these shows is interesting and demonstrates how the text itself reciprocates and supports an audience redefinition. HBO and AMC are subscription-only channels and therefore only available to those who (a) can afford them and (b) live in certain locations (the shows are redistributed in the U.K. by other networks, including FX and Sky Atlantic). As such, they redefine these texts as quality, expensive viewing and court a higher class of viewer. This adds to the legitimization of comics and fantasy and the adoption of fandom practices by the mainstream. These premium channels are not self-defined by genre but instead by quality. Sex and violence thereby become resituated as erotica and realism. It is interesting to note that Vertigo is often referred to online as “the HBO of comics” (Kuebeck 2011) and has used a similar strategy of promoting quality and audience over genre and content.

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Conclusion Angela Carter famously stated “We live in gothic times,” referring to the redefinition of once-marginalized genres as dominant modes of discourse (1974: 122). This claim is supported by the expansion of fandom and its practices, and the mainstream adoption of subcultural style. Goth and comics cultures are rich in their commodities and practices, which contain some similar strategies and tensions. Issues of surface versus depth play out in gothic clothing, and also in comics’ depiction of minutiae over serious content. Paradoxes of production and consumption are apparent in the stylistic, visual side of Goth culture, and can also be seen in the aesthetics and performance of cosplay. Both Goth and comics present an outward-facing coherence but are internally divided into subgroups that are often strongly opposed to each other. Comics and Goth also both rely on active participation from their members that revolves around commodities and consumption; however in turn both subcultures are now themselves being commercialized and consumed. Their commodities and practices are mined by popular culture and absorbed into marketing practices (from “high street gothic” to “geek chic”; and from Twilight to the latest superhero or fantasy miniseries). The marginal has become central, but this center is now “characterized by dispersal, evacuated of core and apex” (Botting 2008: 39). A new tension emerges, between the tight-knit cohesive subculture and its looser mainstream incarnation. Goth is in itself a type of fandom: it transformed the experience of listening to music or reading vampire fiction into a rich participatory culture—just as Jenkins argues fans do. Viewing fans as active producers and manipulators of meaning opens up a range of intertextual networks as fandom practices operate by the “logic of cultural inclusion and incorporation” ( Jenkins 1997: 518). This can be seen in the activities of both cultures, which cohere around a sense of community and recreational events, such as clubs and conventions. It is also apparent in the increasing adoption and inclusion of their practices by popular culture’s media and its increasingly fragmented and divergent audiences. Both Goth and comics cultures rely upon a set of tensions which, along with their expansion and adoption by the mainstream, alerts us to the inaccuracy of defining subcultures as a simple reaction to hegemony.

7. Gothic Content: Absorption and Atemporality “My revenge is just begun! I spread it over centuries, and time is on my side.”—Dracula

This chapter will examine the gothic process of absorption and its usage by selected comics (Sandman, The Unwritten) from the DC Vertigo imprint. I have discussed elsewhere some of the innovations of DC Vertigo within the wider context of the American industry (Round 2010): focusing primarily on its aesthetic advances (covers, art style) and creative ethos (writer-driven, genreblending). Part One of this book also refers to the convergence of British and American talent around this mainstream imprint (see also Murray 2010) and applies Hogle’s gothic matrix to demonstrate the ways in which this can be seen as a gothic movement. This chapter will instead consider these titles as examples of gothic absorption. It defines gothic absorption as an atemporal and bidirectional process that crosses boundaries of high and low fiction. It demonstrates the ways in which this disrupts clear boundaries (abjection) and problematizes notions of a coherently bounded diegesis. It concludes by suggesting that the commoditization of the Vertigo “process” by American comics is also gothic.

Atemporality and Authenticity Gothic absorption is variously defined by critics. Robert Hume (1969) claims that the popularity of early Gothic meant that its “trappings” were quickly absorbed into other types of nineteenth-century novel. Catherine Spooner (2004: 4) also notes that “by the 1840s the Gothic novel had mostly been absorbed into a range of other genres.” In his introduction to Gothic Fiction, Peter Otto (2013) extends this discussion, saying “stock devices and themes are only the most overt sign of the shaping role played in this genre by inter155

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textuality. At times, Gothic texts seem to be engaged in a long, unfinished conversation with each other and with other texts and genres; or, alternatively, Gothic seems to be a labyrinth in which texts echo, plagiarize, but also recontextualize and transform their precursors and competitors.” Otto points out that allusion and plagiarism are only the most superficial forms of “these debates or inter-textual conversations” and compares Gothic’s “remarkable intertextuality” to “Victor Frankenstein’s monster, a collocation of materials drawn from other sources, bound together in a monstrous (dis)unity” (a similar metaphor is used previously by Hogle (1998) to discuss authenticity). It is this notion of transformation of a previously existing text that will underpin my first argument: a gothic act of absorption reconfigures all involved texts, rather than simply transplanting characters or symbols from a previously existing work or adding to its storyworld. This approach is supported by contemporary adaptation theory which has moved away from fidelity criticism and now instead views texts as mutually reliant and considers their changing circumstances of production and reception. Such an approach to gothic absorption also supports David Punter’s definition of Gothic as a mode (rather than a genre or set of trappings). Here Punter argues that genres and texts are being infected by gothic anxiety—rather than remaining coherently bounded and including superficial gothic symbols—thus defining Gothic as a mode of writing in response to social trauma (such as the emergence of a middle-class capitalist economy) (Punter 1980: 112). When a text is absorbed in a gothic manner the act is bidirectional and atemporal. The publishing practices of mainstream American comics rely upon precisely this type of processes of absorption and succession. Long-running superhero titles are handed to different writers/artists whose runs will be wellpublicized in order to increase sales. A problematic dialectic is apparent here, as creators attempt to stamp their identity on a character while also remaining within established continuity. Brian Azarello’s run on Hellblazer (#146–174), which took Englishman John Constantine on a road trip into the heart of America is a good example of this. “Retroactive continuity” is thus generally used to keep continuity consistent in long-running titles within the comics mainstream. While the first use of this phrase comes from theology (used by Tupper (1974: 100) to discuss Wolfhart Pannenberg’s temporal analysis of Christ) it entered comics via Roy Thomas’s response to a fan in the letter pages of All-Star Squadron #18 (DC, 1983), and was subsequently shortened to “retcon” online: purportedly by Damian Cugley in 1988 in a post about Saga of the Swamp Thing (see Thomas 1983; Cugley 1990). While early usage referred to the insertion of new events into the character’s history, the term now also includes the process of overwriting previous events in order to sustain mainstream continuity.1

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DC’s use of Cain and Abel is a good example of this type of absorption. In the widest cultural and literary sense, the character of Cain is a biblical villain. This archetype is then absorbed into the host figure of House of Mystery #175 (1968, in “Welcome to the House of Mystery” a framing page by editor Joe Orlando) in which Cain introduces himself as “the able caretaker.” The pun makes the connection to the biblical figure, even though “my dumb brother Abel !” is not explicitly referenced until #182 (1969) in “House of Secrets Promo,” again by Joe Orlando (see figure 12). The characters would host their respective comics until the cancellation of these runs (House of Mystery 1951– 1983; House of Secrets 1969–1978). Despite the fact that Destiny (the host of Weird Mystery Tales) states that Cain, Abel and Eve are not the same characters as their biblical counterparts (letters page of Weird Mystery Tales #3, 1972), subsequent rewritings from creators such as Alan Moore and Neil Gaiman would go on to absorb both versions.2 Some years after the House of… anthologies were cancelled, Alan Moore incorporated Cain and Abel into Saga of the Swamp Thing #33 (“Abandoned Houses,” 1987) where they appear to Abby in a dream and offer her a “mystery” or “secret.” The tale Abel then tells is a reprint of pages from House of Secrets #92 (1956), and Moore uses textual indicators that are both ornamental and functional (such as the shattering of a mirror into panels as Abby first begins to fall into her dream) to divide his framing pages from the golden-age story and explicitly flag up his use of these characters as a storytelling device. He also references the biblical archetypes explicitly: after killing his brother again as part of an endless cycle, Cain explains “I’m being punished for being the first predator … and he’s being punished for being the first victim” (#33, Moore et al. 1987: 19). Moore’s rewriting both looks backwards to these previous versions, but also forwards as he redefines both characters and houses as storytellers accessible through dreams. Moore thus absorbs the biblical figures and the host characters into iterations of a wider archetype (first murderer, first victim). Neil Gaiman’s subsequent adoption of Cain and Abel in Sandman (introduced in Sandman #2, “Abandoned Houses,” Gaiman et al., 1991) then continues this, by absorbing all their previous incarnations. Gaiman continues the biblical references as Cain repeatedly kills Abel, and also uses motifs from the 1970s horror comics such as Abel’s stutter and Cain’s pet gargoyle Gregory (introduced in House of Mystery #175 and named in #182). Gaiman’s Lucifer character also cites the Bible which states that, after killing his brother, Cain went to live in the “Land of Nod.” Both writers also reference the House of… anthologies paratextually through their titles, and by situating the characters in The Dreaming as storytellers Gaiman also subsumes Moore’s use of them as figures in Abby’s dream. When Bill Willingham and Matthew Sturges revived House of Mystery for Vertigo in 2008, the plot began with Cain attempting to return to his home in The Dreaming. These acts of

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absorption thus become embedded within each other and all versions of the character are recontextualized in order to remain coherent with each other. This process explicitly problematizes notions of “the book” and “the oeuvre.” Do Cain and Abel belong to the writers who worked on the 1970s DC anthologies, or has Moore’s rewriting now absorbed them into his oeuvre, or Gaiman’s into his? Are the reprinted golden-age pages that are included in Saga of the Swamp Thing #33 properly part of that book, or do they remain part of the House of Secrets #92, particularly if we consider that their meaning has been altered by being absorbed into Moore’s story? Extending this argument, do characters such as John Constantine fall under Moore’s oeuvre or Jamie Delano’s? Moore invented the character, but never worked on Hellblazer, where John grew to maturity. Such questions exemplify Foucault’s interrogation of the author function, and the reader’s interpretation of these texts becomes fully dependent on their knowledge and experience and is thus variable, enacting the processes of the archive as discussed in Chapter 6. Absorption within comics and particularly the Vertigo universe is bidirectional, atemporal and gothic as characters and stories become subsumed in other works with reciprocal effects on both: creating embedded stories at a metalevel.

Embedded Meta/Fictions As noted in Chapter 4 (in discussion of Sandman: Worlds’ End ), embedded stories are supported by the comics medium. Layers are added to stories and characters, creating a narrative structure that echoes the textual strategies used by gothic texts such as Frankenstein, which contains multiple framed narratives (Walton’s letter to his sister retells the story told to him by Victor Frankenstein; Frankenstein’s story contains the creature’s story; and the creature’s story contains the story of the DeLaceys). The discussion in Chapter 4 demonstrates how the comics medium supports this gothic process; however here its effects on content will be discussed, and it will be argued that such a process undermines authenticity and notions of diegetic boundaries. Returning to the House of… anthologies, textual boundaries are problematized by the existence of host characters Cain and Abel in a variety of ways. Firstly, their presence disrupts the boundary between text and paratext, as story title pages become part of a diegetic experience and the titles themselves are woven into sentences spoken by characters, as for example in the title page from “Waiting…Waiting…Waiting…” (House of Secrets #103, Mayer and Rival 1972). This combines images of Abel and the story characters into a single page and leaves it unclear who is speaking the title words. Incorporating titles into speech and diegetic images into the cover problematizes both. In

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addition, the hosts sometimes interject comments midway through stories, sometimes for just a single panel (see for example “Winner Take All!,” House of Secrets #107, Skeates and Baily 1973) and it is not always clear if they exist within a story’s diegesis or not. For example, in “Voice from the Dead” (House of Mystery #185, Anon. and Howard 1970) the penultimate panel of the story has Cain standing in the graveyard that opened the diegesis, holding an inset panel in his hand while addressing the reader directly. Although shown “in” the diegesis he is obviously not part of the tale. Cain appears similarly in “Grave Results” (#182, Wolfman and Howard 1969): after introducing the story from outside the diegesis, at its close he joins a crowd of villagers within the story, looking over his shoulder to address the reader directly with a characteristic pun. However other times the hosts participate explicitly in the story’s events, for example “Mask of the Red Fox” (House of Mystery #186, Kanigher and Toth 1970).3 Here, the sound of a foxhunt interrupts Cain’s introduction and, after conversation with the hunters, he reveals to the reader the fox he has kept hidden from them, apparently either behind a door or perhaps even in the page’s gutter. Cain also claims to have found his pet gargoyle, Gregory, on the floor of a room within the story “The House of Gargoyles” (House of Mystery #175) and Gregory reappears in various later issues (such as House of Mystery #182). The boundaries between diegetic levels, text and paratext, and the extra/intradiegetic status of characters are thus transgressed, complicating notions of storytelling. In the metafictional story “His Name is Kane!” (House of Mystery #180, Friedrich and Kane 1969) diegetic layers and the boundaries between text and paratext are played with again. As mentioned in Chapter 2, this is a story in which the tale’s artist, Gill Kane, falls victim of his own ego and ends up trapped in his own artwork. Kane rents a room in the House of Mystery to try and work on his own comic strip rather than the “hack job” the editors want him to write. However he is interrupted by a caricature of editor Joe Orlando (with large glasses and quiff ) demanding his story, and kills him (in a series of panels littered with eyeballs and repeated, duplicated images). After he does so, the tale’s narration which throughout has addressed itself to Kane in the second person (“You’ve had a long night, Gill Kane” [1]) is revealed to be the editors’ voices (“You have broken the divine right of editors—and for that we shall have our revenge!” [5]). This shift aids in the merging of diegetic layers by incorporating extradiegetic narration into the diegetic action. At the tale’s denouement, after Kane has been sucked into his own artwork, Cain enters the room and discovers the picture Kane is trapped in, which he frames and hangs on the wall of “Room 13” (also the name of this section of the comic). Here, diegetic levels are blurred by the role of the host, and the house itself (and Room 13) exist at both a textual and paratextual level.

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Jerrold Hogle argues that Gothic revolves around a “blurring of metaphysical, natural, religious, class, economic, marketing, generic, stylistic, and moral lines” (2002: 8–9) and is continually about confrontations between low and high, even as definitions and ideologies of these change. As such, he claims Gothic is abject as it breaks down borders between genres and disrupts definitions of “high” and “low.” Peter Otto (2013) also stresses that gothic absorption is not limited to texts that are self-consciously gothic or horror and goes on to list a variety of voices, including eighteenth-century theorists of the sublime, Shakespeare, Milton, Elizabethan and Jacobean tragedy, and various myths and popular ballads. While many of the Vertigo texts use absorption (and the launch of the brand was based explicitly on this notion), a blurring of high and low references is apparent in two texts in particular: Sandman and The Unwritten. Sandman uses the bi-directional absorption of comics intertextuality alongside the tropes of polytheist myth and multiple references to Shakespeare and other literary figures (see Morrow and Hildebrandt 2007 for a full list, and critical works such as Sanders 2006 or Schweitzer 2007 for reflections on these), as do other Vertigo titles such as Fables (Bill Willingham and Mark Buckingham et al., 2002–present) and spin-offs such as Jack of Fables (Willingham et al., 2006–2011). Willingham takes established fairytale and folktale characters and situates them in Fabletown, New York, overwriting various characters (Snow White and Prince Charming have divorced; the Big Bad Wolf has reformed) and using them to tell a series of genre stories (crime, spy and so forth). More recently, The Unwritten (Mike Carey and Peter Gross, 2009–present) engages with not just literary fiction but also metafiction and the dialectic of truth and fiction. If Sandman is “a machine for telling stories” (Gaiman) and is timeless in its “endless” scope and mythological themes, then The Unwritten is a machine for reflecting upon them and is tied firmly to the context and themes of the present day. Publishers Weekly claimed it was “sketched with crafty allusions to classic literature, but also neatly subverted the celebrity-worship manias of fantasy fandom and questioned the very nature of storytelling itself ” (Carey and Gross 2011a: 1). The Unwritten tells the story of Tom, son of author Wilson Taylor, whose “Tommy Taylor” novels are children’s literature blockbusters (a la Harry Potter). Reality and fantasy merge via the belief of some crazed fans that “Tom is Tommy,” alongside conflict with secret cabal “The Unwritten,” who control the telling of stories (Rudyard Kipling’s decline in popularity and the deaths of his children are shown to be due to refusing to work with them). Tom’s quest to find out the truth about his identity and his purpose (which hinges on his knowledge of locative literature: that is, places in the “real” world that inspired famous fiction) is doubled by stories and characters from both real and fictional novels (from Dickens to the Tommy Taylor novels themselves),

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as are companions Lizzie Hexam/Jane Waxman/Sue Sparrow and Richie Savoy/ Peter Price. Intertextual and extratextual references litter The Unwritten, which self-consciously uses its connections with Harry Potter ( J.K. Rowling 1997– 2007), The Books of Magic (Neil Gaiman et al. 1990–01; John Ney Reiber et al. 1994–2000) and The Worst Witch ( Jill Murphy 1974; 1980) to set the stage. Carey and Gross mine the literary canon for their symbolism, pulling in fictional and biographical elements such as the Villa Diodati, Moby Dick, Jud Süß and its perverted 1940 cinematic adaptation, and many others. However, The Unwritten’s use of intertextuality to create a “Frankenstein’s monster” of literary metafiction is made clear through contrast with more derivative uses, for example in the fake Wilson Taylor novel that seems about to be released in Volume 3. In a single page, the comic displays how this forged novel steals from Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy (“Powder,” “emerald telescope,” “blade of subtlety”), George Lucas’s Star Wars prequels (“metacondrians”) and Terry Pratchett’s Discworld (“Wuff ”) (Carey and Gross 2011a). The text is concerned with articulating and demonstrating the power of stories and their effect on people. As Steven Hall points out in his “Introduction” to the third trade paperback: The world is made of stories. The world is driven by stories […] History is a story. Society is a story. Countries are stories. Your plans are stories. Your desires are stories. Your own memories are stories—narratives selected, trimmed and packaged by the hidden machinery in your mind. Human beings are story engines. We have to be—to understand stories is to understand the world [Hall in Carey and Gross 2011a: 3].

The Unwritten proceeds to interrogate the underlying dialectic of power/abuse that stories (as fictional creations that frequently supercede historical “truth”) thrive upon. Stories are powerful: Madame Rausch demonstrates the terrifying might of the tales told in her puppet theatre through their ability to control Lizzie and Richie (2011b), and Gilgamesh’s arm “is stronger than any man’s” “Because of the stories” (2012b). Richie realizes this, saying: “I’m not in control of any of this. I’ve got the same choice a rat in a maze gets. Or a puppet, like in a dream. But I went through the moves, anyway. Puppets always do. Even when you show them the strings” and concluding that “If I’ve got to be a character in a story I’m going to write it myself ” (2013). Stories are thus shown to be performative as fiction creates accepted “truth.” Similarly, Wilson Taylor reveals that he pushed Tom’s mother “out of your life. With a story” (2011a) that rewrote her as his mistress, and he who tells the stories thus has power (Richie uses this to his advantage later in the series). In the “Willowbank Tales” one-shots, thug Pauly Bruckner has been

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trapped by Wilson Taylor in a series of children’s stories by Eliza Mae Hertford: a thinly-veiled parody of A.A. Milne’s Winnie the Pooh series, which Pauly (renamed Mr. Bun the rabbit) names “the Hundred-Acre Gulag!” The first installment (2010b) shows Pauly trying to escape by confronting Eliza’s diegetic form (a reference to A.A. Milne’s Christopher Robin) and learning about the “negative space” of children’s fiction, which contains the “things it can’t acknowledge. Truths it can imply, or flirt with, but never say out loud.” This takes the form of a literal cellar “full of the sins and sorrows of the world” into which Pauly is cast. But even this space becomes a diegesis, in the next oneshot, as Pauly encounters and exploits a band of creatures on a quest to reach the cellar door (2011b). The relationship between narration and diegesis here is interesting. In the first one-shot (2010b) a powerful narrator (external to this diegesis, but who we identify as Wilson Taylor, who has trapped Pauly there) controls the text: returning Pauly to Willowbank despite multiple escape attempts, asserting his name as “Mr. Bun” despite his repeated contradictions of this, and smoothing over his anger and psychosis (“It was quite usual for Mr. Bun to sulk in his hole for a day or more, after one of his little adventures went wrong”). In the second one-shot (2011b), however, the narration is intradiegetic, coming from the Quark Maiden, who praises Pauly as an unselfish leader while the diegesis shows him as an exploitative liar in its visuals and dialogue. The Willowbank tales are a hypodiegesis within the main world of The Unwritten, but the comic plays with the boundaries between these worlds: for example when Tom’s acts are doubled by those of Tommy in Wilson’s books. Within the main diegesis, characters reflect on the power of stories to change events (“We might not notice, if we’ve been changed” [2010b]) incorporating a reflection on retconning here from the diegetic perspective—which is precisely the point of The Unwritten—everything is diegesis. The boundaries between fact and fiction are problematized and interrogated over and over again; characters (generally children) explicitly identify “truth” as a subjective concept, such as Cosi (“Sometimes… even if it’s a game, it’s real, too. Sometimes it’s not up to you to choose” [2010b]) or the child Lizzie (“For-real-true is only true now. Story-true is true forever” [2011b]). Mr. Pullman has the ability to reduce “real” things to letters that melt away, in an echo of Grant Morrison’s The Invisibles where characters perceive words as real. Even the intertextual references that the book rests on are complicated by being depicted as multiple, for example the appearance of Frankenstein’s monster in a section entitled “Very Like James Whale,” referencing the 1931 movie starring Boris Karloff. Pinocchio’s perpetual repetition (“I want to be real! I want to be real!” [2011b]) seems significant here—what is less certain is what “real” actually means.

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Artistic style, font and coloring are generally used to distinguish between the different diegetic levels. For example, Volume 6 (2012b) includes pages by Rick Geary in a postmodern interpretation of woodcut style art that delineates a flashback scene. However, the comic also uses style to misdirect at various points For example, Tommy hides behind a promotional cutout of himself in Volume 3 (2011a), and a page in Volume 4 shows Madame Rausch’s nun puppet rather than the character (2011b). Both instances mislead the reader at a quick glance and blur the lines between fiction and reality. Subversive combinations of words and pictures emphasize this still further, as in Volume 1 where Tom says “This isn’t a horror movie, Lizzie. I’ll be right back” (2010a): ironically mobilizing horror clichés in his second sentence while the accompanying picture depicts Mr. Pullman engaged in bloody murder emphasized by an abstract red background. The falsity of the comics medium is commented upon here, and other pages both comment on and enact this explicitly. The rituals enacted by the Church of Tommy expose the link between time and space in speeches such as “Our sister has gone before us. To the denouement. The inmost cave. The end of act three. The payoff. The punchline. The passion” (2013). However, storytelling becomes “reality” in other issues which demonstrate the workings of the medium while talking about them. For example, narrative boxes describe the visual content of the panels (“Tight close-up on the door of the house. Old crime scene tape on the floor. Zoom out a little maybe, to show the emptiness. Nothing moves. Absolute silence. Hold that shot. And hold it. For the longest time. But not forever. Nothing lasts forever. I should know” [2013]). Here, the text slows the pace of reading, enacting the pacing, and bringing into being the scene it describes. Space becomes time through this metafictional comment on the narrative methods of the medium. In other instances, narration and dialogue interact, and the typographic boundaries between the two are insufficient to keep them separate: for example in the discussion between Sergeant Sandra “Didge” Patterson and the unicorn she is riding. Didge’s interior monologue narrates “The nick of time is a weird concept. How do you even measure it?” to which the unicorn responds: “Surely it’s defined in relation to ambient events” and she replies “Hey! Interior monologues are private” (2013). The subjectivity of reality (as composed of/by stories) and the narrative methods we use to do so are thereby foregrounded. The Unwritten #17 makes this explicit by being a self-proclaimed “Pick-a-Story” book in the style of the “Choose Your Own Adventure” books popular in the 1980s. It tells Lizzie’s back-story, which artist Peter Gross suggests is because “Lizzie, to me, is the one character that I think, going into it, I had one idea of her and Mike had another idea of her. She has been very illusive [sic] to me as we’ve worked on

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the book because I think in some way I never quite reconciled the different versions of her” (Renaud 2011). Critical response to this issue was varied, with some fans arguing it never quite realized its potential and remained limited in its story options, since the multiple pathways all end in the same place, with Wilson brainwashing Lizzie by one means or another (whether she has been previously abused or not). However others pointed out that the very irrelevance of Lizzie’s back-story is what was important: “Now, these subtle variations serve a purpose, partly because they’re all possible and because they all don’t actually matter. It’s an interesting commentary on how all of the details provide are ‘real’ and how none are. It’s like Lizzie is a character that’s been retconned/rebooted a few times with the details changed” (Nevett 2010). The reading experience is reflexively echoed in the issue’s content, for example as Tom comments “She just chose the story she needs right now” after waking the adult Lizzie from her coma and promising to try and be “Tommy” for her (2011a). Reading as experience and issues of belief are cited here, and also hold the key to Tom’s first realization as to where his power comes from, after multiple cliffhangers and effective debunkings have been used, for example by Frankenstein’s monster in Volume 3. The whale Tom seeks is ultimately revealed through an image of the whale that is shared between stories. Rather than the leviathan creature encountered by Captain Ahab, Baron von Münchhausen or Sinbad, Tom realizes that what he has actually been hunting is Thomas Hobbes’s The Leviathan. As he clarifies: Hobbes’s whale was just a symbol, it stood for the power of the masses. A billion living things making up one huge entity. I think you’re that. Kind of—the collective unconscious, or something. The fictional unconscious. The minds of all the millions of people who read my father’s books. Or any books, maybe. All those minds, focused on him—on Tommy. And through Tommy, on me. […] You’re what Wilson plugged me into. I can use a magic wand because you believe—for as long as you’re reading the book—that Tommy can use a magic wand. I exist in the suspension of your disbelief [Carey and Gross 2011b].

As such, The Unwritten is a reflexive model of absorption that uses allegory and allusion to interrogate literary authenticity and the nature of belief and subjectivity. It draws upon literary tradition and critical understanding in order to demonstrate the power of telling stories, by telling stories. On one level it is an intertextual anthology of different stories that in turn draw on multiple literary references, disrupting clear generic boundaries. On another it is a gothic debate about the power of narrator, character and reader that problematizes the notion of a coherently bounded literary diegesis. It transgresses boundaries and breaks down borders not just between stories but between notions of “real” and “imaginary.”

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Stories, Layers and Atemporality The above analysis of The Unwritten and my previous discussion of Worlds’ End in Chapter 4 are just two examples of the ways in which comics use embedded diegetic levels. Story layers may be apparent or hidden, and can reflect or comment upon each other in a variety of different ways. However, older horror comics and DC Vertigo texts both often rely on circular stories to reinforce this point, as the following examples show. “Cycle of Horror” (Chamber of Chills Magazine #16, Eadeh 1953) is a five-page pre–Code horror story. Greg Vantucci is a gangster who murdered his partner “Fingers Watson” so he could keep all the loot from their last mugging. Dying, Fingers shoots at Greg and cries out “You dirty rat! I’ll be waiting!” however Greg retorts that the bullet has only grazed him, and, after burning Fingers’ clothes and laying his corpse on the bed, leaves him “to the rats!” But no matter how hard he tries to find a bed for the night in various hotels, Greg always ends up back in the room where he killed Fingers, whose decomposing body is indeed being eaten by rats, and finally discovers he is already dead and this is his punishment in hell. The story signals its intentions from the introductory narration (“‘At last!’ He sighed. ‘I’ve escaped!’ And then he saw the shrivelled body, and the feet, and the rats, and the dirt, he saw his victim again… and again in a … CYCLE of HORROR!”) It also uses its layout to reinforce this meaning: Greg leaves Fingers lying on the bed with just his feet in shot in the panel background as he exits the room, however all his subsequent returns are drawn with Greg in the background and Fingers’ feet (being eaten down to the bone by rats) in the foreground. In the final two panels Fingers gets up off the bed and the hotel bellboy (along with a cast of laughing observers) informs them both “You’re here to spend all eternity reenacting the scene of your crime, just as Watson is!” The panel composition (as an inversion of the angle used when Greg leaves the room) and its revisitation of the same horrible image multiple times reinforces the story’s atemporal content. “Examination Nerves” (Misty #47, 1978) is a circular four-page story in which protagonist Sheila wakes from a bad dream (which she puts down to stress about her German O Level exam), then gains a job as an au pair in Germany, only to end up being accused of murder in a scene taken straight from her nightmare. The story begins with Sheila experiencing a nightmare in which a foreign official is interrogating her (“Where were you when it happened? You know what happened, don’t you? You are lying, if you say you don’t!”). The title panel here takes up nearly half the page (forming a background to the others) and within it the official’s ghostly face, hovering over a sleeping Sheila, is repeated twice in an example of the de Luca effect. The story then

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shows Sheila passing her exam, getting a job in Germany, and undergoing a long journey in which she struggles to get to her employer’s house. Upon finally finding it seemingly deserted, she falls asleep in a chair and then wakes to be told that there has been a murder (we see a body being carried out). The story closes with a similar panel to its beginning, in which a German official leans over her asking the same questions, with his face again repeated twice in a ghostly manner. However, the composition is a mirror image of the first panel: whereas Sheila is shown lying asleep with her eyes closed and arms extended, on the left-hand side of the first panel; in the closing panel she is pictured on the right, with eyes very wide open, and her face in extreme close-up. This mirroring allows the medium to reinforce the circular nature of the story, which ends without further exposition or explanation. The cover of Misty #47 promotes this story, showing two overlapping images of Sheila (asleep and awake) and the tagline “Nightmares sometimes come true!” As a whole, the story has a nightmarish quality: it is told entirely through angular panels that create a claustrophobic sense of terror, and Sheila’s struggle to find her employer’s house (walking up long winding pathways and not knowing which fork to take) enhances this. The style and layout thereby suggests a further possibility: perhaps Sheila is still trapped within her nightmare, in the manner of Sandman’s “eternal waking.” Her tormented journey, the ghostly style of the official’s face, and lack of any other exposition supports this; however the contrast between the panel layouts, Sheila’s closed/open eyes, and the cover-as-paratext suggest otherwise. While inconclusive, the storytelling process here certainly contains the potential for atemporality. Returning briefly to the embedded stories of Worlds’ End, another of Mistress Veltis’s tales told at level V within Worlds’ End exemplifies the freedom possible in comics and how the medium’s content can utilize this. One of the stories she tells is reported by Hermas as being about “a coach-full of prentices and a master, swept away from Litharge by dark magics, who took their refuge at a tavern, where the price of haven was a tale” (#55, Gaiman et al. 1994: 20). This refers to the level II story that is happening “now”; and this brief insertion of the current level II story into level V disrupts notions of time and makes the storytelling process “circular and endless” (Bender 1999: 184), again blurring the internal/external as is also seen in Derrida’s notion of the crypt.

Conclusion Hogle says that Gothic’s absorption of texts (incorporating the high and the low) is “about its own blurring of different levels of discourse” (2002: 9). Through the gothic narrative potential of the medium, these comics extend

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this blurring to their diegeses, in some instances reconstructing these as atemporal and circular; in others creating layers of embedded meaning within which different diegetic levels interact with each other. Hogle (2002: 15) identifies an “insistent artificiality” in the earliest gothic texts (Walpole et al), which depict the ghosts of things that are already fictional. These comics use absorption to interrogate authenticity: creating their own Frankenstein’s monster: “a fiction as sewn together from previous types of different writing as the creature is fabricated from different portions and classes of material bodies” (2002: 6). As noted in the previous chapter, Gothic can be easily defined as a commodity. Born from the success of six “flagship” titles that were themselves rewritings of much older properties, Vertigo was conceived as a space with a strange dialectic: a strong author function versus intertextual collaboration and reuse. Its model of reinterpreting and rewriting old properties and incorporating cultural and literary references arguably became commoditized and the “brand image” of the line (subsequently adopted by more mainstream comics). Catherine Spooner (2007) deconstructs Gothic’s commodities; arguing against viewing the genre and its practices as marginal or as a “dark mirror” of the dominant ideology. Instead, Spooner (2007) argues that there can be no “authentic Goth” because Goth possesses no original. Since its literary beginnings it has been a series of reinventions and revisitations of previously existing tropes and themes. She discusses the appearance of gothic themes and ideas in mainstream culture, arguing that this commodification of the grotesque (horror themed pubs and events, abject art, shows such as Buffy) is not an example of millennial anxiety but instead a “camp performance.” In this light, the absorption used by these Vertigo comics (as performances and interrogations of in/authenticity) is truly gothic.

8. Vampires and the Penetrative Bite and Gaze “Oh my God what’s wrong with your eyes?”—Preacher

This chapter will summarize some key developments of the vampire in western culture and media, from the bestial to the decadent to the infantilized, and will discuss these shifts in terms of gothic tropes such as inversion and the crypt. It will also note some cross-over points with the zombie figure for further discussion in Chapter 9, particularly regarding the eye as motif. Rather than “Oh what big teeth you have,” some revaluations of the vampire in comics seem to focus on the eye: perhaps appropriately for a medium once notorious for the injury to the eye motif (as discussed in Chapter 2). It will be argued here that an ocular focus contributes to comics’ emphasis of the vampire’s mesmerizing and animalistic qualities over its oral and sexualized elements, developing the tradition. The popularity of the vampire means that a comprehensive survey is beyond the scope of this chapter (Eighteen-Bisang et al. list over 11,000 vampire appearances in comics between 1935–2000). Instead this chapter establishes a general critical and literary background with reference to key texts and theory, before closely discussing selected comics. After surveying classic vampire literature and early folklore, it considers an indicative selection of pre– and post–Code appearances and then concludes with detailed case studies of J.M. DeMatteis’ Lord Andrew Bennett (I…Vampire!), Garth Ennis’s Irish hell raiser Cassidy (Preacher), Neil Gaiman’s Corinthian (Sandman), Mike Carey’s Count Ambrosio and Richie Savoy (The Unwritten), and Scott Snyder’s Skinner Sweet and Pearl Jones (American Vampire). It will apply the critical model put forward in Part Two to demonstrate the ways in which these comics enhance the differing approaches to the vampire that they offer: as subversion, abstraction and metafictional metaphor. It argues that these comics’ postmodern features and tendency towards self-awareness has made their vampires metasymbolic as these characters encompass the history and various 168

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incarnations of the vampire and suggest new ways to approach this archetypal monster.

Vampires in Literature and Culture Almost all early folklore traditions have their own version of the vampire figure. Gelder (1994) places particular emphasis on the Greek and Slavonic traditions while Davenport-Hines (1998) suggests the literary archetype is drawn primarily from a seventeenth-century Hungarian version. Given the initial appearance of the literary vampire in the work of British and Irish writers, the Irish Sidhe (the Celtic “fey,” sometimes known as the “gentry,” some of whom drank blood) may also be a source, and the Irish “Dearg-Dul” are also cited by writers such as Summers, Maberry and Russo. According to Maberry (2006) the name means “red blood sucker” and the Dearg-Dul sleep in graves, although it is not clear if they are the undead or a kind of faerie. They are beautiful and charismatic, possess supernatural strength, and can be killed if trapped in their graves by a heavy cairn of stones and holly (Russo 2008: 38). British and Irish vampire folklore may have its basis in sociology (the aristocracy parasitic upon peasants), xenophobia (fear of Turkish invaders, who for religious reasons rejected the cross), and hearsay of tales of vampire bats found in the new world. By the eighteenth century the idea of a corpse controlled and animated by the devil had become linked with suicides (who had forfeited the protection of the church and a burial on consecrated land and so were often buried with a stake through the heart) (Davenport-Hines 1998, 230). In addition to these possible sources, historical figures such as Vlad Tepes (Vlad the Impaler, c. 1431–76) or Countess Elizabeth Bathory (1560–1614) are also frequently named as inspirations for Stoker’s Count Dracula. A mix of religious traditions, myth and legend, historical events and ideology thereby underpins the vampire. Carol Senf quotes Montague Summers’s description of the vampire in early folklore: A Vampire is generally described as being exceedingly gaunt and lean with a hideous Countenance.… When, however, he has satiated his lust for warm human blood his body becomes horribly puffed and bloated, as though he were some great leech gorged and replete to bursting … the nails are always curved and crooked, often well-nigh the length of a great bird’s claw, the quicks dirty and foul with clots and gouts of black blood. His breath is unbearably fetid and rank with corruption, the stench of the charnel [Summers cited in Senf 1988: 19].

Subsequently a literary strand emerged that from its beginning held the vampire as a figure of suffering, a cursed flâneur eternally wandering the earth,

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a stance that Cooper (1988) notes is epitomized by the Byronic hero. Byron’s poem “The Giaour” (1813) makes explicit reference to the vampire in these terms, and Gelder argues this served as one source of inspiration (along with “A Fragment”) for the first vampire story.1 John Polidori’s “The Vampyre” (1819) is commonly held to be the first story to fuse the disparate elements of vampirism (life after death; seduction and drinking blood) into a coherent literary figure. Conceived at the Villa Diodati during the summer of 1816 (as Polidori’s entry into the notorious “ghost story” competition for which Mary Shelley began writing Frankenstein and Byron penned “A Fragment”), the tale was initially attributed to Byron, apparently due to the name and demeanor of its vampire antagonist Lord Ruthven (named after Caroline Lamb’s Byronic character in Glenarvon [1816]). Polidori’s introduction situates his story within the “fact” of folklore tradition, making gothic claims for its authenticity. Senf (1988) notes that Polidori was the first to add the seductive strand to the vampire’s depiction and to depict him as an aristocrat. Polidori’s narrative is focalized through a young Englishman, Aubrey, and holds Lord Ruthven at a distance. Ruthven is inaccessible to Aubrey, his peers, society and to the reader: a fact that is first emphasized by Polidori’s description of his eyes: Those who felt this sensation of awe, could not explain whence it arose: some attributed it to the dead grey eye, which, fixing upon the object’s face, did not seem to penetrate, and at one glance to pierce through to the inward workings of the heart; but fell upon the cheek with a leaden ray that weighed upon the skin it could not pass [Polidori 1816].

While critics have variously approached “The Vampyre” as a derivative piece of writing (Skarda 1989; Barbour 1992), or an ironic reworking of Byronic tropes (Gelder 1994), its treatment of the eye motif emphasizes its antagonist’s idiosyncrasies. Ruthven’s eye is “dead” and “grey” (a color that reinforces the sense of decay) but, rather than being penetrative, his glance is unnatural precisely because it is not: it makes him inscrutable in a dual sense (both incapable of scrutinizing others and also/because of this, closed off to his peers). The use of “leaden,” connoting “dead” weight and a heavy metal, also seems contextually significant in light of Varney, the Vampire, whose eyes are like “tin” (see below). “The Vampyre” also contains ambivalence as regards the vampire’s fate, as the text ends with Aubrey’s death and Lord Ruthven’s triumph, concluding with the melodramatic statement “Lord Ruthven had disappeared, and Aubrey’s sister had glutted the thirst of a Vampyre!” There is no staking here and Ruthven escapes retribution and justice. Some twenty years later James Malcolm Rymer’s Varney, the Vampire (1845–47), a Penny Dreadful serial in 220 chapters, became a sensation. Rymer adds more of today’s established tropes (fangs, hypnotism and superhuman

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strength) to the vampire archetype, although others (such as aversion to daylight, garlic, crosses and so forth) are not yet present. Sir Francis Varney, the titular vampire, is described by Hughes (2012: 200) as “a figure of comprehensive—rather than simply sexual—violence” whose attacks read “more like an act of rape or violent physical assault.” Gelder (1994) also notes that Varney is introduced as a giant, monstrous creature, amid thunder and lightning, but that his monstrosity becomes more ambiguous and the character is presented as more likeable as the series continues. Along with animalism and violence, Varney is also one of the earliest examples of the sympathetic vampire, who loathes his condition, and the series ends (somewhat abruptly) as he casts himself into a volcano, “tired and disgusted with a life of horror” (Rymer 2010: 1166). Critical approaches to Varney have frequently focused on inconsistencies of plot, character, style, and criticized its lapses into farce or filler (see for example Twitchell (1981: 123), who describes it as “one of the most redundant, exorbitant, digressive, thrilling, tedious, and fantastic works ever written”). Rance (1991) and Gelder (1994) identify a critique of capitalism in Varney (as Sir Francis hoards money; also extended to Count Dracula’s stock of gold). More interestingly, Gelder (1994: 21) also comments on Varney’s “metallic” eyes, which are like “polished tin”—descriptions that he aligns with Baldick’s analysis of nineteenth-century Gothic’s use of Promethean and machine imagery. The eye motif is used here (in keeping with its social and literary context, such as Frankenstein) to comment on the dangers of machinery and new technology. Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu’s novella Carmilla (1872) is most frequently approached using queer theory, with critics analyzing the relationship between Laura and Carmilla in terms of abject motherhood and sexual anxiety (Copjec 1991). Vampirism’s sexual dimensions are made explicit via the scenes between Carmilla and Laura in her bedroom and biting takes place on the breast not the neck. In this text, the vampiric eye is described as “languid” and “burning”: qualities that connote beauty and sexuality. They are significant since languor is the quality that leads Laura to conclude Carmilla is female (after wondering if she is in fact male) (Le Fanu 1998: 91)—as such, the eye motif in Carmilla emphasizes problematic gender and transgressive sexuality, arguably the key themes of this story. Both Varney and Carmilla were strong influences on Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1897), within which all the vampire tropes mentioned above are collected, and which therefore acts as something of a bridge between past and present treatments of the vampire; so much so that Dracula is often viewed as the vampire text and treated as a synecdoche for the entire tradition. Stoker’s infamous Count pulls together elements taken from Polidori, Rymer and Le Fanu such

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as aristocratic characterization, sensational violence, and problematic gender and sexuality. Alongside this, Stoker also introduced new vampire attributes such as the lack of reflection, aversion to sunlight, and a fear of garlic and crucifixes. Tensions (between old/new, natural/unnatural, male/female, death/ life, and animal/human, to name but a few) underlie the whole of Dracula. Even its polyphonic narrative structure holds key events in tension and ultimately absent: instead they are retold multiple times, through the eyes of different characters (for example Dracula’s attack on Mina). The Count’s character is constructed in a similar manner: over-defined yet elusive. He is animalistic (with teeth “pointed like an animal’s,” he moves like a “lizard,” and has “hairy” hands) yet also aristocratic, polite, even charming. His terrifying strength and visage are balanced against a sexual dimension (“his face was hard, and cruel, and sensual”). Contradictions are foregrounded, such as his gendering (“pale and hairy” hands and long nails), and in this regard Gelder (1994: 70) also cites Dracula’s attack on Mina, which he argues can be interpreted in multiple ways: as forced fellatio, maternal feeding, or menstruation. He points out that this scene is under-coded and interrupted, as is Dracula’s death, and contrasts this with the over-coded and overstated images of penetration and staking at Lucy’s death. The Count’s “red eyes” and “hypnotic gaze” reflect this indeterminacy of meaning—Dracula is at once terrifying yet attractive, demonic yet human, hypnotic but repulsive. Fred Botting notes that Dracula’s gaze paralyses Harker as he is about to stake the Count in his coffin: “The vampire’s gaze hollows out the secure identity of the middle-class Englishman, devastating illusions of rectitude and virility” (Botting 2008: 42). Dracula’s eyes provoke contradiction, like the text itself: they prevent Harker from completing his plan while simultaneously cementing his conviction in it. Critical responses to Dracula are too numerous to detail here, although two excellent starting points are Dracula: Contemporary Critical Essays (ed. Glennis Byron 1999) and Post/modern Dracula (ed. John S. Bak 2007). The work of Gelder, Waller and Auerbach cited here also contains interesting summaries of (and responses to) earlier criticism. In the main, critical approaches to the text fall into three main areas: psychoanalytic, textual and historical, and focus primarily on its depictions of gender, sexuality and society. The tensions identified within these areas are enhanced by Dracula’s multiple voices, creating a polysemous narrative. Gregory Waller (1986) uses Dracula as an entry point into the vampire myth and as a means to discuss its development since early folklore. He argues that in many vampire texts the weapons used and the way in which the return to normality is achieved are often the most significant elements. Waller draws out the emphasis Dracula places on family (all the hunters have a weak or dam-

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aged family structure) and the banding together of a team of vampire hunters representing dichotomies such as old/young, men/women, old/new class and, with the final addition of the Harkers, also England/America. His textual reading focuses on issues of gender, class and society, claiming “the mutilation and murder of the undead Lucy are ritual acts that preserve society” (1986: 37) though pointing out that by committing these deeds the group alienate themselves from the boundaries and beliefs of Victorian England. A reversed (but similar) process is apparent later in Dracula when the male vampire hunters revert to their “codes of chivalry” which results in Mina being attacked by the Count (38). Waller’s reading is of interest since it demonstrates early points of crossover with zombie stories: traditions must be ignored and new social norms created if the protagonists are to survive. Characters must ignore sentimentality, cross boundaries and commit violent acts to save themselves and their loved ones. An implicit critique of society therefore underlies these gothic stories, as I will argue. The German horror film Nosferatu (F.W. Murnau, 1922) is the first (unauthorized) adaptation of Dracula, hence its transformation of the titular character into the rat-like Count Orlock, whose bald head, pointed ears, long claws, hooked nose and protruding front teeth make him appear more animalistic than seducer.2 Other classic adaptations such as Dracula (Tod Browning, 1931) and The Horror of Dracula (Terence Fisher, 1958) also move away from the sexualized themes of Stoker’s novel. Waller’s survey of twentieth-century Dracula adaptations identifies a reliance on ritual and a critique of gendered relationships and familial structures. He also identifies “a movement from Stoker’s closed ending to a progressively more open ending, from resolution and muchdeserved reward to ambiguity and exhaustion or false security” in many of these films (1986: 168). However, he notes too that earlier vampire texts also contain this kind of openness (Laura continues to hear Carmilla’s step after her death; Lord Ruthven escapes at the ending of “The Vampyre”) and concludes that both the closed and open ending are available options at any point, but that one may be the expected choice during a given period. Waller refuses to invent a simple trajectory towards more open endings in vampire fiction, in contrast to Nina Auerbach’s (1995) study of the vampire. Auerbach argues that a process of humanization is apparent in vampire fiction, demonstrating that in place of early bestial, animalistic and aristocratic versions, the twentieth-century vampire becomes increasingly sexual, decadent and humanized. She traces the figure’s development over the last two centuries, arguing that it has been repeatedly reinvented: first as a singular, charming f(r)iend, then a predator set apart, and ultimately re-humanized in the twentieth century. Auerbach and Gelder both cite Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire (1976) as a key text in this regard due to its creation of the narrating vampire

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protagonist. Whereas Carol Senf notes that Dracula “is never seen objectively and never permitted to speak for himself ” (1979: 95), Rice’s vampires tell their own stories and many convey ambivalence and reluctance towards their plight. Hughes (2012: 37) describes Louis’s “turn” as a “sensual awakening” that focuses on his new abilities to see (“I saw as a vampire” [Rice 1977: 24–5] “It was as if I had only just been able to see colors and shapes for the first time” [Rice 1990: 102–3]). Hughes (2012) argues that sight is used to invoke the language of love (the vampire sees everything as an object of desire) but that this is simultaneously exposed as an attribute of vampiric sight, not a quality of the object being surveyed, thus emphasizing subjectivity. Allucquère Stone also discusses the use of the gaze in Rice’s books, calling it “the new Dark Gift”: the ability to see the workings of things and thus their artificiality (1995: 182). In this sense the vampire’s gaze is technological and the archetype begins to absorb the posthuman. Fred Botting summarizes Stone’s argument: “The horrifying sight of the vampiric eye becomes a place of attraction rather than repulsion, the site of new, plural projections” (Botting 2008: 43). From the above brief analyses of Varney, Carmilla and Dracula, it seems that textual ambivalence has been inscribed in the vampire from its beginnings. However, as our familiarity with this type of narrative increases, it seems fair to argue that depictions and adaptations are going to modify and innovate: “…every retelling of the novel [Dracula], reveals new ways in which the story can be told, new emphases, additional options and choices, details and events whose potential for significance suddenly becomes apparent” (Waller 1986: 171). As such, although the Byronic hero model that formed the basis of the violent, sexualized (and sometimes reluctant) vampire has been present from its literary beginnings, the archetype’s sympathetic elements have become more explicit in contemporary vampires. Films such as Blade (1998, based on a comic character who first appeared in Marvel’s The Tomb of Dracula #10, 1973) where a half-vampire protects humankind support this further; as, of course, do later revaluations such as Angel in Joss Whedon’s Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1997–2003) who would go on to have his own eponymous show (1999– 2004). A (gendered) ideological stance that privileges romantic love and abstinence is apparent: vampires become symbols of eternal love and sexual intercourse is once more reconfigured as dangerous (Buffy, Twilight). Vampires as love objects previously also featured in 1980s movies such as Near Dark (1987) and The Lost Boys (1987) whose male protagonists inadvertently become involved in vampirism through sexual attraction. Vampire gangs feature in both films, which resituate the figure in youth culture as a seductive (yet ultimately dangerous) object of desire. Subsequently, Francis Ford Coppola’s Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992) also explicitly makes reference to this ideology, both through its tagline “Love Never Dies” and (despite the

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title’s claims of faithfulness to Stoker’s novel) its alteration of plot and character to create a love story between Mina and Dracula (of the sacrificial type enacted by Ellen in Nosferatu). However, the original movie Buffy the Vampire Slayer was also released the very same year; on the one hand adhering to the vampire tradition by complicating gender norms (as female slayer Buffy repeatedly saves her weedy boyfriend Pike, albeit under the patriarchal guidance of a Watcher), but simultaneously rejecting the ideology of dangerous desire that seems to dominate other texts. Two years later, Interview with the Vampire (1994) used glamorous actors Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise and a sentimentalized presentation of eternal life as cursed and tormented (not least due to complications of parenthood and sexuality) to return audiences to the dominant ideological view of vampires as embodiments of queer sexuality: a relevant subtext considering the cultural context of the early 1990s. Multiple critics have noted the ways in which Coppola’s film echoes the cultural concerns apparent in Dracula, where the link between feeding and sex has been read as representing topical anxiety about syphilis, a symbolic strand that is emphasized in Coppola’s movie through the use of magnified shots of blood cells, invoking this parallel in the contemporary context of HIV and AIDS (Botting 1996; Bak 2007). As such, these fin de siècle films contain very different treatments of vampiric ambivalence, demonstrating the type of multiplicity captured in Dracula and the truth of Waller’s statement that, while “expected choices” may exist, the vampire tradition allows for innovation and multiple interpretations. By way of further example, alongside these figures sit decadent and hedonistic vampires, for example in S.P. Somtow’s Vampire Junction (1984) and Poppy Z. Brite’s Lost Souls (1992). Somtow’s MTV subject matter (Timmy Valentine and his adoring fans), if not his “splatterpunk” style, is notably paralleled in Anne Rice’s The Vampire Lestat (1985) where Lestat becomes a rock and roll star—and Brite’s vampire characters are also in a band, from which the novel gets its title. Vampiric celebrity and adulation are parodied here (as Botting (2007) identifies), and the emergence of vampire cultures in these books (Rice and Brite’s vampires live in self-styled families and communities) point towards the expansion, normalization and diversification of the vampire tradition. Auerbach (1995: 156) also comments on the insularity of the contemporary vampire, citing the work of Anne Rice, whose vampires have their own, non-human history and separatist mythology, and a complete lack of social consciousness, and Stephen King’s lawless vampires as equally iconoclastic. A similar process is apparent in Joss Whedon’s Buffy the Vampire Slayer, where Angel is initially portrayed as a singular exception (the only vampire with a soul) but by the end of the series the “good” vampire has been normalized through Buffy’s relationship with Spike. The use of technology to make Spike

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into a good vampire, before the restoration of his soul, also echoes the redefinition of the zombie that will be discussed in the following chapter. Newer texts have merged the vampire and human worlds more completely. HBO television series True Blood (2008–present, based on Charlaine Harris’s Southern Vampire series of books, 2001–2012) takes place in a world where vampires have been living openly among humans for two years since the invention of the synthetic blood drink “Tru Blood.” The series explores and critiques this idea, for example referencing legislation such as the Vampire Rights Amendment, PR organization the American Vampire League, and the prejudice that the “fangs” experience. Its other innovation is the idea that humans can take vampire blood (“V”) to get high. This is a move towards equalizing the positions of human and vampires, as both species are attacked and coveted by the other for their blood. True Blood is thus enabled to offer us vampires of all types and from all walks of life (fat, middle-aged vampires, hillbilly vampires and so forth) and as prey as well as predators, although notably its main vampire characters are all sexually attractive and powerful. Despite this, the series also offers a comment on the performativity of vampirism via the vampire bar Fangtasia, a “tourist trap” where humans can get “up close” to a vampire. Fangtasia features in both the books and the films, and is presented as a self-conscious performance of vampirism; literally giving the human punters “what they expect.” Its name (punning on Disney’s “Fantasia”) and logo (depicted in the television series in red neon script reminiscent of the “Coca Cola” logo) both signal consumerism, capitalism and fakery. All the criticism surveyed thus far has demonstrated that Gothic is a performative mode that frequently foregrounds and problematizes its own processes to enact terror. Auerbach locates this performativity specifically within the vampire figure, pointing out that “his role is to expose the insubstantiality of the barriers that differentiate men from women, death from life” (1995: 183). Vampirism as performance is key to contemporary feminist readings of the vampire as both Other and ourselves, for example the work of Gina Wisker (2001: 172) who links Rice’s vampirism with notions of gender performance in contemporary society. This follows the work of Judith Butler (1990: x) by invoking the natural/unnatural dichotomy to question definitions of gender. As Butler argues, gender is not only a cultural performance, but “also the discursive/cultural means by which ‘sexed nature’ or ‘a natural sex’ is produced and established as ‘prediscursive,’ prior to culture, a politically neutral surface on which culture acts […] This production of sex as the prediscursive ought to be understood as the effect of the apparatus of cultural construction designated by gender” (7). In this way vampirism not only mirrors gender performance but also alerts us to the role of such performativity in constructing the prediscursive/natural (that is, humanity). Viewed from the perspective of

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gender studies, Fangtasia thus stands for commodity feminism, as the vampire “experience” is packaged, sold and consumed. Other contemporary interpretations of the vampire as social critique have also been suggested by modern critics, for example Marcus LiBrizzi (2003) who analyses the theories of David Icke with reference to vampirism. Icke’s Anunnaki, a reptilian race originating from another planet, have many links with vampire lore, including blood drinking, an extended lifespan and the ability to shape shift and hypnotize. The notion of space-travelling vampires living parasitic on multiple worlds also features in Garth Ennis’s run on Hellblazer, where John Constantine encounters the King of the Vampires who reveals that he has lived on many other worlds apart from this one: “Twenty billion years from now, when this place is eaten by its cooling sun, I’ll just go and find another one. And another. And another” (Ennis and Dillon 1998b: 49). LiBrizzi comments that Icke’s work “represents one of the most recent developments in the discourse of the vampire” but further identifies that “depictions of the Anunnaki by Icke contain none of the erotic allure and seductiveness that distinguish many vampire texts. Instead, the sexual bond between the Anunnaki and their victims is characterized by violence—rape, murder and satanic ritual” (LiBrizzi 2003). The replacement of sex with violence is used in Preacher and further supports a link between Icke’s theology and contemporary vampirism, as does an agenda of social commentary (also seen in J.G. Eccarius’s novel The Last Days of Christ the Vampire which comments on the Christian tradition as “a flock whose shepherd preys upon them” [Eccarius 1989]). My aim in surveying the above texts has been to establish the flexibility of the vampire archetype, and specifically to identify how the eye motif is made to reflect the priorities of each text. Gregory Waller (1986: 167) notes the focus on eyes in Polidori and Stoker’s work, and adds to this his analysis of subsequent movies including Bela Lugosi’s “squinting stare,” Christopher Lee’s “all-red or bloodshot eyes,” and the final image of Philip Saville’s Count Dracula (1977), which pans slowly in on the vampire’s face, ending on a single open eye before the final fade out. Gelder (1994) also points out that while Lugosi filmed in black and white (and so had to perfect a type of stare, rather than rely upon color), Lee’s red eyes were frequently emphasized by use of a dark set. While critics such as Roger Dadoun (1989: 55) have argued that Lee’s “penetrating look” and “piercing eyes” are examples of a “phallus fetish,” Waller (and Gelder) move beyond sexual interpretation. Waller (1986: 167) instead concludes that the vampire is “a mesmerist or a red-eyed animal” and might even be considered, in his waking moments, to be “omniscient; all of human life, including the viewer, comes under his gaze.” In adding my consideration of Varney and Carmilla to his work, I hope to have demonstrated that the

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vampiric gaze contains within it the same potential for adaptation and signification as the archetype itself—it is not always penetrating, but can stand for other things according to the priorities of the text. Gwyneth Peaty (2011: 110–111) notes a similar focus on the eyes in other contemporary treatments of the vampire and zombie, specifically Richard Matheson’s I am Legend (1954, also the 2007 movie) and Danny Boyle’s 28… films. These include repeated shots of eyes looking into microscopes or down rifle sights, ophthalmological tests to establish infection, heterochromia, and metaphor (“I won’t take my eyes off them”). She comments that the eye is shown to be flawed in all these scenarios and is represented through “a posthuman convergence of biological and technological optics,” for example as in the combination of human eye and rifle scope. Eyes are “both the organs that survey and those that are surveyed”—an example of gothic doubling that informs the treatment of both types of undead. Peaty (2011: 108) also notes the crossovers between vampires and zombies in Boyle’s 28… films, whose Infected, despite being most obviously aligned with the zombie in their loss of personal identity, uncontrollable violence and cannibalistic hunger, can also be read as vampires—they must feed on blood or they will die, and they in turn infect others by the exchange of blood. I am Legend also treats its antagonists as both vampire (they cannot go out in daylight and are obsessed with human blood) and zombie (they are framed as a mass of “single-minded flesh eaters”) although neither term is used. The focus on vampirism as a blood-borne inflection (apparent in some readings of Dracula as a metaphor for syphilis, and Francis Ford Coppola’s Dracula as a metaphor for AIDS, as discussed above) also reformulates the vampire as a (blood) parasite; implicitly drawing in pseudo-scientific metaphor—again, a tendency seen in other genres such as zombie fiction. In recent years Gothic’s most significant development has been an inversion or a transvaluation of moral issues (Hume 1969), but it seems that ambivalence and internal tension have always been present in vampire texts. Auerbach (1995) provides detailed analysis of the ways in which literary and cinematic changes to representations of vampires reflect the social and political climate, and this offers one explanation for the more explicit ambivalence of contemporary vampire texts. Notions of evil and monsters become less clear-cut and it is often unclear where audience sympathies are being directed. The humanization of the vampire can also be seen in part as a consequence of the postmodern Gothic’s overtly subcultural status. Emulation and adoration have brought the notion of the vampire closer than ever to humanity, aiding its progression from a simple outsider figure to an internalized element of ourselves, representing our darkest impulses and used to critique the same. Drawing on the work of N. Katherine Hayles (1999), Fred Botting argues that this

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development is emblematic of “the flight towards a disembodied and decontextualised posthumanity” and that contemporary identifications with the vampire thus consolidate “a recognisable image of consumerist humanity” (Botting 2008: 41). It will be argued that similar tendencies have structured the development of the zombie, and technological development underlies the trajectories of both traditions. In many ways these processes parallel the humanization of the superhero, where human elements have been incorporated to enable audience identification, while pseudo-science underpins their origins. Similarly, both the vampire and the zombie invoke the theme of fragmented identity in being both self and Other. This state (of self/Other) may be considered alongside that of the superhero/alter ego, as both incorporate antithetical notions. This chapter will now conclude with a discussion of vampires in comics, including close analysis of five titles whose vampires variously demonstrate subversion, abstraction and metafictional metaphor.

Vampires in Comics The CESNUR website contains a survey of vampire appearances in comics between 1935–2000 with over 11,000 entries (Eighteen-Bisang et al., ndat). Eighteen-Bisang et al. state that the first appearance of a vampire in comics is in “Doctor Occult, The Ghost Detective Part 2” (New Fun Comics #7, Leger and Reuths 1936—pseudonyms of Jerry Siegel & Joe Shuster). Dr. Occult is an investigator with psychic powers who takes on supernatural cases and Grost notes the literary roots of the “supernatural detective,” specifically in English ghost stories of the early twentieth century. Kaplan notes that in selected early story arcs Siegel and Shuster dressed Dr. Occult in a red cape and blue outfit and gave him the power of flight and super strength (More Fun Comics #14–16) as at this time Superman had not yet been contracted (Kaplan 2008: 7). The vampire here is “The Master”3 and both the story and this use of iconography clearly delineate good versus evil. In his discussion of pre–Code horror comics, Trombetta notes that taboo images of hunger were often used: “One of the most frequent images in these comics is the mouth of a starving predator, supernatural or otherwise, upper and lower lips linked by thick strands of saliva” (2010: 243). Trombetta points towards psychoanalytic theories and fantasies of oral aggression, along with social trauma such as real experiences of hunger from the war or the Depression, as well as hunger as an economic metaphor (“eat or be eaten”) as possible sources for such imagery. He notes the charisma of vampires in these early titles and identifies themes of sexual rivalry and sexual predators in titles such

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as “Vampires? Don’t Make Me Laugh!” (The Clutching Hand #1, Lazarus 1954, discussed below) and “Somewhere Waits the Vampire” ( Journey into Unknown Worlds #27, Reinman 1954).4 This story situates the vampire as a sexual being: the title panel shows the vampire Kraska and the human Sophia in a passionate embrace, which is the only way in which Kraska features in the story—he does not speak and appears only to ravish Sophia. The story is narrated by Sophia’s doting father whose attempts to kill Kraska (or “suppress the sexual energies of youth” [Trombetta 244]) result in the accidental death of his own daughter and his own demise from a heart attack. Here, as in some of the early vampire fiction discussed above, the vampire seems to triumph over humanity (Kraska is shown smiling in the final panel). However Trombetta argues that the story is also a depiction of covert racism, which is used to explain the daughter’s attraction to Kraska. Sophia claims “I love him, father! I don’t care what he is or that we are supposed to be enemies!” despite the embedded story in which her father tells her about the history of violence between vampires and humans. The story ends when she is killed by a silver bear trap he has set, and transforms in death into a vampire herself, with her father concluding: “She must’ve had tainted vampire blood in her veins… and I never knew it!” In this sense, it prefigures the reconceptualization of vampirism as “infection” (both social and literal) as already discussed. Truly, vampires are “all about the blood,” as both the source and object of the vampire’s hunger. In “Vampires? Don’t Make Me Laugh!” a Curator introduces the tale by addressing the reader directly both visually and verbally: “So you’re a reader of this magazine who doesn’t believe in vampires!” and then launching into the “authentic case” of Lisa Casmana. Lisa is a European refugee adopted by foster parents in America, however she carries the “vampire taint” and finds herself compelled to attack her boyfriends at the full moon, taking on the male role of sexual predator. Her attacks are shielded from view (either obscured within the panel, or taking place in the gutters) and Lisa herself is initially drawn without fangs and with very prominent blue eyes, as a model of femininity (2). Subsequently she is shown with fangs and bat wings and her arms become very hairy: destabilizing her gender as she continues to develop as a vampire. We return to the Curator’s diegetic level more than once during her tale, during which we the reader are also assigned a voice (“I still say the whole thing is nuts! But at least it ends happily!” [5]). This problematizes narrative identity by merging the reader with an implied character within the diegesis: sat in the professor’s office, with an embodied rather than disembodied perspective. Lisa’s story ends abruptly as, despite being deeply in love with him, the final panel shows her about to attack her husband. The final three panels of the story then reciprocate this action as the Curator reveals himself as a vampire and attacks the implied reader: breaking the fourth wall in a panel

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where his blue eyes, fangs and long nails are emphasized as he reveals “I get my prey from doubters like you!” (6). Vampires also feature in some tales in the 1970/80s House of… anthologies, such as “The Island of No Return” (House of Secrets #106, Albano and Niño 1973) which again uses an embedded story structure. Host Abel introduces the deathbed scene of a ship’s Captain in hospital, who tells “a tale of unbelievable horror” (1) which reporter Pete and detective Barney then muse upon. We then enter the hypodiegesis of the Captain’s tale, showing his shipwreck on an island, before jumping back to Pete and Barney’s commentary as Pete decides to investigate and visit the island. Here Pete recommences the story for the benefit of his pilot and the hypodiegesis resumes, revealing that the Captain’s employers (millionaire Julian Craxton and his family and friends) turned into vampires and attacked him, driving him into the sea, from where he was ultimately rescued clinging to some driftwood. The pilot scoffs at the tale, but ultimately discovers first a fish drained of blood, and then finds Pete being eaten by vampires. He escapes in his plane, which is revealed to be all part of the plan: the vampires decide to “permit him to return and tell his story […] those few who do believe will come here to investigate! Perhaps we will then allow another to escape—it will be a little game we shall play…” (7). A Hegelian dialectic of power is apparent here as these vampires need to be hunted in order to have access to more victims. However the tale closes with Abel revealing that the island has been targeted by the U.S. Air Force for HBomb testing, so the vampires’ triumph will be short-lived. The wartime reference seems an odd intrusion but perhaps its presence in a story about uneven power and the comeuppance of the rich offers a social comment and response to the trauma of the war on lower-class America. “Vampire” (House of Secrets #105, Fabe and Talaoc 1973) is a tale based on a series of plot reversals. It opens by introducing young “Willy Wonderful former child star and … vampire” (1) and his father, who investigate a mine despite warnings from a local prospector it is the home of a vampire. Their party all die during the course of the story, with the attacks (which take place at night) shown in blacked-out panels (that contain only shouts of “ARGGGHHH!” and “My neck!” [6]) rather than being consigned to the gutters. The tale then twists to reveal that it is Willy’s father who has killed them all, and he then kills Willy too in order to inherit his trust fund. However in another reversal the prospector then reappears to show him the way out of the mine, but transforms into the vampire, presumably about to wreak murderous revenge on their behalf. The reader must revalue the story’s opening and add in the assumed ending where the father receives poetic justice in order to recognize that the evil character is not the vampire, but the human who has plotted to kill his adopted son for so long.

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I…Vampire! The most famous vampire tale in the House of… anthologies is, of course, “I…Vampire!,” created by J.M. DeMatteis with art by Thomas Sutton, which would be serialized across 24 issues (published between #290–319, 1981–83, and scripted by DeMatteis, Bruce Jones, Dan Mishkin and Gary Cohn). Protagonist Lord Andrew Bennett is a “reluctant vampire” (like Interview’s Louis and Buffy’s Angel) whose mission (set in the present day) is to undo the harm he has caused by creating the vampire Mary, Queen of Blood (whose vampire clan “The Blood Red Moon” is now intent on world domination) back in 1591. Bennett drinks only the blood of animals (or bottled from humans) and his vampire hunting activities and desire not to bring harm on his companions weave superhero tropes into the vampire myth. The series was revived as part of the New 52 in 2011 to critical acclaim, but the following analysis considers the original twenty-four issues only. I…Vampire! is heavily narrated by Andrew Bennett (and sometimes, although infrequently, by other diegetic characters), whether the episodes are hypodiegetic flashbacks or events within the main diegesis. Bennett is a singular vampire with two human companions (Deborah Dancer and Dimitri Mishkin), whose mission is to destroy Mary. The tale is told using flashbacks to various backstories (such as Bennett’s origin, or Mishkin’s story), as Bennett pursues Mary across 1970s America. As a whole it is concerned with the human cost of vampirism: Bennett desires human society, but is remorseful when he causes the deaths of the entire Kitner family. He also feels guilt for the effects of his mission on his human companions, noting that Deborah has grown “a hard outer shell—like the one I wore” (DeMatteis et al. 2012: 262) and Mishkin is turned into a vampire. Vampirism is linked to a variety of social concerns: the vampires of The Blood Red Moon are exploitative manipulators with their (long) fingers in all sorts of nasty pies. For example, Bennett muses that “you do not have to be a vampire—to be undead” (22) as he takes down vampiric heroin dealer Emil Veldt (who then becomes victim of his own business as he has developed a drug addiction by feeding from users). He also hears “the stench of the undead” in a racist rant from a politician whose party, it turns out, is indeed controlled by the vampires (30) and in this same story, after unmasking the vampire, Bennett concludes that “human and undead are all-too-often indistinguishable” (36). The Blood Red Moon try and recruit new vampires at Woodstock festival, but ultimately “peace and love” destroys their new converts (192; 197). Dr. Barr experiments on “skid row bum[s]” by literally turning them into subhuman animals. He first claims to be seeking a cure for cancer but it is then

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revealed that in fact he is just trying to taint the human food supply for other vampires so he can become more powerful (216; 219). Bennett transforms into a rat, commenting wryly that “as a vampire I was not only brother to the wolves—but to the vermin of the streets as well… and which form more closely resembles my true nature—I have never cared to speculate” (212–13). Through analogies like these, social evils are tied to vampirism and it is the desire for power (rather than the taint of the blood itself ) that is shown to be evil. Mary’s initial invitation to Andrew (“We shall be rulers on a throne of blood !”) seems more than a little reminiscent of the power-hungry Lady Macbeth (12). Through Mary, sexuality and perverted gender are also linked to vampirism: the title page introduces each story with Bennett’s summary of how “My vampiric kiss transformed the woman I loved into a soulless thing called Mary, Queen of Blood !” (27). Mary here becomes a “thing,” and pictures of her after her turn emphasize her sexual elements: she is shown with her dress falling from her shoulders (12), dances naked with wolves (46) and a closeup on her face emphasizes her full, pouting lips and heavy eyes, all colored a bright, flat red (45). Mishkin’s mother is also shown to have no maternal instinct after her turn (265). Mary’s eyes (bright blue until she is turned) indicate her sexual nature, and when she is restored to evil by drinking blood from a cobra, color and positioning are used to link the snake to her eye (119). On this page the cobra obscures her left eye from view as they stare at each other (Mary’s gaze thus is simultaneously directed at the reader) before the cobra strikes (in a series of panels resembling a movie strip), whereupon Mary bites it first, then transgresses panel borders as she holds the snake out to Andrew, rejoicing “It’s blood, nourishment! Pure, drinkable, untainted blood ! Taste it! Taste it!” (119). Biblical connotations of Eve and the serpent are apparent here and further support the link between vampire sexualization, temptation and sight. Bennett and the other vampires have eyes that are either entirely red or yellow with red pupils, and Bennett describes the vampire who turned him as “the old man with Satan’s eyes” (12). He is shown prominently wearing sunglasses indoors (18) and a gang of locals who attack him show fear and confusion when they realize “this guy’s got weird eyes!” (75). His narration describes the Vielets he encounters as having “black eyes” (115) although they are shown in the picture as red. Bold coloring throughout links the vampire’s eyes to its bloody mouth: for example the title page of issue #310 (175) shows Bennett weeping bloody tears, with a single drop that resembles that at the corner of Mary’s mouth in issue #295 (45). Haunting thus ties these two images together. Later, when the vampire Colonel Yuri Rashnikov realizes he is under attack from a group of Blood Red Moon vampires, his yellow and red eyes take up a single central panel that overlays those showing the following battle, and the

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border of which is broken by a female vampire whose hand points directly towards his eyes. The predominant colors of the whole page are yellow and red (red and yellow backgrounds and bright yellow explosions delineate the fight scenes; the female vampire wears a yellow dress) and so the use of color, positioning and depth here tie the eyes to violence. It may not even be too much to suggest that the dialogue which accompanies this close-up panel (“by the Blood Red Moon!”) comments subversively on its visual content and refers to the image of blood red pupils on their yellow background. The series relies upon the stylization of the comics medium and repeated panels or de Luca imagery to convey Bennett’s transformations into a bat, mist, rat and so forth, using abstract art and coloring and repeated iterations of his shape (see for example 68; 212). Psychedelic pictures of demons also accompany his original turn (11). The space of the page is used occasionally as the series progresses to support its content, for example when Bennett and his companions fall into a sinkhole (descending from the page’s middle panel to the bottom one) (65). Panel borders are transgressed at key points, and the reader is asked to reflect upon the social evils that these vampires have concocted in their pursuit of power, rather than their innate nature. It is never explained why Bennett is seemingly the only one that can control his nature, although he does meet a group of vampire monks who conduct themselves similarly. There is even a nod to science, as Bennett takes a supposed “cure” that, although it renders him impervious to sunlight and returns many of his human qualities (including blue eyes and the ability to cry real tears) ultimately destroys him by asserting rigor mortis. Here, the transmission of the vampire infection is revealed to be “a kind of virus” and Deborah ends the series by being transformed into a “living vampire” (294) due to taking the same serum. At his origin, Bennett refers to the vampire as the “Dearg-Dul” (see Maberry and Russo), however he also encounters “desert vampires” in the series, which he refers to as “Vielets” (a name that would be adopted by Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere, and whose connotations (ultraviolet rays form part of sunlight) also inform vampire series such as Ultraviolet). Deborah’s transformation into a new kind of vampire thereby fits within the wider mythology the series has created. She breaks the power-hungry vampire hierarchy, and Bennett dies in her arms. His narration accompanies the series’ final image, which shows a close-up on the face of “the vampiric Deborah Dancer.” Here, Deborah’s eyes and fangs are both colored yellow and red, also matching her blonde hair and the fire that is burning in the background, as she breaks the fourth wall to gaze directly at the reader, crying a single bloody tear. This example of haunting recalls in turn the image of Bennett mentioned previously, supporting his final words, as “my spirit rushes apart … and whirls into infinity” (296).

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Preacher Rather than Anne Rice’s sympathetic vampires or the heroic vampires of Buffy or Twilight, Preacher’s Cassidy is a subversive character who tears down our preconceptions of supernatural vampirism and instead comments upon vampirism as a parasitical human tendency. Garth Ennis invites comparisons between his Irish vampire and the sexual, sophisticated contemporary vampire figure, for example through use of the caption “Next: Interview with the Bastard” (Ennis and Dillon 1996: 74) when we first discover that Cassidy is a vampire. Ennis’s portrayal of Cassidy could not exist without its contrast against the vampire tradition—a contrast that is overtly intertextual, as when Jesse describes Cassidy’s life as “sorta like if Brendan Behan fucked Bram Stoker an’ they let the baby do crack all the time” (1998a: 80). Ennis plays with intertextual and extratextual stereotypes of Goth and vampires throughout Preacher, satirizing both via Cassidy. In contrast to the vampire tradition, Cassidy’s vampire activities are kept apart from the rest of his life, which is that of a heterosexual, alcoholic hedonist. Although he is a sexual character, these encounters are portrayed as drunken flings rather than lust-crazed feedings and he generally only feeds during bar brawls. Violence takes the place of sex and in this sense Preacher harkens back to early texts such as Varney, the Vampire. Cassidy can therefore be read as a return to “vampire basics”: stripped down to the bare essentials of violence and blood. This return to vampire origins is further supported by Cassidy’s outsider status as an Irish immigrant surrounded by U.S. citizens. In this light, Cassidy’s use of violence rather than sex and his choice of male (rather than female) victims may be read as a subversion of the association of vampiric feeding with sex and a rejection of the transgressive double-gendered interpretation of this act (as both penetrating and penetrated). Although Cassidy has engaged in homosexual acts in the past, these are depicted as acts of prostitution in exchange for heroin (2000: 159). Within his character, sex and socializing are both held utterly separate from vampirism. The dissociation of sexual ecstasy and feeding may be said to undermine the “victim complicity” found in many traditional portrayals of the vampire. However, Cassidy’s friend Si’s comment “I never saw him do that [feed] to anyone who wasn’t gonna die anyway. Or didn’t deserve to get it one way or another” (1996: 173) again reintroduces the idea of moral complicity, which is further reinforced by Cassidy’s philosophy: “No need for killin’ at all, really. Unless some little prick tries to do for you, in which case yeh may as well go ahead an’ treat yerself ” (1998a: 40). While linking Cassidy’s vampirism with violence rather than sex, this interpretation nonetheless supports a gothic reading by sustaining the inverted power balance between attacker and victim, if

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only in the contemporary cultural sense of “he was asking for it.” This conclusion is supported by the rest of Preacher, which is generally much more concerned with social evils such as violence and ignorance than with sexual anxiety (for example the characters attend an orgy in Preacher: Until the End of the World at which only child abuser Jesus de Sade is singled out for punishment). Ennis’s subversion of vampirism is most explicit in Preacher: Dixie Fried (Ennis and Dillon 1998a, collecting “Preacher Special: Cassidy: Blood and Whiskey” as well as Preacher #27– 33) in which Jesse, Tulip and Cassidy encounter Les Enfants du Sang: the “pack of poncey gothic rich-kid wannabes” (1998a: 25) who followed the vampire Eccarius (killed by Cassidy some years earlier).5 “Blood and Whiskey” tells this story, and uses the medium to emphasize its point, which is to compare the two characters and foreground their differences. Eccarius drinks blood at all times (“Don’t you like it?” “About as much as I like eatin’ raw steak!” [1998a: 15]), sleeps in a coffin (Cassidy’s response: “Give us a sleepin’ bag an’ I’ll sleep on yer bleedin’ couch” [17]), and his library is composed exclusively of Stoker, de Sade and Shelley (“No Elmore Leonard, I suppose” [17]). As vicarious vampires—embodiments of a subculture based around the motifs of the gothic tradition—Eccarius and his supporters can never progress beyond imitation. Consequently, these characters cannot be treated as new developments on the vampire myth; their function is, rather, to comment upon the genre they emulate. Haunting is used to emphasize these points, firstly through repetition, as when Cassidy takes Eccarius out drinking, during which Eccarius becomes first accepting (“…why shouldn’t we show up in mirrors? Obvious, really…”) then crude (“…he goes back to England when he could just stay in Castle Dracula and bone those three girls all the time! The stupid, fucking, bastard…!”), aggressive (“Did that guy just call me a homosexual?”) and finally affectionate (“I mean it, you’re my best friend in the whole fucking world.… I love you man…”) (37–38). The scene is conveyed through iteration, in regularly sized panels in a 3 × 3 grid (excluding the opening panel, which, as scene-setter, takes up double the space, occupying the grid space of the first two potential panels) and their composition and perspective are identical. This reinforces their content: as Eccarius travels this gamut of emotions, Cassidy repeatedly asks the unseen barmaid for “Two more, please.” Mirroring and excess are also used to emphasize the parallels between Eccarius and his sycophantic followers. For example when Cassidy discovers Eccarius has killed Finn the panel showing him feeding from her runs off the top and bottom of the page, and the two characters are mirrored in its content, both with eyes staring directly at the reader (whose point of view remains disembodied). Eccarius’s conversation with Cassidy takes place as an aside to this reveal (which has already been signaled by a cliffhanger visual of Cassidy’s

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reaction to the sight, on the previous page) and is thus positioned in a single column of three panels running down the right hand side of the page. Our perspective remains disembodied, and the impact of Cassidy braining Eccarius with a crucifix (on the following page) is spatially excluded. The invitation to the reader is clear: through direct visual address and crypt activity we are invited to reflect on our own feelings towards “mysterious and beautiful and dark” vampires, and to consider whether we really do “like us [vampires] like this” (42–3). The medium thereby supports the comic’s content, which directly critiques the popular emulation of vampirism by subcultures. For example, earlier pages use depth to emphasize an overweight female Goth (who appears twice, both times in a panel with no borders) (27–8), and Roger’s terrible poetry is conveyed in an overly ornate font (26). Ennis mocks these characters constantly, insulting Eccarius’s followers in both word (“Pathetic fucking Lestat wannabes” [25; 159]) and deed (Tulip easily dispatches three of them alone [145]). Constantly played for laughs, Ennis nonetheless makes serious points: demonstrating that sycophantic attitudes towards the undead are a self-affirming consequence of their exotic, erotic portrayal in fiction. This parodic social commentary on gothic performativity is further supported by Judith Butler’s model of gender as a cultural performance that also constructs the allegedly prediscursive “natural” (as previously mentioned). Butler (1990: x) observes further in this regard that “gender practices within gay and lesbian cultures often thematize ‘the natural’ in parodic contexts that bring into relief the performative construction of an original and true sex.” Parody is used here to emphasize performativity, and to throw Cassidy’s own activities into relief, as a similar performance (of being human). During their time together, Cassidy uses a variety of examples to convince Eccarius that he is going about being a vampire all the wrong way: Suppose yeh’re an ordinary fella […] An’ yeh’re in a plane crash in the fuckin’ jungle. No other survivors. No signs’ve civilization. Yeh’re stranded. By some miracle, yeh stumble across a copy of Tarzan of the Apes. Yeh read it. Do yeh go an’ live in the treetops an’ talk to monkeys? [Ennis and Dillon 1998a: 36].

In this way Cassidy demonstrates the intertextual basis of Eccarius’s vampirism, exposing it as a meaningless performance. The reader is invited to engage in “decomposition” by using intertextual and extratextual knowledge, and to reflect upon their views on authenticity. The resonances are, if anything, more apt today where the revenant reader with intertextual knowledge will certainly make links to Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight (first published 2005, five years after Preacher ended, and which is a common target for anti-fan opinion within both Goth and comics subcultures).

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The aural connotations of Eccarius’s name initially call to mind all-tooappropriate notions of “echo” and “vicarious”—however, in keeping with the gothic tradition, this character has a further, extratextual significance. Although it is possible that his name was chosen simply for its gothic sound and to provide further contrast with Cassidy (whose full Gaelic name is Proinsias Cassidy), one historical precursor is Thuringian tailor Johann Georg Eccarius (1818–89), an erstwhile supporter of Karl Marx. A more relevant contemporary source is J.G. Eccarius’s novel The Last Days of Christ the Vampire (first published 1986): particularly since this was also made into a comic book—a mini-series published by Questing Beast. J.G. Eccarius’s novel equates Christianity with vampirism, making use of Jesus’ rise from the dead, hypnotic sway over his followers, ascendancy to heaven and offer of eternal life, together with Christianity’s employment of ritual, particularly the blood and body of Christ taken at communion. J.G. Eccarius’s author biography encourages the association with his Marxist namesake, stating (under the intriguing title “Everything you wanted to know about J.G. Eccarius that he’s willing to tell you”) that the author was born in 1818 in Thuringia, Germany—the same year and location as this historical figure. The author Eccarius appears to be encouraging vampiric assumptions about himself in this way, incorporating himself into the fiction of his book, and perhaps Ennis’s use of the name is actually a reference to this. It is of particular interest to note that “Blood and Whiskey” was first published in January 1998 (approximately ten years after The Last Days of Christ the Vampire), and that Ennis’s Eccarius character states at this time he has been undead for a decade. Knowledge of this extratextual absorbing echo would allow readers to blur the boundaries between reality and fiction still further and encourage reflection on the “true” nature of vampirism in the context of gothic identity. Ennis uses humor and repetition both textually and visually to get his point across (Ennis and Dillon 1998a: 35, 37). In the process, however, Ennis also uses Cassidy to state his own vampire rules (nothing can kill them except sunlight), and so maybe Preacher is setting itself up as a metanarrative in this sense: redefining the vampire, perhaps with a return to earlier versions. As such, it could be criticized for parodying vampire lore overtly while simultaneously redefining it obliquely. However, even this interpretation is subverted by the references to Cassidy’s eyes that run through Preacher. Cassidy always wears sunglasses, and the few times these are removed during the series always provokes a shaken “Oh my god what’s wrong with your eyes?” from whoever is there (1998a: 30; 1999: 224). Eccarius has red eyes, although these are revealed to be contacts when Cassidy hits him (1998a: 31). Notwithstanding this, the reader is invited (using intratextual and intertextual knowledge) to assume

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that Cassidy’s terrifying eyes are part of Ennis’s vampire myth (they drink blood, burn in sunlight, have red eyes), but in the final showdown the truth is revealed: Cassidy’s eyes are simply incredibly bloodshot (2001: 158), presumably as a consequence of seventy-five years of alcoholism. This sort of letdown gag extends Preacher’s subversion to even its own vampires: as well as criticizing Eccarius, Cassidy also dismisses his own sire, i.e., the vampire that made him: “I’d have to say it was a bit fuckin’ crap, if the limit’ve its imagination was to live in a swamp and jump out on people” (1997b: 198). The animalistic vampire nature is mocked, as well as its pretentious performance. Cassidy’s character arc and these ongoing subversions encourage reinterpretation of “vampirism” in the figurative sense (“psychic vampire”), as Cassidy’s addictions make him parasitical and frequently impact on those around him (including a string of dead, hopelessly addicted or otherwise scarred exgirlfriends). The simple fact that Cassidy is one of the most human characters in Preacher, weak, fallible and prone to mistakes, also undermines any notions of a definitive rewriting of the vampire myth. As Xavier concludes, shortly before the final pages of issue #33 echo the concluding pages of issue #29 as he repeats Dee’s voodoo ritual of firing a blank gun at Cassidy’s picture: “I honestly don’t believe that he’s an evil man. Just careless. And thoughtless. And terribly, terribly, weak” (1998a: 216). Cassidy is consistently shown and judged in human terms, even as we are reminded of his monstrosity. His vampirism subverts the superficial supernatural and instead rewrites it as a figurative, human quality. Read this way, Cassidy’s restoration to humanity (an unusual event in the context of vampire lore) is in itself an equivalent of the vampiric “turn” in yet another example of inversion. Additionally, this too is shown to be performative, as the last words of the series come from him: “I think I’ll try actin’ like a man” (2001: 220, my emphasis).

Sandman If Cassidy is a subversion (providing a point of contrast that goes against the tide of vampire depictions back in the 1990s), then Neil Gaiman’s Corinthian can be read as an abstract symbol for the tradition that comments on its transgressive nature and performativity. With teeth for eyes, the Corinthian is a vampiric figure, who feeds from “sweet” young boys (#12, Gaiman et al. 1990: 34), calling to mind gothic notions of decadence that are further supported by his name (one of the definitions of which is “given to luxury; dissolute”). His introduction comes via Lucien’s tally of the dreams that are missing from Morpheus’s realm (conveyed through a hypodiegetic dip into Rose Walker’s dream, but containing events that are occurring concurrently

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with the main diegesis, as befits Sandman’s blurring of real/unreal). Here he is a figure with teeth for eyes, dressed in a dandy’s outfit with curled hair, checkerboard waistcoat and a ribbon at his neck; however the two Corinthians that appear in the main diegesis are always dressed in white jeans and t-shirt, and wear sunglasses. Subsequent issues within The Doll’s House (Gaiman et al. 1990) show us his progress in the waking world, each time giving us the embodied viewpoint of the Corinthian himself (see Sandman #10, #11 and #12), and not objectively revealing him to us until issue #13. Layout, excess and decomposition are all used to emphasize the Corinthian’s personality and his kills. These pages use panels of uniform shape in regular grids, indicating his methodical nature. However in the first example shown (#10) the borders of the last two panels are broken by the long knife the Corinthian holds up to his victim’s eye: the transgression of the kill is literalized. His victims are all male prostitutes and a vampiric parallel between sex and death is drawn that is emphasized formally through both this type of haunting and through excess. In #12 the Corinthian is offered some “easy action” by two men who then try to rob him; he repeats the phrase in the final panel of this scene after he takes their knife, mirroring its opening and paralleling sex and death. Excess of color is also used to emphasize the Corinthian’s nature. When seen through his eyes, the panels are blue-tinted (due to his sunglasses) but this gives way to brightly colored psychedelic depictions of his victims whenever they are removed. In issue #12, Joe-Bob loses his fingers knocking off the Corinthian’s sunglasses, conveyed in an abstract panel with the single scream “AIIIEEEEE!” alongside a pink burst of blood on a black background. This violent moment is emphasized further by layout and depth since this panel the only one that is set at an angle and overlaps its neighbors. Both strategies emphasize the moment of the bite, since we “see” only what the Corinthian sees. The contemporary reader may also find extra resonance from their intertextual comics knowledge, for example of the work of Daniel Clowes and Alison Bechdel, both of whom use blue wash to convey a mood of boredom, which here is held apart from the moments of shown violence. The Corinthian’s description also recalls the vampire: he is described as “A nightmare created to be the darkness, and the fear of darkness in every human heart. A black mirror, made to reflect everything about itself that humanity will not confront” (#15, Gaiman et al. 1990: 33). Fred Botting (1996: 149) says that “Without mirror image or a shadow, Dracula is a pure inversion. On a symbolic level he is the mirror and shadow of Victorian masculinity, a monstrous figure of male desire that distinguishes what men are becoming from what they should become.” The Corinthian’s depiction as a sexual, decadent killer and his description as a “mirror” cohere with this view of the vam-

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pire archetype. He is uncreated at the end of The Doll’s House, named a disappointment by Morpheus: “You were my masterpiece, or so I thought. […] What have you wrought, Corinthian? Nothing. Just something else for people to be scared of, that’s all.” He names him “flawed and petty” and “unmakes” him, the layout and coloring underscoring this moment through a false gutter and unnatural green and blue colors as the Corinthian literally melts away (#14, Gaiman et el 1990: 33–35). However, in The Kindly Ones the Corinthian is resurrected/recreated by Morpheus. Suspense is created using the space of the page as in the final panel of the previous page (and scene) Lucien ominously informs Matthew that Morpheus is “making nightmares.” This can be read as an invitation to the reader to use intratextual knowledge and remember the first Corinthian, since the next panel is an extreme close-up of teeth (from so close up that these could be perceived as archways or tombstones or even an abstract image) and the page uses a six-panel grid identical to that which introduces the Corinthian in The Doll’s House. Intratextual haunting and a revaluation of reader expectation are used in this sequence. Our disembodied point of view pulls back so that the second panel clearly shows these to be teeth in a mouth, the third displays eyelashes and eyebrow being crafted by Morpheus’s finger, and the fourth reveals the Corinthian’s face as Morpheus confirms “I am making the Corinthian”: making use of a supportive relationship between image and text. The following page implicitly addresses the reader through Morpheus’s dialogue: Imagine that you woke in the night and rose, and seemed to see before you another person, whom slowly you perceived to be yourself. Someone had entered in the night and placed a mirror in your sleeping place, made from a black metal. You had been frightened only of your reflection. But then the reflection slowly raised one hand, while your own hand stayed still [#57, Gaiman et al. 1996: 14].

The perspective remains disembodied in the second panel (which accompanies the final sentence) but here the fourth wall is broken as Morpheus gazes directly at us. The description perhaps even refers obliquely to a vampire encounter. The Corinthian’s reaction to his new life clearly situates him as a reincarnation or resurrection, as he says “It is good to live once more” (#60: 24). He appears identical to the first Corinthian: Matthew comments “It looks … like the last one did. It looks… OK” (#60: 23). Morpheus confirms this (“There is a fragment of the first Corinthian in your essence” [#61: 10]) and the new version shares some memories with the original Corinthian. He also describes himself as “young, true. But I have age within me” (#65: 11) and his phrasing also invokes temporal disruption: “I do. Or I will” (#61: 11). Yet the second Corinthian is simultaneously held distinct from the first,

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as not the same being, as he himself comments: “Good. An identity… Yes. I am me. I am not the first Corinthian, am I?” (#61: 9). Further, when challenged later “They aren’t your memories,” he concedes, replying “They are all I have” (#67: 12). In this way his situation is undeniably vampiric: by distinguishing between “me” and his previous life, he parallels the vampire state of unlife, where what lives on is nonetheless entirely different from the living person. While the first Corinthian is rebellious, transgressive and overtly references humanity’s own internal violence, the second is pragmatic (“Oh, please. Credit me at least with the wit to know which one of us I am” [#65: 12]), dedicated to his duty (“I would not wish to be a disappointment” [#61: 9]), and with grander ambitions (“Have you never wondered, little bird, what it must be like to see the world through the eyes of a god?” [#65: 13]). The excess of the medium further emphasizes the distinction between the two characters, as the realist style of The Doll’s House (and thus the first Corinthian) is very different from Mark Hempel’s non-realistic, angular pop art which displays the second. In contrast to the performative and artificial vampirism that Preacher critiques, Sandman uses the Corinthian to reflect upon nature: the second Corinthian defends his behavior to the raven Matthew, who accuses him: “You kill people. You eat their eyeballs.” “Yes… Yes I suppose I do. Or I will. But that is my nature isn’t it? That is what I am ? Do you not eat eyeballs also, Master Raven? Do you not also feast on carrion?” [#61: 11].

Ritual is nonetheless summoned as he later comments “That was still my first kill of this life, Matthew. And the eyes are mine” (#64: 21). In fact all of The Kindly Ones is concerned with ritual, inheritance and debt, being about Lyta’s quest to find her son Daniel, the Furies’ hounding of Morpheus for the killing of his son, and the consequences of multiple acts throughout the seriesas-a-whole (relating to characters including Nuala, Larissa/Thessaly, Alex Burgess, Rose Walker and so forth). All these recurring characters pay off some sort of debt, and it is no coincidence that in this story both Carla and Rose identify themselves explicitly as living off of family money (#60: 15). Intratextual references to The Doll’s House (where the Corinthian was first introduced) are also used, as both Hob Gadling and Lyta Hall reappear. Panels and scenes from this trade paperback are also redrawn (identical in composition but stylistically very different) as Lyta remembers Morpheus’s previous appearances in her life (#11, Gaiman et al. 1990: 23). This intratextual haunting emphasizes the themes of this story arc. As Paul sadly says to Alex Burgess: “the sins of the fathers” (#62, Gaiman et al. 1996: 24). The Corinthian’s later appearances in Vertigo comics include the threepart miniseries Sandman Presents: The Corinthian Death in Venice (Darco

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Macan and Danijel Zezeli, 2001–02) and issues #17-#24 of The Dreaming (Alisa Kwitney et al., 1996–2001). Death in Venice is set in 1920, prior to the Sandman plot arc and features the first Corinthian, who has learned to walk the earth. Flashbacks to World War I introduce other intertextual references, such as the character of Stefan Wasserman (a soldier in the trenches, who the Corinthian possesses, an example of retconning that absorbs Gaiman’s original mention of this character in Sandman #1). Charles Constantine (an ancestor of John’s) also features, and although the story did not get much critical acclaim, its use of depth and doublepage spreads (see for example #1: 2–3) emphasize the focal character and location. Depth is frequently used throughout, as most pages place smaller panels (showing conversation or otherwise advancing the plot) over wider panels that show the scene as-a-whole. Excess is demonstrated through mobile points of view and the use of giddying perspective (#2: 1–3), perhaps appropriately for a comic that tells the story of those who have seen too much. The story is revealed to be a hypodiegetic tale at the end, narrated by the blind beggar Leo, who points out that he named the Corinthian after the first thing he saw with his new eye (a Corinthian pillar that transgresses the panel borders of this final page, running vertically down the length of the entire page) and in this final panel Leo simultaneously breaks the fourth wall to address the reader directly. The comic also relies upon the reader’s activity for its more violent acts, such as the Corinthian’s consumption of eyes, which takes place between panels. The plot of Death in Venice concerns the Corinthian’s learning to kill, and after he achieves this he triumphantly shouts: “Be proud, Lord Morpheus! Your son is a man !” (#3: 20)—breaking the fourth wall by gazing up out of the panel at the (disembodied) reader. Perspective emphasizes this moment, whose dialogue invites the reader to apply intertextual knowledge (from Sandman), i.e., that this Corinthian will now become “just another” serial killer. The dissolute Corinthian, in his multiple incarnations, can therefore be read as an abstraction of vampirism that (in dress and behavior) stretches to include its classic (aristocratic) and modern (splatterpunk) forms. By using teeth for eyes, Gaiman also doubles his vampiric symbol—the penetration of the vampire’s bite is quite literally a penetrating and damaging stare and looking is a dangerous business. If this reading sounds a little farfetched, then consider that, while Sandman makes heavy use of folklore and myths from a wide range of cultures, no actual vampires appear throughout—an odd omission. There are werewolves (Sandman #38 [“The Hunt”]), and throughout the series appearances from numerous faerie folk, gods of various denominations, angels, demons and ghosts, but the undead are excluded. Gaiman has commented that he believes them to be distant relations of the werewolf family in “The Hunt” (Round 2003). This is supported in the text (“Fer Chrissakes”

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“In the old country you’d never hear any of the family taking that name in vain” (#38, Gaiman et al. 1993: 73) and their description as “outsider[s]” [#38: 77]), but the non-appearance of any vampires whatsoever in Sandman is nonetheless suggestive. Their absence allows Gaiman to reformulate the vampire, keeping other interpretations marginalized in favor of his Corinthian: a purer symbol (perhaps this is why he dresses in white), without vestigial humanity (he is resurrected from an unlife after all), and thereby more in keeping with the timeless mythology of the text. Parallels can thus be drawn between the treatment of vampirism in Sandman and that of Preacher as these Vertigo texts reformulate the figure for their own purposes. They comment on performativity and the development of the vampire tradition, situating themselves within the postmodern Gothic.

The Unwritten Mike Carey and Peter Gross’s comic features two vampires: Count Ambrosio, Tommy Taylor’s fictional vampire nemesis, and Tom’s “real-world” sidekick Richie Savoy, who is bitten by Ambrosio in Volume 3 and begins to turn into a vampire. In some ways visually reminiscent of Nosferatu (bald head, hooked nose, pointed ears), the Count also has red eyes and an entire set of sharpened teeth. His dress draws on the Dracula movies (suit beneath long black cape) and bats follow him around: as such, intertextual visual signifiers and motifs dominate his depiction. In his online blog, Savoy describes the Count as follows: Count Ambrosio is immortal because he’s an embodiment of something in the human soul. An inner voice that never stops screaming. A remorseless, selfish part of ourselves. He’s the bit of us that follows its own logic to the last degree. As though conscience and grave never existed. And I buy that, as far as it goes. I think evil is immortal. I just think the reason is more banal than that. Your man inside believes this: most guys just take the money and do the job [Carey and Gross 2011a].

This description of the Count seems to fit well with contemporary critical theory that views the vampire as internal, humanized evil, and also contains a reference to readings of vampires as capitalist critique. The Count possesses human characters such as prison governor Chadron, reinforcing this. Additionally, in this passage the Count’s name is hyperlinked, stressing his intertextual nature; something Lizzie picks up on during Richie’s transformation when she gives Savoy animal blood to drink and says “I just wanted to make

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sure you were a Wilson Taylor vampire, rather than, say, Stoker, Matheson or King.” She also tests him with a makeshift crucifix, saying “I’m working out the rules” (2011b). Richie’s transformation to a vampire is similarly intertextual: after being bitten he describes himself as feeling “like ants are inside me” and is forced to bow down before Ambrosio (2011a), recalling Stoker’s Renton with his obsequious attitude and obsession with insects. The stages of Richie’s transformation are predictable and intertextual: he becomes paler, the sunlight hurts his eyes, tries eating raw steak, and then observes that he has no reflection in the bathroom mirror (2011b). However as Tom’s red-headed sidekick (most obviously recalling Ron Weasley), Richie has also been compared to other comics characters such as Jimmy Olsen (Superman) and parallels have also been noted with Cassidy: as Mike Carey comments: “I hadn’t thought of the Jimmy Olsen thing with the red hair too even, but because of what’s happened to Savoy past the third trade, there are times when I think of him like Cassidy in ‘Preacher.’ [Laughs] So, I guess he’s a combination of Jimmy Olsen and Cassidy, which is a pretty good description of him” (Carey in Renaud 2011). As the Count says to Richie “We see each other for what we are” (2011a), and eyes play a key part in connecting the two vampires. Ambrosio sees through Richie’s eyes, a link between them that is reinforced by the medium’s excess. We are shown eye-shaped panels that offer Richie’s (embodied) point of view within a page that shows Ambrosio from a wider disembodied perspective, hanging upside down like a bat, wrapped in optical fibers (1991a). This reinforces the subject of The Unwritten which emphasizes the nested nature of stories and diegetic layers and their reciprocal effect on each other, as here the reader is at once embodied and disembodied. The Unwritten’s vampires thus exist in self-conscious intertextuality by displaying an awareness of the variety of fictional traditions possible.

American Vampire Scott Snyder and Rafael Albuquerque’s American Vampire engages metafictionally with the same debates as Sandman and The Unwritten, as it pits Skinner Sweet (the first American Vampire) and his progeny Pearl against their European sires. In the afterword to Volume 1, Snyder (2010) explains: while this is the story of the first American Vampire, it’s a story about us, about Americans, about what makes us scary and admirable, monstrous and heroic. It’s a giant story, bigger than just Skinner Sweet […] next cycle we’re off to the Las Vegas of the 1930s. Then it’s on to the turmoil of the 1940s and the Great War.… We’ll explore the origins, too; we’ll trace the history of human-vampire relations, as well as the history of vampire evolution itself.

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In one sense, Skinner (and Pearl) embody the frontier spirit and the American Dream, with energy and recklessness. As Henry says to Pearl: “You’ve got real heart. You’ve got guts” (Snyder et al. 2010). However, beneath the surface there is a darker interpretation in which the American Dream is claimed to be little more than “The Great National Fantasy” and in Volume 2 it is revealed that the European vampires have enabled the development of Las Vegas: its funding consortium of four companies is “underwritten by a secret fifth … a bank—” “run by monsters.” As their liaison states: “Their blood might be black, chief, but their money’s green as yours” (Snyder et al. 2011). Capitalist and consumerist allegories are brought into play, for example when Skinner explains to a newly-created Pearl: “Just picture it in automotive terms, Bloch and his kind, they’re like… old, broken-down European clunkers, okay? But you and me, Dolly? We’re like shiny new 1926 Fords. Top of the line, just rolled out onto the showroom floor” (Snyder et al. 2010). Skinner’s obsession with candy and sweets (“My sweet tooth is driving me crazy”) further supports this (Snyder et al. 2010), as does the fact that they are vulnerable to gold. However the comic can also be read as a Watchmen-style allegory of early folklore and the spread of the vampire myth from Europe, whose revaluations, as seen, have often run counter to their aristocratic, historical predecessors. American Vampire is a taxonomy that classifies vampires by nationality; all with different natures, strengths, weaknesses and so forth. These include Balkan and Carpathian species, and older Bavarian and Gaelic types, such as the Gaelic Prime, the majority of which have been wiped out by the “common vampire.” The American Vampire (of which Skinner is the first) can walk in sunlight and only be killed by gold (rather than wood). The species’ appearances are radically different and science is invoked as it is revealed each type succumbs to a different light on the UV spectrum. The medium is used to emphasize key points, in particular moments of violence and horror. In Volume 1 color and excess are employed as the attack that turns Pearl is shown in a darkened room with unnatural blood-red lighting. False gutters are used along with her embodied perspective (both breaking the fourth wall and from a lowered angle as the group of vampires tower over her; later in the same issue this scene will be recalled from an even lower angle which seems to be that of Pearl looking directly up from the floor). The attack itself (on a splash page that ends the issue and also brings us full circle to its opening in which a hooded figure is disposing of a body that we now know to be Pearl) shows the vampires silhouetted against an abstract background. Haunted layout also contributes via depth when Pearl is discovered by Henry and Hattie, staggering through the desert bitten and bleeding; her agonized face crossing the panel borders. Her following attack on Chase Hamilton (who was responsible for feeding her to the vampires) echoes his previous words to her

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(“He’ll gobble you right up”/“I just want to gobble you up”). The gutter/crypt is also employed here as Pearl drags Hamilton off the edge of the page for “a little question and answer”: only his feet remain in shot and our focus remains on the puddle of blood and his discarded bow-tie. This requires the reader to imagine this excluded scene both spatially and temporally, as Hamilton’s body will be revealed on the next page. This stands in contrast to the majority of vampire attacks, which are shown, frequently in an impressionistic rendering as long nails decapitate or eviscerate victims, and spatters of blood and motion lines disguise the gore. Pearl and Skinner’s physical features are exaggerated forms of the vampire motifs and emphasize the animalistic. The fingers extend into long, spidery claws, taking Joseph Campbell’s (1976: 73) notion of the “phallic mother” to excess, and tendons and veins are emphasized. Mouths (with extended canines) open wide, with jaws extended in a manner reminiscent of snakes or chimpanzees. They “HSSSS!” before attacking (emphasized through red font and large lettering) and their eyes are yellow; both points further emphasize the snake imagery. As noted, animal imagery is also echoed in the titles and content of issues, for example Volume 3 includes the five-part spin-off miniseries “Survival of the Fittest” (2012) and the American Vampire is frequently described as a “mongrel.” Interestingly, infection initially takes place in non-standard ways, i.e., not by biting. Skinner is turned accidentally (when vampire blood drips in his eye) and he infects Pearl in the same way. Hattie turns by deliberately cutting herself with a knife with Pearl’s blood on it (2010). Felicia Book (daughter of the vampire Jim Book, a different breed) is born half-human half vampire and (perhaps in a nod to Blade) is hailed by an ancient vampire as “Chosen One” towards the climax of Volume 3 (2012). Cashel’s son Gus is turned while in the womb; stabbed by Skinner with a syringe of vampire blood (this too is excluded spatially from the panel, only indicated by Lilly’s exclamation “OW!”). The focus on the eyes as a means of infection seems significant here, and the eyes are also key in emphasizing the animalistic elements of the American Vampire (as noted above). However, for all this break with tradition (which is represented by the “classic” European vampires), Skinner and Pearl are still individualized, albeit by their unique strengths and outlaw reputation rather than bloodline or title. Cryptomimetic symbols haunt this text—as well as Skinner’s underwater crypt we have the truth of his story hidden inside the fictional book Bad Blood—another example of a secret hidden in plain sight—whose author repeatedly claims “There’s more to this story than anyone knows” (2010). Different diegeses are woven together and stories are often told in a circular manner: for example Pearl’s origin, as noted above, or the “Devil in the Sand” story

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arc (Volume 2, 2011). This begins with Cashel’s (un-narrated) story, offers us a page of his (anonymous, disembodied narration) midway through, and only at the end reveals to us (in a return to the opening scene) after showing us the circumstances of his son Gus’s infection and Cashel’s own history, that this voice is his. Storytelling thus becomes atemporal and circular, and different characters (Pearl, Skinner, Cashel, Felicia, Henry, Hattie, and many more) narrate at various points. The story that opens Volume 3 in fact pits Skinner’s narration as a form of ironic commentary against dialogue that revalues his past (2012); here notions of truth (in the context of history) and authentication are foregrounded and problematized, and the reader addressed directly in both word (“And now, ladies and gentlemen…”) and image (breaking the fourth wall). Throughout gothic literature the vampire has held within itself tensions between the animal/human, dead/alive and so forth. This trend is continued by these texts which, as seen, use the vampire in a variety of ways according to each title’s own priorities. Bennett signifies the classic reluctant vampire, Cassidy subverts vampire fiction, the Corinthian abstractedly mythologizes it, Count Ambrosio exists in self-conscious fictionality, and American Vampire’s characters are simultaneously social/historical commentary and metafictional metaphor. In each instance the use of the eye motif emphasizes the comic’s themes and subtext. These comics rewrite the vampire into multiple forms that, while they reflect the themes and priorities of each text, also sustain the presence of gothic strategies (abjection, absorption, parody) and structures (haunting, seeing, crypting).

9. Zombies, Technology and Medical Magic “The history of the world, my sweet, is who gets eaten and who gets to eat”—Sweeney Todd

Who indeed? In the first decade of this century zombies have seen a massive revival in popularity. Is this due to their symbolic significance (they have always been an adaptable sign) and suitability to whatever current crisis (political, religious, financial) we find ourselves in? Or can the millennial zombie reboot also be seen as a gothic movement? Tropes of the uncanny, abjection, isolation and inversion have all been used to restructure and redefine today’s zombies, offering an alternative to the glittering allure of the modern vampires popularized by Twilight et al. If vampires are all about surface (hardened marble skins, beauty, glitter) then zombies are all about innards (wounds, torn flesh, emerging organs). The contemporary cultural embrace of the zombie and displacement of the sexualized and sanitized vampire may therefore be due to our increasing fascination with our own identity as this becomes evermore problematized by technology. Although the majority of this book has focused on DC Vertigo and its writers, a chapter on zombies cannot ignore Image Comics’ The Walking Dead. This chapter will therefore consider the following comics texts: The Walking Dead (Robert Kirkman, Charlie Adlard and Tony Moore, Image Comics, 2003–present), Revival (Tim Seeley and Mike Norton, Image Comics, 2012– present), Chew ( John Layman and Rob Guillory, Image Comics, 2011–present), iZombie (Chris Roberson and Michael Allred, DC Vertigo, 2010–2012) and Crossed (a creator-owned series from Garth Ennis with art by Jacen Burrows, published by Avatar Press). After briefly situating these titles within the current zombie movement, it will use gothic theory to argue that these comics have developed the zombie signifier in multiple and postmodern ways; creating a kind of post-zombieism where devices such as landscape, haunting and the 199

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crypt (gothic structures that all rely on space and time) have replaced the more traditional zombie themes of possession, hunger and consumption.

Background Kyle William Bishop’s American Zombie Gothic (2010) clearly summarizes the evolution of the zombie figure in cinema. Bishop details the creature’s origins in Haitian religious practices and legend, its first filmic appearances as a figure of magical possession, George Romero’s redefinition as the anthropophagical “living dead” (who eat human flesh), and its modern reincarnation as infected (and often living) people. What seems immediately striking about this is that the zombie has, in many senses, come full circle. Danny Boyle’s 28 Days Later (2002) kick-started the modern zombie era with its running, living people infected with the disease “Rage” and started a new trend of infection rather than reanimation that was followed by later movies such as The Signal (2007). Although movies such as Tobe Hooper’s Lifeforce (1985) had already used this approach (combining alien vampires with the ability to possess bodies and zombie humans who have had their “lifeforce” drained), Umberto Lenzi’s City of the Living Dead (1980) featured (dead) zombies with super-strength and the ability to teleport and levitate, and George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead (1968) also featured running corpses, Boyle brought the combination to the mainstream. Die-hard zombie fans objected (“They’re not zombies, they’re just very angry people”) but the genre’s focus had shifted. Making the zombie “alive” rather than dead is a development that brings them closer to human identity. Rather than people enslaved by magic or ritual, or reanimated cannibalistic corpses, these films offer us “Infected”: living people in the grip of an infectious disease. Given contemporary society’s move away from magic and religion, alongside the acceleration of scientific knowledge (culminating in some oddly dogmatic rants such as Richard Dawkins’ The God Delusion [2006]), this development seems strangely apt. Arthur C. Clarke’s third law (“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic”) seems relevant here; what Deborah Lupton calls “medical magic”—the trappings and paraphernalia of scientific technology, but presented as inexplicable. In this light, it seems worth noting that the Rage disease, although explained scientifically, is primarily represented using horror and supernatural codes, for example through the demonic connotations of the red eyes of its victims. Science and medicine today are frequently presented in these terms by the media. “Miracle” discoveries and genetic research have much of the significance of witchcraft to everyday folk—and many of the same negative con-

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notations (consider the so-called “ethical” debates over cloning, stem cell research and so forth). Boyle’s Infected are much like the original Haitian zombies, in that they are potentially alive and possessed by a will that is not their own. The difference is that, whereas films such as White Zombie (1932) and I Walked with a Zombie (1943) show their zombies as under the control of a singular (often white) enslaver, today’s Infected have no such guidance. There is no will or mission driving them except to feed and destroy. In this way they also continue the “second wave” of zombieism brought to us by George Romero’s ghouls. The treatment of magic, science and the zombie can thus be read as an indicator of a text’s episteme: Foucault’s term for the organization of a period of history around specific world-views and discourses. For example, different cultures have different organizing principles, and thus words may not mean the same thing at different points in time. Foucault discusses medicine, demonstrating how our understanding of the term is based on the intersection between accepted scientific principles and the set of practices that make up the medical institution. This “order of things” is thus variable at different points in history: today antibiotics are an accepted medical fact whereas incantations or holy water are not (Foucault 1966). The redefinition of the zombie as an infected figure (whether by bite or virus) supercedes notions of magical possession and thus forms parts of the contemporary episteme. Due to the horror genre of the figure it also expresses fears about our relationship with science and technology (as the zombie infection is frequently man-made), as will be discussed shortly. Zombie texts also contain within them reflections of their period’s ideologies. A preoccupation with slavery and a fear of the Other along with social critique is apparent in the earliest zombie films, such as the Luddite fear of mass industrialization that lies behind Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (1927) whose unthinking drones are a European equivalent of the Haitian zombie. I Walked with a Zombie (1943) even contains an early mention of the magic/science debate, for example as when Mrs. Rand recalls how she told a village women her gods would kill the demons in water if she boiled it. As she is told: “You’re not the first to use voodoo to sell science.” George Romero then picked up the reins and developed the zombie into a political figure of overt social critique. As both David Punter (1980: 354) and Kyle William Bishop (2010: 121) note, Night of the Living Dead places a cross-section of American society together in an isolated farmhouse, where the “representative” selection of Americans trapped together ultimately destroy each other, a literal representation of the breakdown of the family that Gothic exposes. Alongside Punter’s argument, Bishop demonstrates how Jerrold E. Hogle’s “gothic matrix” (2002) can be applied to Romero’s zombies. He argues that

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Hogle’s four tenets (an antiquated space, a hidden secret from the past, a physical or psychological haunting, and an oscillation between earthly reality and the possibility of the supernatural) are all followed. While Romero’s spaces are not always antiquated they are definitely haunted: the cause of the zombie outbreak is linked to radiation but ultimately remains shrouded in secrecy, and the supernatural and uncanny are explored in both framing (consider the start of Night of the Living Dead where Barbra’s laughter quickly gives way to fear) and content (can the dead really walk the earth?). Hogle also argues that these qualities make Gothic especially suited to psychological and socio-cultural criticism and, of course, Romero also shows us that the zombie is an empty signifier that can be tied to the concerns of its era. His screen violence is a response to the social trauma of the Vietnam War, whose images of dismembered corpses were being displayed to Americans on a daily basis. Romero’s casting of Duane Jones as protagonist Ben also adds a racial dimension to Night of the Living Dead that comments on the American civil rights struggle, though Jones was given the lead due to his acting ability rather than his ethnicity. The film’s sequel, Dawn of the Dead (1978), is perhaps the most famous example of the zombie as socio-cultural symbol; critiquing consumerism as the survivors and the undead flock towards a shopping mall (“This was an important place in their lives”). Subsequent zombie texts also seem compelled to make use of the figure as a signifier of whatever ills befall their era. Just as the vampire can be read as a response to sexually transmitted diseases (such as syphilis) at the fin de siècle of the nineteenth century and is redefined to relate to blood-borne infections (like AIDS) at the end of the twentieth century, so the zombie is adapted to signify new terrors.

Infection and Cryptotechnophobia Zombies are, in many ways, the ultimate consumer—they do nothing but consume!—and are ultimately even self-consuming in their ongoing state of decay. But although consumerism is still rampant in today’s society, the zombie-as-social-metaphor has been rebooted in the last ten years. Rather than exoticizing the zombie as a magical creation, modern films and books now normalize these figures: replacing fantasy with realism, most commonly by redefining zombieism as a disease. The Rage infection of the 28… films has already been noted, and previous franchise Resident Evil offers a similar interpretation in both its computer game (1996) and film (2002). Martin Rogers

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even argues that 28 Days Later is a “horror film for computers” (2008: 130), where Infected and uninfected bodies can be read as data moving within a networked system of information (blood), which is quickly laid open to infection (communication) as the Rage virus moves through it. This technological metaphor can be seen even more clearly in later texts such as Stephen King’s novel Cell (2006) or horror films The Signal (2007) and Pontypool (2009). These go one step further by not just depicting the zombie threat as one of mass infection; but tying this to a fear of technology as the virus is transmitted digitally (in Cell the pulse is spread by mobile phones; in The Signal it comes through any electronic device; in Pontypool it is a radio broadcast of “contaminated words”). Those who hear or see an infected broadcast turn into homicidal, cannibalistic maniacs—in a sense, meta-symbols for the zombie evolution as they combine a possessed or mindless living state with a single Romerian purpose: to feed/consume. The details differ slightly from text to text. King’s zombies are in fact more like a devolved version of humanity: initially taken back to pure id (with consequent murderous survival instinct) and then beginning to evolve again: seeking to communicate and flock. While animalistic, their behavior is not murderous; instead a kind of “hive mind.” They will also eat anything (not just human flesh). The Signal’s zombies are homicidal but not cannibalistic, and handled with black humor at points. Pontypool’s antagonists are named in the credits as “conversationalists” (not zombies) existing in a heightened state of confusion (rather than absent/brainless) and producing a cacophony of incessant “chitter chatter” (rather than the more usual guttural grunts and groans). In these ways this film inverts many of the standard zombie tropes. These zombie texts reboot the zombie in a form that is not just based on technophobia, but that can perhaps more accurately be called cryptotechnophobia. In Generation X Douglas Coupland defines this term as “The secret belief that technology is more of a menace than a boon” (1996: 200) but an equally valid definition in this context (and given Clarke’s third law) might be “fear of the secrets hidden inside a technology.” Technology’s advanced nature makes us suspicious of its workings as these are not immediately understandable to the average person. Here “crypt” refers to secrecy both as an act (hiding this fear) and as an object (hidden inside technology); an example of gothic doubling that follows Derrida’s notion of the crypt and its secrets as both internal and external to itself. In I Walked with a Zombie Mrs. Rand habitually uses voodoo customs to disguise scientific practices in order to convince the natives to follow them. However, while the science she uses is never in dispute, the magic she pretends to is also ultimately shown to be real at the film’s conclusion when she admits the voodoo curse and the Sabreur controls Jessica and Wesley to their deaths.

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This truth hidden within the lie seems potentially cryptomimetic: even in these earliest zombie films technology and magic are presented as embedded within each other and a hidden secret (simultaneously apparent all along)— that voodoo is real—is revealed. As a symbol of modern life, the loss of technology is generally a significant component of the threat in contemporary zombie narratives (help cannot be contacted; information and communication systems break down). Its collapse is a microcosm of the collapse of the wider social order. Humanity’s impotent attempts to restore order are thus encapsulated in the inability to let go of useless items, as Fred Botting identifies in a reading of Max Brooks’ World War Z, noting that “the roads out of urban centers are littered with ‘hair dryers, GameCubes, laptops by the dozen’ (123). These objects—now utterly useless— are taken not for reasons of consumer stupidity but from fear that these precious Things will be stolen, a clinging to a way of life they cannot imagine relinquishing” (Botting 2012: 26). The abandonment of these commodities is the first step towards recognizing the need for new social norms in a postzombie world. Leaving old ways behind and redefining appropriate moral values is the essential (and existential) philosophy of zombie texts such as The Walking Dead, as I have argued elsewhere (Round 2012b). Adaptability is also signaled by the use of technology in this comic, for example when Rick and the other survivors switch on all the electric appliances in a house to distract the zombies chasing them (#60, Kirkman and Adlard 2009b), reasserting their mastery over the machines. Fred Botting identifies an ambivalence and fear towards technology within the gothic mode (apparent in various incarnations, from revivalist Gothic to cybergothic), stating that machines are “simultaneously signs of the progress of reason and awful threats to old beliefs and practices” (105). Overreliance on technology is also the reason many of the survivors are so illequipped to survive, and its more sinister side is also conveyed in The Walking Dead, for example the disconnected telephone that Rick uses to talk to his deceased wife. Initially technology tricks him (as he convinces himself the phone is actually ringing and he is talking to another survivor) but ultimately he is able to work through the implications and realize he is imagining this (#51, Kirkman and Adlard 2009a). The medium disguises his hallucinations in a way the television adaptation was not able to do (instead substituting a vision of Lori): the revelation that Rick is hallucinating comes to him and the reader at the same time since we are, of course, not aware that the telephone did not really ring (#51, Kirkman and Adlard 2009a). It’s interesting that it is his hallucination of Lori’s voice that reveals this to him (“I’m dead” [#55, 2009a])—another example of cryptotechnophobia as the machine reveals its secrets to us. Later in the series, it is Eugene’s radio that reveals he is not the

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Government scientist he claims to be, as the others realize it has no batteries in it (#67, 2010). Technology is shown to contain secrets, and is to be feared if we cannot adapt. This fear of technology is no new thing in gothic literature. Fred Botting notes a “general sense of terror and fear accompanying the railway system, and […] the early Victorian encounter with the rapid mechanization of industry, society and human life” (2008: 90). He points out that “Mimicking, duplicating and threatening to replace human abilities, automata manifest the doubleness that threatens individual uniqueness” and claims technical devices thus disclose a “spectralizing habit” within modernity (86–7). Botting associates this with Walter Benjamin’s summary of the decline of auratic experience in “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” (1936), as an object’s aura and ability to elicit human empathy is erased by mechanical reproduction. Botting develops this argument to focus on post-apocalyptic texts, arguing that “technical advances provide the means for the future to become a site of dark projections” (2008: 85) as the uncanny “seeps out from the bounds of solitary minds […] by way of machines. […] Machines come to be possessed by demons monstrously simulating the powers of human thought and action. Objects and commodities, like dolls, assume supernatural agency; people behave automatically, lumbering like zombies” (109). A suspicion of technology as an infectious, viral force that could turn us all into zombies seems an obvious response to today’s world. Mass communication has never been easier (mobile phones, the worldwide web, social networking) and technology permeates every instance of our daily routines, yet society has never felt more fractured. Online contact replaces real interaction as Facebook reduces friends to the status of a mailing list, and for many people text and email have almost entirely taken over from other forms of communication (such as the telephone or—gasp—in person). Communal spaces (public transport, shopping centers (!) and so forth) are now either settings of mutual isolation, with everyone plugged into their individual iPod and working hard at not making eye contact, or falling into disrepair through lack of use as internet shopping and online companies replace the high street. While we may not long for the good old days of village gossip, this development and deployment of technology is a classic example of remediation— in striving for immediacy, it in fact creates hypermediacy (awareness of the interface we are using). As Bolter and Grusin (2000: 34) say: “In every manifestation, hypermediacy makes us aware of the medium or media and (in sometimes subtle and sometimes obvious ways) reminds us of our desire for immediacy.” Ultimately it seems that the effect of advancing communications technology has the paradoxical effect of reminding us of the gothic state of isolation that we all exist in and whose extreme example is solipsism.

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Culture and Realism However, it’s not just technology that informs the zombie redefinition. Writer Max Brooks has spearheaded a naturalization of the zombie, releasing two books that address the zombie threat in factual and historical terms. The Zombie Survival Guide (2003) is styled in the manner of a handbook or survival guide and offers practical tips on dispatching the undead (the best weapon for those familiar with its use is the katana; for the untrained a baseball bat is recommended). Even more striking is Brooks’ World War Z (2006), an alternate world history that details the fall of civilization to a zombie outbreak. It’s told retrospectively as a series of verbatim interviews with survivors, filled with painstaking detail and convincing anecdotes that demonstrate just how ineffective modern weapons would be against “Zack.” Its fragmented structure reflects the new zombie prototype. Governing bodies even seem to be playing along with the trend—in 2011 Bristol City Council released plans for handling a zombie outbreak in response to a freedom of information request (Morris 2011); similar requests had been received by other British cities during this year (Gosden 2011) and a lack of preparation by Leicester resulted in a zombie “attack” being organized via Twitter a week later as a “zombie walk” overtook the city center (BBC, 17 June 2011). Zombie walks (a collection of zombie-dressed people gathering together in a public space to perform a zombie invasion by shuffling down main streets, shopping centers and so on) have been around since the millennium (the earliest recorded example was held at the Gencon Gaming Convention in Milwaukee, WI, in August 2000 [Laws 2007]). As adaptable as the zombie signifier itself, this “fleshmob” craze has a variety of purposes: whether in celebration (such as Halloween) or as a form of protest (the 2011 Occupy Wall Street global protest movement incorporated zombie marchers). Like the purpose, though, the metaphor seemed mixed; as participant Thomas Rohner commented: “I like the fact that you can take it two ways” (Potter 2011). Was the implication that the masses were the zombies for allowing the banks to control us in this manner? Or were the bankers the zombies; following directors’ orders without question and consuming our resources in the process? One clear argument for the current zombie appeal is in socio-economic terms—what better symbol for a global recession than the zombie: hopeless, downtrodden and unaware? Zombie films and literature contain a healthy suspicion of governments, who generally either deny the zombie threat or have their own agenda, often not in the people’s interests. In April 2009 the Financial Times warned that “Curse of the zombies rises in Europe amid an eerie calm,” referring to a proliferation of “undead” companies—those that are too weak to flourish, but too complex and costly to shut down, and which therefore

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remain “half-alive, poisoning the corporate world by silently spreading a sense of stagnation and fear” (Tett 2009). Comparisons are also made in Chris Harman’s Zombie Capitalism (2009), Evan Calder Williams’s Combined and Uneven Apocalypse (2011) and David McNally’s Monsters of the Market (2011). In a conference paper at Winchester University’s Zombosium (2011), Yari Lanci labeled Danny Boyle’s rebooted running zombie as “Zombie 2.0,” suggesting that its increase of speed relates to a paradigm shift in our own political consciousness whereby speed has become the defining and most valued factor of today’s culture. Not only does capitalism demonstrate that “time is money” (a notion effectively literalized in the 2011 dystopian movie In Time), but new technology requires an ever-shifting skillset and employees who are not “up to speed” can be replaced. A 2009 article in Time magazine (“Zombies Are the New Vampires”) says “[Zombies] seem to be telling us something about the zeitgeist,” but actually says very little about what zombies are telling us about the Zeitgeist. It notes the popularity of zombie films and their use in online identities and offers a range of applicable cultural interpretations. Ecological anxiety? Zombies are “biodegradable, locally sourced and sustainable.” Fear of the Other? Zombies are a perfect metaphor for overseas combat, as Romero initially showed us. American values? Zombies are “plucky and tenacious—you can cut off his limbs and he’ll keep on coming atcha. […] They’re monsters of the people” (Grossman 2009; Farnell 2011). To this list I would also add the zombie’s ideal suitability as a symbol of the recession (in a state of physical decay and ongoing consumption)—and also as a reaction to the glamorization (and sanitization) of vampires. As franchises such as Twilight and The Vampire Diaries sanitize vampirism and stress its romantic elements, what better response than a cultural embrace of these undead aristocrats’ rotting bastard brothers. The oppositions are clear: on one long-nailed hand we have the chic, sexual, aristocratic vampire, an individual flitting from shadow to shadow, transcendental and even ethereal as a bat or a cloud of mist. In the other severed fist is the shambolic, grotesque, proletariat zombie, a collective horde that shuffles through our shopping malls under fluorescent strip lighting for which Prince’s term “ugly lights” has never been so apt. These mindless bodies are incapable of any change except decay. There is no zombie lifestyle; it is the final full stop, a dead end—a critique of technology, consumerism, control, ecology, the Other, morality—and, really, anything else you’ve got. It is this adaptability, apathy and sense of pointless lack that contemporary zombie texts and practices pick up on. Ian Conrich (2011) comments that in the past decade the “zombie contagion has broken free of the screen within which it was relatively contained” and lists a vast range of products and mer-

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chandise that exploits these images (sweets, outfits, merchandise, Lego, garden decorations and much more). His discussion of practices such as zombie walks that celebrate individual creativity alongside communal gathering are particularly interesting in this context. Here, costumes and performance are competitive and often elaborately homemade (subversive rather than sanitized); and, of course, participants can be a “zombie-anything.” Zombie cheerleaders, zombie doctors, zombie Charlie Brown and even a zombie Pope have all been spotted shuffling in the crowd during Bristol’s annual Halloween zombie walk. These events are generally grassroots-organized and heavily DIY-oriented; asserting individuality through the expression of sameness). I would argue that this type of dual imperative (of groupthink versus individuality) is particularly gothic, like the Hegelian dialectic of master/slave (where apparent power structures are actually reversed as the master’s need for the slave is significantly more than the slave’s for the master). The zombie, too, is not what it seems in this instance and is an inversion: not just of life/death, but also of individual/ mass. It confronts us with the gothic dilemma of seen/unseen—the unseen elements of the mindless “zombie-me” are “not me” (personality and memories are all negated), but at the same time its seen elements remain “me” (appearance and body)—or what is left of me. Along similar lines, zombies are also argued to be the ultimate figures of abjection—more so than the corpse as they are still living (Conrich 2011).

Parody and Play A final gothic element of the contemporary zombie treatment (and not least in zombie walks) is its tendency towards play and parody. While not yet the subject of extensive analysis, gothic comedy has been considered by a range of critics. Early critical work focuses on the presence of comedy in individual gothic texts, identifying “peculiarly self-conscious complexities of humor which attach themselves to the gothic tradition” (Sage 1994: 197) and arguing that Gothic’s focus on the surface allows for an easy dialectic between horror and laughter, letting it embrace comedy alongside tragedy (Sage 1994; Stevick 1979). Avril Horner and Sue Zlosnik (2005) also argue that this oftenoverlooked area is intrinsic to gothic writing but propose that, as Gothic’s comic turn has been present throughout its development, rather than setting up a binary (of comedy versus tragedy) humor should instead be viewed as Gothic’s own doppelgänger. They argue that parody and appropriation have been used by Gothic throughout its history to critique modernity and interrogate the complexities of modern subjectivity, an area that seems appropriate to this discussion of the zombie. In later work Horner and Zlosnik continue

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that “the comic within the Gothic foregrounds a self-reflexivity and dialectical impulse intrinsic to the modern subject” and it offers “a position of detachment and skepticism toward such cultural nostalgia [for a lost transcendence]” (2012: 323). This position is supported by Fred Botting (1996: 168), who comments: “The play of fear and laughter has been inscribed in Gothic texts since their inception, an ambivalence that disturbs critical categories that evaluate their seriousness or triviality.” Hogle (2002) suggests that Gothic’s interrogation of authenticity represents a modern fractured understanding of subjectivity, and Horner and Zlosnik (2012: 328) argue that this can be achieved in a variety of ways that include melodrama, deferral, intertextuality, paratext and parody. They state that parody “invites [the] ludicrous excess” and note Chris Baldick’s observation that “Many Gothic tales are already half way to sending themselves up” (Baldick 1992: xxiii). Horner and Zlosnik distinguish parody from travesty, pastiche and satire, and claim that “parody’s comic engagement with precursive texts allows not only an irreverent response to target works and authors but also enables the writer, if he or she chooses, to engage critically with aspects of the contemporary world” (2012: 328). They argue that gothic parody, as a form of adaptation (repetition with difference), foregrounds the production of the modern subject through discourse and that this is made possible by the selfconscious theatricality of Gothic. As such, gothic comedy frequently becomes marked by an ambivalence resulting from a combination of nostalgia and a desire for change. Horner and Zlosnik go on to consider ways in which the comic turn is achieved: from the physical grotesque to the use of the uncanny, arguing that through “irreverent dialogue with the uncanny and the supernatural, the comic turn in Gothic writing offers a fresh perspective on modernity, seeing it as hugely entertaining and productive as well as threatening” (2012: 332). Gothic comedy, then, is parodic and subversive. It interrogates social norms and mocks cultural nostalgia. The zombie archetype contains within it precisely this sort of ambivalence as regards identity, and its parodic incarnations focus primarily on the destruction of social norms. This is apparent in texts and artifacts that juxtapose it with childhood for humorous effect. For example, child zombie costumes are widely available online, along with Lego zombie playsets, and spoofs such as the “scratch and sniff ” book Pat the Zombie (“Judy can feel Daddy’s putrefying face. Now YOU can feel Daddy’s putrefying face” [Ximm and Soofi 2011]). However, in some respects the zombie has frequently been a comedic figure from its earliest days: as in King of the Zombies (1941) and Zombies on Broadway (1945), both of which deal with possessed, Haitian-style zombies. Both maintain social commentary whether in terms of race (King of the Zom-

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bies), or global war (Zombies on Broadway suggests that Nazi Germany is the real enemy behind the scenes). Later films such as Peter Jackson’s “splatstick” comedy-horror Braindead (1992) resituate the Romerian zombie in a new genre, focusing on buckets of blood and gore. More recently, Shaun of the Dead (2004) became a significant milestone in zombie entertainment, operating both as a parody and revaluation of what has gone before. It makes multiple references to George Romero’s zombie films in its title, scenes and background details, as well as many other horror movies. The central characters’ understanding of and responses to their plight are entirely structured by cultural knowledge taken from these sources and so the movie becomes a summary of the tendencies and divergences within the zombie tradition. Lesser-known Canadian zomcom Fido (2006) is a similarly intertextual and extratextual satire, focusing on American suburbia rather than the British working class. Significantly, it also revolves around a critique of technology as zombies (created accidentally by space radiation and now controlled after the initial outbreak and subsequent bloody war) are kept as pets/servants using an electronic collar (which, of course, malfunctions). The film opens with a parodic black-and-white infomercial advertising the Zomcon collar and critiques consumerism and corporations throughout by using zombies as domestic help in a Stepford Wives style satire of American suburbia. Its monsters are only secondarily a threat, and primarily a means to “keep up with the Joneses.” The film’s elaborate and parodic funeral customs (“Head coffin please”) and excess of style (primary colors painting the most twee of lifestyles) foreground social and class commentary. Humor comes from satirizing a range of genres, and Fido is used as a status symbol, love interest, buddy, hero and villain. Here, again, zombies are a signifier capable of multiple meanings and Fido’s satire both uses and comments on their adaptability. Most recently, the sympathetic zombie has emerged, for example Isaac Marion’s novel Warm Bodies (2010, also a 2013 movie) and British television series In the Flesh (2013) both feature “thinking” zombies whose individual personalities remain. Warm Bodies (a “zombie romance”) is narrated by its zombie protagonist in a move that mirrors the twentieth century shift towards the narrating vampire represented by writers such as Anne Rice. In the Flesh redefines zombies as “PDS Sufferers” (Partially Deceased Syndrome) who are being rehabilitated and need protection from vigilante “anti-Rotter” groups. The language of disease is again apparent alongside a critique of humanity and society as these characters are as much (if not more so) victims of the remaining survivalist human society as the humans have been of zombie attacks. Jasper Bark’s Way of the Barefoot Zombie (2009) is a biting satire of capitalism and critique of the uber-rich that makes its moral (zombies are the image of our society’s mindless consumption of material things) explicit and

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parodies animal rights activism in its ZLF (Zombie Liberation Front). Humanity and identity have gone beyond being simply problematized, and are now the explicit focus and central concern of the zombie text (see Round 2013c for a discussion of zombie walks as an enactment of problematic identity). The zombie, then, is an unmistakably gothic figure, reliant upon underlying contradictions and inversions, and infinitely adaptable; like the gothic mode, it incorporates new cultural meanings as it develops. Through revaluation as an infection and even the development of zombies into sympathetic and narrating figures, it has been brought closer to the notion of humanity and used to reflect on society and identity. I will now discuss the ways in which comics have adapted and extend the zombie signifier still further, using close reading of examples taken from The Walking Dead, Chew, iZombie, Revival and Crossed.

Zombies and Comics Along with the other undead, zombies featured heavily in pre–Code comics, and various creators and critics have made cultural links between social trauma and the appearance of these figures (see for example Chute, Pi Roman, Trombetta). Frequently returning from the grave on a mission of revenge, the pre–Code zombies are sentient and motivated. They are not unthinking or controlled, and although dead they are not consumed with hunger for human flesh. Although visually they share many elements with Romero’s ghouls (unsurprising if we consider wartime images the inspiration for both, and the horror comics as possible influences on Romero), these comics predate Romero’s revaluation of the ghoul as hungry anthropophagical or cannibalistic. As such, they combine elements from all versions of the myth. Steve “Karswell” Banes’ blog The Horrors of it All contains a wide selection of pre–Code comics, and various edited collections are available (see for example Yoe 2012; Trombetta 2010), of which the following close readings are indicative. Many of the pre–Code comics contain examples of technological fear and a problematization of identity. For example, “Corpses… Coast to Coast!” (VOODOO #14, Anon 1954) is an embedded story in which our narrator addresses the reader directly “Hello! I’m going to tell you about this dream of mine!” and proceeds to tell us of his nightmare in which the country’s grave diggers have gone on strike. After receiving a mysterious phone call from “Big Z” he is named as “Z-One” and together they put into action a carefully laid plan to collect all the unburied bodies and revive them as zombies. Here the zombie is a mass-produced capitalist worker rather than an individual figure (“You see, Z-One! Three minutes after a corpse is unloaded at the front gate— it comes out here! Ready to go to work for us!” “Heh-heh! Not much like the

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old days, eh? Those old fools with their voodoo and charms—took them days to produce one zombie!” [4]) and so technology is again linked with the zombie’s terror. The panel revealing this displays a marching line of zombies leaving the factory, transgressing its borders as they literally step out of the page. The “Zombie Party” takes over the world, with non-zombies being placed in “rehabilitation camps” and made into “synthetic zombies” through a “dehumanizing process” (6). This is a clear reference to contemporary warfare: Trombetta (2010: 129) argues that 1950s Korea was home to two types of zombie: the clinically dead, and the living who are nonetheless dead inside (as a result of torture and brainwashing), which is exactly what this story represents. Big Z then starts a nuclear war with Moscow which destroys much of the global zombie workforce, and causes his death, with our narrator being promoted to the top position and creating a “Zombiocracy” (“Now we have peace! No more fight! All is big brotherhood of zombies!” [7]). The story concludes back in the main diegesis, with our teller informing us in the final panel “none of the people who know me, suspect what I really am … a dreamer, yes … but also a zombie !” (7) Diegetic levels are disrupted in this story: for example the hypodiegesis of the dream is interrupted at points by single panels in which the narrator breaks the fourth wall or otherwise directly addresses the reader. The diegetic boundaries are further transgressed by the reveal that our narrator is already a zombie: this state is thus not consigned to the hypodiegesis. Linking mass production (technology) to global warfare and emphasizing this through page layout (transgression of panel borders) makes this zombie narrative sociopolitical and concerned with the identity of its teller. Identity is also interrogated through both narrative style and content in “The Brain-Bats of Venus” (Mister Mystery #7, Wolverton 1952) which uses second-person narrative throughout (“Your spaceship is out of control over Venus, Rod Crenshaw! […] You come out of your unconsciousness […] Then you look down…” [1–2]) Crenshaw and his partner Reese Bitnur are attacked by monsters which turn out to be “Venusian” creatures possessed by the sentient Brain-Bats (which can detach themselves and fly away). Bitnur dies and is possessed by a Brain-Bat, and Crenshaw locks himself in a food storage compartment to avoid the same fate (“I’ll not willingly become a walking dead man!” [4]). He tries to stop the ship from returning to Earth, forcing it to crash, but when he wakes in the wreckage he feels a new sense of sympathy for the Brain-Bats and the narration concludes: “Then comes the realization that you, Rod Crenshaw, died in the blast—and that the thoughts now coursing thru your revived brain are those of a Brain-Bat that escaped the blast—to make of you—a zombie !” (7). The second-person address, which merges the reader’s identity with that of the protagonist, as well as the typography (which links the words “you” and “zombie” through emphasis) are accompanied by a

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final silent panel which shows Crenshaw with a Brain-Bat astride his head: his eyes are white and unfocused, as befits the zombie, while the Brain-Bat looks directly at us, breaking the fourth wall. Medium and content both align here to problematize the borders of identity. Zombies also feature in the 1970s/80s House of… anthologies. In “Rest in Peace” (House of Secrets #100, Oleck and Alcala 1972), set in Haiti, plantation owner Philippe Lacroix wants Chef Andre Mallard to come and work for him. When Mallard refuses (thinking he will be safe as he does not believe in voodoo), Lacroix gives him “a drug that paralizes [sic] the will!” and Mallard becomes his slave, carrying out murder and delivering curses on his behalf, as well as looking after Lacroix whose greatest wish is to rest constantly. Mallard does not escape his bondage, but when Lacroix eventually dies of a heart attack Mallard has him cremated and places his ashes in an hourglass, triumphantly noting that this means Lacroix will never again get the rest he so desperately desires as his ashes will be in constant movement. This story hearkens back to both early Haitian legend and the pre–Code zombie comics, as will is taken over and the zombie’s purpose ultimately becomes one of revenge. It’s interesting to note that here (as in White Zombie) voodoo is shown to rely on belief and also to be informed by science, a point that Mallard and Lacroix debate throughout the story (“Your skulls and feathers don’t frighten me!” “They serve their purpose! They frighten my slaves!”). Although zombies are not frequent, Misty also contains some stories of the undead, for example “House of Horror” (Misty #101, 1980) where voodoo has been used to raise the bodies of real murderers to take part in a waxwork show and they are activated by beating a drum. Known as “the undead” these zombies do not have a purpose until activated by the protagonist. Zombies are rare in this comic, however, and Misty’s stories tend more towards magical and uncanny items that can be argued to represent a fear of technology—for example the story “Smile” (Misty #100, 1980) in which people disappear as their photos develop after being taken with a mysterious instant camera. The story concludes that “Next time anyone has a party… let’s just enjoy ourselves without photographs—okay?”– perhaps displaying an early fear of technology (for example, the belief that taking one’s picture removes their soul seems relevant to this and also to the zombie concept). As such, technology plays a part in constructing fear that is often linked to the zombie archetype in comics through mass production or control.

The Walking Dead Zombie adaptability and decentralization is brought to the fore in the behemoth that is Robert Kirkman and Charlie Adlard’s The Walking Dead,

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which makes ideal and innovative use of comics’ serial structure to create a soap-opera (“zoap opera”?) story that focuses on the survival of a small band of protagonists after the zombie outbreak, rather than the terrors of the event itself. Currently well-past issue #100 and still going strong, The Walking Dead marches on impassively like the zombie itself. It reflects the zombie trend towards increased realism; with its emphasis on survival rather than cure, set in a post-apocalyptic setting that could have been caused by any non-specific catastrophe. Unlike Romero’s zombies, Kirkman’s are depoliticized: emptied of metaphorical or symbolic significance. Zombie attacks are sporadic and frequently not the main danger (children such as Carl become adept at dispatching them). Instead, the main antagonists of Kirkman’s series are other groups of survivors, and the consequences of having to alter one’s personal morality in the interests of self-preservation. As such, the zombies themselves become a negation—they are certainly an aspect of this brave new world, but not the defining feature. While it doesn’t pursue or establish the cause of the zombie outbreak, The Walking Dead comic reveals that all the dead reanimate regardless of whether they are bitten (#14, 2004), suggesting widespread general infection rather than contamination from a bite (#15, 2004). This reduces the zombie threat to disease status and dissociates it slightly from actual zombie attack. The shock from a zombie bite will kill you (unless the offending limb is removed quickly) but reanimation is a separate matter that affects all on expiration. Danger in The Walking Dead thus comes primarily from a struggle for resources, competition with other survivors, and a search for any kind of haven. The dominant elements of Kirkman’s world are emptiness and stillness, and The Walking Dead’s plots are structured by this lack (revolving around needs such as food/shelter/medicine and so forth). Around these short-term needs, the protagonists’ repeated search for a permanent haven forces them to keep moving. The issue of stasis versus movement seems an interesting one given the differences between television and comics as storytelling media. Like the dead themselves, the post-apocalyptic landscape and appearance of The Walking Dead comic also emphasize emptiness and stillness. After an initial (and traditional) zombie encounter in the hospital cafeteria, Rick is shown wheeling a bike down a deserted road, stopping only to weep. A nine-panel grid of Tony Moore’s repeated drawings of the empty, silent space takes up a full page, emphasizing his isolation (#1, 2003). Hogle’s matrix for defining the gothic can also be applied to The Walking Dead. The spaces Rick and his group encounter are antiquated in a sense— they are disused and their function has changed. A prison becomes the best of possible homes as, in a gothic twist, its function becomes inverted: to keep

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people out. Secrets are all around—nobody can be trusted, and the complete absence of interest in the origins of the zombie disease or the possibility of a cure only serves to emphasize this. Both the comic and television series raise expectations and debunk them regarding this in their early issues: for example via the characters of Eugene Porter (in the comic) and Dr. Jenner (in the AMC series). Psychological haunting structures many issues and, what’s more, is clearly displayed as such: for example Rick is aware that he is hallucinating Lori’s voice coming from the telephone he carries round with him (“Lori, am I crazy?” “Yeah … at least a little bit” [#55, 2009b]), but is incapable of letting it go (#52, 2009a; #55, 2009b; #61, 2009c). Other characters (Abraham, Michonne, Carol) are also haunted by memories of their deceased loved ones, or the things they have done. Finally, and like other realist zombie texts (Brooks et al), the oscillation between reality and supernatural is emphasized as the horrors of starvation, exposure, disease and (human) attack are the biggest threats; albeit interspersed with occasional zombie activity. Even the series’ title The Walking Dead is cryptomimetic as, rather than describing the walkers, it refers to the zombie inside all of us—when we die, of whatever cause, we will join these creatures. The misleading surface sense (whereby it is assumed to refer to the zombies, connoting George Romero’s “living dead”) also supports this interpretation, as the phrase becomes something to be deciphered. This is enacted when, after digging up Shane (who was shot) and discovering that all the dead reanimate regardless of whether they are bitten or not, Rick comments “I ain’t gonna bury you again you son of a bitch” (#15, 2004); perhaps referring to this new fact as well as Shane’s corpse, as he then reveals the truth to the rest of the group (#24, 2005). The use of the medium emphasizes these haunted and cryptographic themes. As noted above, repetition is used to emphasize moments of isolation (#1) or emotional stress, for example Rick’s consideration that he might actually be crazy (#55, 2009b), or Morgan’s reflections on what has happened to his son as he repeatedly bangs his head against a wall (#59, 2009b). Panel shapes are right-angled but layout is very flexible and includes regular splash pages. Color and style contribute to a sense of this decaying world; inked in black and white, Charlie Adlard’s dark shadows emphasize the loss and lack the characters experience. An excess of shadow and monochrome dominate the page. Finally, the reader’s archival knowledge of other zombie texts is exploited (for example as regards the infection issue) and crypting is also required as moments of horrific violence take place outside the borders of the panels. In Volume 10, Rick frenziedly stabs a man who has attempted to rape his son Carl, an act that is spatially excluded while the repeated sound effects “SHU.K.K! SHU.K.K!” cut across the panel borders. In volume 11, Rick’s group dismember and burn a group of cannibals (this takes place between issues, after a double-

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splash-page of Rick grimly saying “Hold him down” (#65, 2009c). Typography and the extent of the white space around his words emphasize their starkness, and the following issue contains two pages of fragmented panels (displaying fragmented bodies) and silhouetted images before Rick is shown “speaking” again—however he can say nothing, and his speech balloon only contains “…” (#66, 2009c). The Walking Dead conveys the adaptation and descent of its protagonists as they are slowly “forced” to abandon morals they once hold clear. Speaking of the events of volumes 10 and 11 (and previously), Rick says the violence he has committed “haunts me” and talks about the acts people are starting to commit in terms of “animals” and “monsters” (2009b). These volumes, as their titles suggest (“What We Become” and “Fear the Hunters”) make the consequences of a (literal) moral decay explicit, by showing how children like Carl have succumbed to this brave new morality. Carl first talks about killing Shane (“I saw him bleeding to death […] It used to make me sad—but now I’m glad I shot him” [#58, 2009b]), and then tells Rick “I saw what you did last night, Dad. I saw it and I didn’t look away.” Again the eyes are significant, a source of infection, as what Carl has seen has changed him, and Volume 11 ends on his revelation: “I killed Ben” (#66, 2009c). The comic was adapted into an AMC television miniseries (first broadcast October 2010) which to date has commissioned three series. While the plot of AMC’s The Walking Dead diverges significantly at points, the series maintains much of the “feel” and themes of the comic. The zombies appear infrequently but are effective when they do. Surprisingly few attacks take place and from its very start some of the most impressive visuals are the wideangled shots of Rick’s solitary journey to the city, which replicate the comic (Season 1 Episode 1). It seems worth noting a similar tone in the opening sequence of Danny Boyle’s 28 Days Later, as the filmmakers shot footage of a deserted London in the early hours of the morning to give the desired postapocalyptic impression. But whereas Boyle’s movie then becomes a frantic scramble, AMC’s The Walking Dead continues to try and capture the stasis of the comic in a variety of ways. These include slow-motion chase scenes, lengthy tension-building sequences, extended silences and only occasional non-diegetic music. Indeed, a criticism of the series overall could be that its domestic nature (focusing on characters’ interactions and struggles, rather than a series of terrifying attacks) is less well-suited to television in this genre. Whereas Kirkman and Adlard’s comic uses its medium to spin a drawn-out story of day-to-day survival (criticisms were leveled at the fourteenth trade paperback in particular for its lack of action), the hour-long episodes of television require distinct tension points, climaxes and cliffhangers. This accounts for some of the plot

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changes, for example the group’s mission to locate the CMC bunker and its dramatic explosion at the climax of the first season. The search for a haven in the AMC television series of The Walking Dead is discussed in sociological terms by Reed and Penfold-Mounce (2011). They situate the AMC series alongside other social science fiction (such as William Gibson’s Neuromancer, 1984) that is future-oriented in its discussion and critique, and argue that a focus on mobility and emotional affect are the defining characteristics of the show. Stasis is shown to be death (the big cities are “moorings” that are full of zombies) and motility (the potential for mobility) is essential: to stop moving is to die, to stay “on the road” is to survive. Affect and emotion are also apparent in both versions of The Walking Dead—but, as might be expected, this is amped up for the television series, where other elements (music, lighting, camera angles) can be used to create more emotional engagement. Emotional value is added to the television series in its focus on child zombies, from its first episode where Rick encounters a little blonde girl, complete with teddy bear, to the treatment of Sophia Peletier in the second season. Sophia is one of the few surviving characters in The Walking Dead comic (as at issue #110); but in season 2 of the AMC television series her death is used for maximum affect in episode 7 (which marked the series’ midseason break). Other alterations are similarly made in pursuit of emotional response: Morgan’s wife returns to the family home repeatedly (Season 1 Episode 1); reminding us that the dead have histories and were people. Amy’s death is also played for greater affect (Season 1 Episode 5): although in the comic series she is killed before reanimation, in the television show her sister Andrea allows her to reanimate before killing her. Critics have noted the impact zombies have on sociocultural traditions, arguing that part of their threat is the effect they have on our morality as funeral customs such as burial are denied (Paffenroth 2006; Waller 1986). This too is addressed in the AMC series, for example when Glenn demands the burial of his friends after an attack on the camp: “We don’t burn them! We bury them. Understand?” (Season 1 Episode 5). The comic is arguably more brutal in its outlook: survival decisions are made and stuck to. This is not to say that it ignores the human impact of the zombie tragedy (as for example in Rick’s eulogized promise to “Wayne Dunlap. Georgia license. 1979… He used to be like us, worrying about bills, the rain, or the Superbowl. If I ever find my family I’m gonna tell them about Wayne”) which appears in both the comic (2006) and television series (Season 1 Episode 2). This evokes questions of morality that are further discussed in The Walking Dead and Philosophy (2012). Rick’s promise and the subsequent shifting of his morals are good examples of the television series’ socio-political commentary which, like the comic’s message, is aimed at human society.

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Chew and iZombie If The Walking Dead is a “zoap opera” then other comics’ treatments of the zombie also seem to go beyond the traditional, for instance by merging it with other genres or combining with another trope. As already noted, this process is typical of Gothic’s adaptability, as it absorbs and subsumes other genres. Both iZombie and Chew place a form of zombie activity within a detective setting ; using protagonists with cannibalistic or ghoulish abilities. In Chew, “Cibopathic” detective Tony Chu gets a psychic reading from any food he eats, from the pesticides used and the location of the tree an apple came from or, if he takes a bite of human flesh (or a sip of blood), many of the secrets of the person they belong to. With its focus on investigation and the police procedural, Chew does not follow traditional zombie norms, and its living protagonist is in full possession of his faculties. However, Tony’s psychic ability is one designed to reveal a person’s secrets and as such is an ability that could be considered in cryptomimetic terms. Tony is at least human, unlike Gwen Dylan, a revenant gravedigger who must eat a brain a month to retain her mental capacities and memories—a process that also involves her inheriting the victim’s thoughts for a while. Like much of the Vertigo fare discussed so far, the iZombie character first appeared in the House of Mystery annual (2009) (see end of Part Two for a close analysis of the prequel to this story). Like Chew, Gwen’s “ability” makes her into an (amateur) detective, supported further by a film noir style narration. In addition, the comic reflects self-consciously on its generic situation, for example discussing horror movies. Volume 2 (2011b) contains a self-conscious exposition on the conventions of horror films (“Bunch of kids out in the woods at night, and some of them sneak off to drunk and smooch and stuff ? […] Those are the first kids that an axe-wielding maniac is going to chop into pieces. Every time”) as well as Scott’s penchant for comics and cult TV (“Why don’t you go meet a girl or something? Why are you wasting time with this junk?”). The comic also uses its format to mock its own content, for example by including pages from the fictional children’s comic “Harriet the Happy Ghost” whose characters (Harriet, Woof the Wolf Boy, and Zoe Zombie) comment upon Ellie, Scott and Gwen in an example of hypodiegetic layering. iZombie’s combination of film noir internal narration with pop art and a strong female lead also allows it to explore cryptographic issues such as the internal/external dichotomy and the make-up of identity. As its title suggests, identity is a key issue in iZombie; for example in Volume 2, which focuses on Gwen’s realization that she is losing more of her memory than she had thought, and tells Ellie’s back-story (her father is reduced to a metaphorical zombie by

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his wartime experiences: “He didn’t live in the house, she’d say, he haunted it […] the only time he came alive again … was when I was born” [2011b]). iZombie uses the concepts of over- and undersoul to distinguish between its cast of supernatural characters. The oversoul (from Ralph Waldo Emerson’s 1841 essay of the same name) is “seated in the brain, contains the thoughts, memories, and personality,” while the undersoul (from Michael McClure’s poem “Dark Brown,” 1961) is “seated in the heart, contains the appetites, emotions and fears” (iZombie #4, 2011a: 11–13). iZombie thereby defines ghosts as bodiless oversouls, vampires as bodies without undersouls (thirsting for emotions), and zombies as bodies without oversouls. Werewolves, possessed humans and the like are those infected by souls, while revenants like Gwen are unique in possessing both oversouls and undersouls. Here, the return to the idea of a soul seems fascinating given the overwhelming tendency to remove this from the vast majority of contemporary zombie stories, as discussed. However its treatment as an already divided entity (oversoul and undersoul) is unmistakably gothic and used to interrogate individuality. In this, iZombie and Warm Bodies (2010) share a similar premise: that eating brains gives zombies access to their victim’s thoughts and memories and is thus a process of (essential) gratification (in order to hold on to consciousness and humanity) rather than automatic consumption.

Revival Revival also combines the detective and horror genres, describing itself as a “Rural Noir.” It is set in Wausau, Wisconsin, a small town that quickly becomes a media circus after “Revival Day,” when some of its dead inhabitants (“Revivers”) came back to life. The comic’s most significant development is the manner in which it problematizes identity, as it develops the zombie tradition by having its Revived characters retain varying degrees of their personalities and memories. Creator Tim Seeley describes it as a “zombie/crime” comic, stating that he pitched the idea to Image as “a small town crime story with the undead, drawn by Mike Norton” (Personal interview, 2013).1 From its dramatic opening four pages (which include a screaming corpse bursting out of a crematorium oven followed by other bodies reawakening in hospitals and morgues), Revival focuses on the impact on the living. We never find out what happens to the partially-cremated corpse (or the dead little girl who appears in the subsequent panel), but we return to the traumatized crematorium technician later in the same volume (shown dealing with another corpse, he mutters “Ain’t gonna get up. Ain’t gonna get up” over and over to himself ). The concluding page of the comic’s opening sequence (which shows

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more of the dead reawakening) also combines each instance with a horrified observer. It ends with reporter May putting down her camera-phone (which recorded the burning corpse) and covering her eyes, as a series of three repeated panels zoom in on the camera lens. Again, seeing and the eyes are emphasized through the architecture of the page, on which these three (overlaid) panels stand out due to use of depth, as well as being the only deviation from the long horizontal panels that are otherwise used. Thus far, and despite their recent revaluation using the tropes of disease and infection, zombies have always seemed more about death than life: whether this is conveyed through their decaying appearance or unnatural behavior. Revival, however, focuses on the “live” aspects of the zombie. Seeley is a fan of Romero’s political zombie films, which he views as being “really about the way humanity treats each other, as seen through the filter of a post apocalyptic horror scenario.” While he acknowledges that “some of the joy of zombie stories are the groaning decaying people and the gore and that sort of thing” he summarizes Revival as being “more about people, and the way they deal with loss and death. And, y’know the occasional severed head.” The majority of Revivers we encounter are situated as family members (such as Em, who is protagonist Dana’s sister, and Arlene Dittman, called “Ma”), and the Revivers themselves are mostly human (“Most of them, they’re just like they used to be”) in appearance and behavior. Emotional stress seems to cause psychosis, however: agitated by the knowledge that her teeth won’t stop growing Arlene kills her daughter Terry, and when she later realizes this commits suicide by immolation. The language her distress takes is significant, as it juxtaposes imagery of death and life: “My teeth just keep growing. I have to pull ’em out, so I can wear my dentures. Keeps me awake. I feel them moving around in my jaw… pushing up like sharp little daisies.” The use of slang “pushing up the daisies” refers to death, while conversely the image of flowers growing connotes life; in addition “keeps me awake” could be taken to refer to her condition as Reviver. Seeley uses Revival to explore issues of humanity and what we view as the Other. Neighbors Bob and Choy are feuding at the start of the first volume (due to a previous misunderstanding and racist attitudes expressed by Terry) but this is forgotten by Terry’s funeral. As Seeley comments: “Zombies seem to be most popular when there’s cultural fear about ‘others,’ so, pretty much since the debut of Night of the Living Dead. But, in particular I think the last few years have seen a very divided world, as technology encroaches more and more on tradition, and science pushes against religion. We fear ‘others’ a lot these days.” While technology is not yet foregrounded in Revival (still on its first volume at the time of writing), Seeley’s comment suggests it has a role to play. Bringing the zombie Other even closer to humanity means that the notions of a divided world and fractured identities become even more explicit.

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The architecture of the page also emphasizes these points: repetition is used to reveal Em healing at the close of #1, at the point where we first realize that she is a Reviver. Affect via color is used when May is being held captive by the sham exorcist: the tail-lights on the vehicle she is tied to light the scene with a red glow, the color of danger. Finally, the reader is invited to invest the text with their own knowledge of the zombie tradition, which is then debunked, for example in the case of Arlene, who has super-strength (breaking a man’s arm) and the sharp teeth and murderous psychosis we expect from zombies; so when Em removes half her brain with a scythe we assume her dead—however this is not the case and Arlene revives for a second time. Deranged, semi-dressed and incoherent, she wanders into her daughter’s funeral, suddenly becoming focused as she stands over the coffin and asks “Oh honey, who did this to you?” before seeming to remember and reverting to an animalistic state (“AANNNNGGGGGHHH!!!”) and hysterically running to the crematorium to end her (un)life once and for all (warning the technician to “Run”). The medium demands that we first apply and then revalue what we expect from these zombies, making the interrogation of identity explicit. As well as the Revivers, there is a disembodied spirit stalking the woods, which Em ultimately dispatches. This appears as an elongated humanoid figure, but ultimately even this freak creature is granted an identity (through a hypodiegetic flashback when Em experiences its memories, and later when we see it has somehow given birth to a child). In the scene where Em apparently destroys it, eyes again become significant: Em lures it out using its old engagement ring. However, before throwing the ring in the lake, she looks through the ring, breaking the fourth wall to stare directly at the reader, with the ring encircling one of her eyes. Sight and memory are intertwined here, as suits the themes of Revival.

Crossed Devised by Garth Ennis (who scripted the first ten issues, drawn by Jacen Burrows), Crossed (Avatar Press, 2008–present) is a ultra-violent horror comic that twists the zombie tradition in a new and sadistic direction, reminiscent of King’s novel Cell or movie The Signal. The “Crossed” (named due to a crossshaped rash on their faces) are living people who, once infected, act out their most evil, violent and depraved thoughts. The plague is spread through bodily fluids, for example via rape and bites (if the victim lives long enough), and the Crossed also exploit this by treating their weapons with various fluids. Rape, murder, cannibalism, maiming and all other forms of sadistic butchery and abuse are engaged in for fun, with family and friends turning on each other

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with horrific invective and expletives once infected. Although the series is creator-owned, the storyworld (a global post-apocalyptic nightmare) has been continued (written by David Lapham, with various artists) on the proviso that Ennis’s original tale and characters would not reappear. Crossed contains a heavy dose of grotesque and gothic imagery: the Crossed are physically disfigured (the facial rash) and cannibalistic. The gang of main antagonists include the amputee “Stump” (blinded and mutilated by the Crossed to enhance his hearing ability), who is carried by a nearly-naked, emaciated old man, and their leader carries a severed “horsecock.” Gothic narrative strategies are also employed: the tale opens with a disembodied and retrospective direct address to the reader (“Remember Youtube?”) which helps frame our response to the opening scene as one of shocked disbelief—we, like everyone else, are “look[ing] around for someone filming on their ’phone” (#1, Ennis and Burrows 2011). Stan is revealed as our intradiegetic narrator on the second page, and proceeds to “Gather[ing] tiny, jagged fragments of a picture.” Crossed then becomes a relentless series of depraved and sadistic attacks as Stan, Cindy, her son Patrick and the rest of their group attempt to stay alive and keep moving, making new and more horrifying discoveries at every turn (that sexual violence for “fun” is the Crossed’s only goal; that saliva can infect, as can bullets coated in semen). Alongside this, superstition and expectation are consistently debunked in the most shocking way, for example Joel’s belief that salt kills the Crossed. After standing in a circle of salt to face a gang of them, the following double splash page shows the consequences of his misguided belief as he and his family are eviscerated, sexually assaulted and literally torn apart. During this tableau of horror his wife (who has now “crossed” although he has not yet) screams abuse at him (“Stupid cocksucker fucking asshole look what you did motherfucker look what you fucking did”) (#2). Linguistic and visual excess abound, and it’s hard to convey the explicit horror of Crossed in words. Unlike the zombies, the Crossed are active, manic, psychotic. This is not the burnt-out world of The Walking Dead, but a world that is still on fire, with its inhabitants dancing and writhing in the flames. Language is used to construct the active and frantic zombie-as-madman through connotation. The infected don’t “change,” they “cross” (the religious implication of this is made clear but rejected by the group [#6]). The language seems significant: zombification is more usually described as a “change” or “turn,” and “turn” in particular implies stasis and inversion, while to “cross” implies active movement and transgression of a boundary. This idea of development and movement underlies their horror: we never find out the cause of the Crossed outbreak and the protagonists quickly lose interest in discovering it in favor of analyzing the current behavior of the Crossed. As Kelly theorizes “They’re different, just

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like people. Some can learn, some can think things through, others just act on their impulses” (#6). The fear that the Crossed might eventually evolve and learn restraint, to plan and to wait, is touched on here (and also demonstrated in issue #5). Their developing capability is used to horrify, and intertextual knowledge is left behind. As Cindy summarizes, “All you’re doing is looking for a rulebook you already know isn’t there” (#6). Embodied points of view are used throughout the comic and its paratextual material. These are rarely assigned to the Crossed themselves but more often the victim, problematizing narrative identity by evoking the terror and anticipation of “what are you going to do to me?” This occurs from the first Crossed we encounter (on the cover and in the opening pages of issue #1), who breaks the fourth wall to meet our eyes, doubling our position as reader (looking at the cover) with that of Jim (ill-fated diner owner). Issue #1 also assigns us the perspective of a burning victim, and issue #4 switches between the embodied perspectives of Cindy, Stan and their (child) victims. Crossed’s covers in particular frequently use the embodied point of view of an imminent victim. See for example issue #3 (the perspective of a child in bed, with hands pulling up the covers while three grinning assailants holding a bat, belt and knife advance), issue #10 (the victim’s perspective, again with hands shown trying to push off a heavily muscled male attacker midway through a frenzied stabbing attack with a screwdriver), or the cover for Crossed 3D Volume 1 (the perspective of a victim shot with two arrows lying on the street as a crowd of Crossed holding cleavers, knives, bats, wrenches, crossbows, shotguns, spears and so forth rampage towards us). The reader becomes further involved in terms of both decomposition of the page and crypting the events in the gutter, since many of the splash pages of carnage come with no narrative or dialogic explanation, requiring us to piece together the events (and consequences) of particular scenes (one such page shows a terrified naked woman being dragged by the hair by two men, one carrying a petrol can, towards a leering naked man holding a hammer). Issue #4 offers a “Where’s Wally” style double splash page of depravity and violence, with a mise en scène of tiny figures fighting, killing, raping and burning each other around a freeway pileup. Stan’s narration fails here (“By then we’d seen some things that.… Well, we’d seen some things”). Additionally, in this issue Cindy and Stan murder six pre-pubescent children in their beds. All but one of these murders occur in the gutter/crypt (excluded spatially or temporally from the scene): however the one execution that is shown has the child still hidden under a blanket. Towards the close of the comic, Thomas and Kelly’s suicide takes place in the gutter/crypt: the reader moves from disembodied close-ups on the running pair, to the distanced embodied perspective of Stan (watching them through binoculars, revealing they are being pursued

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towards a cliff edge), and the final panel returns us to a disembodied shot of Stan who has removed the binoculars from his eyes. Distance and embodiment are used here to situate Thomas’s sacrifice (he is in the process of crossing but manages to steer himself and Kelly towards suicide instead) in the reader’s mind rather than on the page (#10). The coloring of Crossed is frighteningly realistic throughout, with the most violent scenes appearing in muted colors with blood spatters aplenty. Black backgrounds and borders run throughout the book. Panels are seldom angular, although their edges are frequently subtly wavy, and a notable exception occurs in issue #7 where the panels (perhaps like Stan and Cindy’s sanity) seem to have slipped down the page. Depth is seldom used although Kitrick’s history (a hypodiegetic tale displayed with dialogic immediacy in issue #7) uses it to both introduce his tale and his reaction to the sight of his family being butchered on the beach while he is swimming in the sea, shown through his embodied point of view in panels that overlay a central reaction shot of his horrified eyes. The page is vertically symmetrical, its architecture emphasizing the central horror (his view and reaction)—again the eyes are important here. Repetition is used more consolingly on the final pages as Cindy and Stan lose themselves in nature, the characters diminishing in size as they move away from us in a series of otherwise identical panels which give way to a final splash page of a sublime mountain scene. This series’ end thus coheres with its main message: that the Crossed are evil in a human sense (the ultimate loss of Patrick and the deaths of the children in issue #4 demonstrating that not even children are innocent) and the final pages juxtapose the silent serenity of nature against the carnage we have seen. Like much of Garth Ennis’s oeuvre, Crossed contains a hefty degree of self-reflection and social commentary. Ennis says “broadly speaking it’s a zombie story. But what led me into that is this sense that people in a disastrous situation might have to deal with the fact that no one is coming to save them, that there will be no government response, no effective attempt to aid them, and that they’ll be on their own” (Grady 2012: 23). In addition, the loss of the protagonists’ humanity is also reflected upon: protagonist Stan finds the “Confession” of Captain Michael Alexander Juneaux (written in a Bible and displayed as a hypodiegetic embedded story narrated over five pages), and later comments, “We’re becoming inhuman. […] I shot Brett dead for kicking a dog, because I was sick and tired of dealing with his shit.” Thomas agrees: “No point in making it if there’s nothing left of you when you get there” (#9). The moral is made more explicit in Stan’s narrated reflections on the final pages: Piece of received wisdom from the time before, something I couldn’t help remembering: there is no such thing as a snuff movie. Bullshit.

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As soon as someone thought it up; And the idea became currency; Someone else did it. There was no great secret to the Crossed. I’d never seen one do anything a human being couldn’t think of doing. Hadn’t thought of doing. Hadn’t done. They were all the awful aspects of humanity magnified a hundredthousandfold, but they were nothing more. Where did they come from? Us [#10].

Dynamically punctuated by separate narrative boxes in this way, Stan’s reflections give way to a list of humanity’s crimes (broken up similarly): “They were every brute. Every sadist. Every rapist, pedophile, renderer and torturer. Every ethnic cleanser, serial murderer, zealot, tyrant, holy killer. Every terrorist and bomber. Every smirking criminal in office. Every shitty, cruel parent who should never have had kids. And every bad, debasing thing that men and women have to do to deal with evil, the marks left slashed across our souls.” The idea of evil as a human quality is further emphasized by the confession of Geoff, one of the living group, which is set up as an admittance of homosexuality (gay companion Thomas sympathizes “I’ve been there man. I know what you’re going to say”). However, this is debunked as Geoff continues: “I used to pick men up. Young men. And take them home. […] And I’d torture them until they were dead and cut them up into pieces, and then I’d bury them under my house” (#7). Of course, Stan’s statement above also has metafictional value, as Ennis has indeed “thought it up.” In this way Crossed is one of the most extreme examples of problematized identity that the zombie conveys, as the greatest horrors are shared by monster and human and contain within them the knowledge of this. The Crossed are diverse, distinct, and individualized—Crossed is so horrifying precisely because it inverts rather than removes identity. The Crossed are not moaning automatons or soulless slaves or mindless consumers; they are active agents seeking gratification, acting on what Ennis portrays as their (our?) deepest darkest wills. Losing one’s soul or identity through zombification and automatically attacking your loved ones is no longer the ultimate horror. Becoming an inversion of yourself motivated by hate and sexual sadism and thus deliberately torturing and abusing those you love seems infinitely worse. Humanity’s addiction to depravity is explored here: in the one instance shown of a human “crossing” and trying to resist, Thomas hisses through gritted teeth “God it’s like venom but you want more” (#10). To “cross” is not the same as to “turn,” and the comic goes beyond intertextual zombieism: reinterpreting consumption as gratification and articulating human sadism.

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Conclusion A development of the zombie tradition towards the human (whether literally, ideologically or critically) is apparent in all these comics, and coheres with other contemporary comics. Brian Ralph’s comic Daybreak (2011) takes an art-house approach to the zombie. Most interesting is its use of direct address, as the back cover blurb explains: “You wake up in the rubble to see a ragged, desperate one-armed man greeting you. He takes you underground to a safe space, feeds you, and offers you a place to sleep…” This is also used in its visuals—everything is drawn from the perspective of the focalizing character (“you”) who does not narrate and whose speech we are not able to hear. Using this embodied point of view throughout again interrogates notions of identity, troubling us with the contrast of our own identity against the occupation of another character’s viewpoint. This takes place within a regular grid of panels that is repeated each page: the architecture creates a claustrophobic storytelling atmosphere with a regular pace that evokes the slow march of decay. It also brings in a focus on the eyes. Our role in the narrative is as observer (moments when the focalizing character takes action are carefully elided). Not until the end of the book do we look a zombie in the eye (in a silent staring sequence) as he looks right back at us, with black and hollow eye sockets. Here the (empty) eye is used to interrogate (absent, multiple) identity. This is a powerful final image and relies upon the sort of reflexive and doubled gaze that only comics can achieve. In addition, and like some of the other examples discussed so far, Daybreak also encompasses some developments of the zombie tradition, for example as when we are told “They’re fast at night though, ain’t they? During the day—slow as molasses, but at night, shoot—they’s fast’r than jackrabbits.” Like The Walking Dead’s treatment of humanity as the “real” walking dead, it seems possible to read this statement as an attempt to overwrite zombie history/evolution and combine the newer “running” zombies with their shuffling predecessors. In this absorption and its focus on vision Daybreak seems a gothic text: another consequence of using the embodied visual perspective of a character means that the zombies themselves are generally presented as fragmented; as isolated limbs or distant figures. We are not granted a complete “sight” until the final few pages. As well as producing such hybrid treatments of the zombie, contemporary comics (especially independent and short titles) have also applied gothic tropes such as inversion. “In Sickness” (Ayre 2008) uses a shock ending to reveal that its narrator, worried about his potentially infected wife, is in fact already a zombie himself. Their history and his developing concerns for her run parallel to the moment in the present (a splash page) where their final bullet is used,

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and both character perspective and word/picture tension are used to disguise his decay and offer an unreliable explanation of events. Other examples of inversion in short comics include “Pariah” (Ayre 2007), an O. Henry story where zombies (caused by contagious disease) flee from our narrator, the last remaining person. Here, the zombie’s physical decay is accompanied by a “deep unquenchable sense of loneliness [was] so painful it bordered on madness.” Like Pontypool this taps into the gothic trope of being entombed and cut off, here through a lack of communication. As already noted, a sociocultural reading would suggest that today’s communication methods’ limitation of our emotional connections is in this way a cryptomimetic state, as enabling technological closeness and connectivity paradoxically takes us further away from actual intimacy. Therefore these possibilities remain entombed within technology, existing only as potential unable to be excavated. Gothic has informed the construction of the contemporary zombie in ways such as these, using themes of absorption, inversion, parody, the symbol of the crypt, and a dual/divided concept of soul to revalue and rearticulate this figure. Zombies have gone from magic to virus, and their stories have become more authentic as they become more grounded in reality. Although historical symbolism (whether racial, political or religious critique) and the same themes (authority, abjection) are often still present, audience familiarity has resulted in attempts to redefine the zombie in keeping with our own fears. The redefinition of zombieism as a virus and its association with disease both visually and conceptually is linked to this redefinition. As W.J.T. Mitchell (2005: 172) says: “The slogan for our times, then, is not ‘things fall apart’ but ‘things come alive.’” A modernist anxiety over the collapse of structure is replaced by a postmodern panic over uncontrolled growth of structures that have lives of their own: cancers, viruses, and worms that can afflict electronic networks and power grids as well as physical bodies. The zombie images discussed illustrate this idea, particularly as a mass of feeding creatures that when seen from a distance recalls a single mass or cellular organism. Uncontrolled growth is what zombies are all about and is the dark mirror of consumerism at its most rampant. A Hegelian dialectic shows that struggles over vital resources (water, fuel, food, shelter) are intrinsically linked to such growth and are another aspect many of these contemporary narratives have in common; epitomized most obviously by The Walking Dead. This is, of course, familiar stuff from the world of current affairs. Zombies are becoming more real to us every day. Recent zombie texts seek to complicate and problematize the very notion of identity and what it means to be human. They ask whether humanity (or the self ) is defined in terms of our appearance, our actions, or our personality—by demonstrating how all these things can be taken away from us. Redefining zombieism as infection has resituated our zombies: no longer supernatural

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figures they can now equally be an everyday horror. Are we subjects or agents? As technological overload (“i am my i pad/pod/phone”) makes this question more relevant every day, zombie texts explore it in more novel and extreme ways. In the context of contemporary science, synthetic biology is at the cutting edge and offers a more literal way to approach the zombie. Scientists have literally created life using DNA programming and single cell organisms.2 Synthetic neurobiology has successfully spliced genes to create light-responsive cerebral cells in mice, meaning that areas of the brain can be stimulated at will with no more than a beam of light. In zombie terms, we are close to coming full circle and realizing scientific (rather than magical) control over a human. In today’s secular society the horror and emotional pathos of becoming an unthinking zombie have largely been removed, as is apparent in the sanitization and merchandising of the figure. However, the rebooted zombie (viral, consuming, running, and even alive) also exists—a figure that has been structured around an underlying inversion (of life/death, but also of individual/ mass). The sublime ugliness of the zombie’s image is a variation of Slavoj Žižek’s “sublime object of ideology” (1989). By confronting us with these contradictions (especially that of the seen/unseen, as encapsulated in the use of the eye motif ) today’s rebooted zombies frequently seem based around a cryptographic dilemma where technology’s internal/external duality is pushed to the fore. The zombie is brought closer to humanity to elicit sympathy and/or shock as consumption is redefined as gratification. Series such as The Walking Dead, iZombie, Revival and Crossed make use of the comics medium to explore such divisions, create new hybrid genres, and rearticulate tradition: taking the zombie to the next level.

Reflections In this book I have tried to demonstrate some initial links between comics and Gothic in terms of history, culture, medium and textuality. The parallel publishing histories I describe demonstrate the movement of both traditions from the margins to the mainstream and I have tried to draw attention to particular cross-over points, including sensation, censorship and Romantic authorship. The later chapters on culture and audience serve a similar purpose. The critical model I propose suggests an approach to the comics medium that focuses on points where the interactions of haunting, excess and the reader are most apparent. Considering the page layout as a haunted architecture, and identifying self-conscious echoes and departures from the scaffold (grid) in pursuit of ornamentation or function, highlights moments of transgression of time and space. Reconceptualizing the gutter as the crypt allows us to analyze it as the unseen elements of a panel. In this sense it becomes a shadow of the excess of seeing that the panel itself offers: an artificial unconscious constructed through fracture. Finally, viewing the reader’s activity as enacting the archive sustains multiple readings that are expressive of the surrounding culture and its plethora of voices: some marginalized, some manifest. Applying this model to a range of contemporary case studies and archetypes and reflecting on its use has allowed me to draw out points of significance in their narratives, where content is enhanced by medium. Gothic’s reach is ever-expanding and I hope that further research into the intersections of gothic and comics will be forthcoming. Narrative strategies such as sensationalism, melodrama, and romance; themes such as simulacra, technology and posthumanism; critical approaches that focus on affect, art and authenticity, the grotesque, and psychoanalysis; archetypes such as heroines, witches and warlocks; motifs such as the apocalypse, the double, the Other … these are just a few examples of the numerous gothic elements that seem ripe for exploration in comics. And as comics become ever more ambitious, who knows what new possibilities the future will bring. 229

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Chapter Notes Preface

market or consumers. Douglas Rushkoff (2005) summarizes: “Commodification is more of a crime of the market against humanity, while commoditization is more of a market problem for the manufacturers of branded goods.” Here, the adoption of Vertigo’s “brand image” by mainstream comics leads me towards the term “commoditization.” 2. Reprinted in Fred Von Bernewitz’s The Full Edition of the Complete EC Checklist (1974). 3. See El Santo 2012 and Señor Editor 2013 for digitized copies of these examples. Additionally see Steve “Karswell” Banes’ blog The Horrors of It All (http://thehorrorsofitall.blog spot.co.uk) for a wide selection of pre–Code horror comics. 4. A full scan of the 1958 version of “Colorama” is available online at Banes 2011. 5. See http://monsterbrains.blogspot.co. uk/2011/10/eerie-publications.html (Alfrey) for a complete collection of the painted covers of these titles. 6. Using literary terminology, throughout I shall distinguish between medium, form and genre as follows: the medium (comics, prose, poetry and so forth) incorporates various forms (such as graphic novel, trade paperback, single issue; novel, short story; sonnet, limerick, etc.), which in turn may be subdivided into genres (superhero, horror; non-fiction, children’s literature; epic poetry, dramatic poetry and so on). 7. Repetition within a single panel—see Chapter 3 for a full discussion. 8. A hypodiegesis is a story within a story (Genette 1980).

1. Throughout, I will use lower-case for the adjective and capitalize the noun.

Introduction 1. I use this term to refer to comics produced by British artists working in the American industry. 2. See Genette (1980) for further explanation of this terminology, which I use throughout this book. A diegesis is the fictional world being experienced by characters/presented by a narrator.

Chapter 1 1. It is interesting to note that the nonrealistic style of comic-book art also requires a similar suspension of disbelief from the reader, as will be discussed further in Chapter 4. 2. My thanks to Christophe Dony for this reference.

Chapter 2 1. Despite the frequent use of “commodification” and “commoditization” as analogous, throughout this book I distinguish between them as follows. “Commodification” is the Marxist notion that market values can replace other social values, or a market substitute for a communal system (e.g. Tupperware parties, Ann Summers parties). “Commoditization” refers to the way in which goods that used to be distinct in terms of attributes end up becoming mere commodities in the eyes of the

Chapter 3 1. A similar process also takes place where “false” panel borders are laid over a single

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image, and will be discussed at the close of this chapter under “depth.”

Chapter 4 1. On this point please see further discussion of Currie (1998) below. 2. To reconcile this with my temporal classification of panels in the previous chapter it is essential to remember that time is a (human) illusion. 3. For an extended discussion of Jackson’s work and critical approaches to the Fantastic more generally please see Round (2012c). 4. I revise here some of the erroneous conclusions drawn about this example in Round (2007).

Chapter 5 1. Although it is beyond the remit of this book, this value judgement is also of interest given the collaboration that goes into many comics. 2. Reasoning conducted without reference to conscious learning, particular facts, or experience.

Chapter 6 1. This chapter’s discussion focuses upon the translation of culture into materiality and thus uses the term “commodify.” 2. Based on analysis of titles from www. imdb.com and www.wikipedia.com. The figure rises to over three hundred if television, straight-to-video and international releases are included. 3. Name given to an obsessive comics collector, invoking a stereotyped definition (not least in terms of gender). 4. The interviews cited in this and the following chapters (with the exception of Steve White [Round 2005b], Karen Berger [Round 2008b], Henry Jenkins [2012d] and Charlie Adlard [2013b]) were conducted in person and by email in early 2013 both during and after the London Super Comic Con (23–24 April 2013). In addition to conducting personal interviews with creators, I surveyed 38 attendees about their U.K. Comicon experiences.

5. See for example Sedgwick (1986); Goodlad and Bibby (2007); Spooner (2004 and 2008) and Siegel (2005) 6. I reflect further on the paradoxes of asserting individuality in costume and performance as part of group participation in the context of Zombie Walks in forthcoming collection Barthes’ “Mythologies” Today (Round 2013c).

Chapter 7 1. In previous work I have drawn a distinction between the two, referring to the latter as “superscription,” but due to common usage it seems better to discard this and use the modern meaning of “retcon.” 2. Gaiman, of course, also absorbs the character of Destiny into the Endless family in Sandman. 3. The title references Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Masque of the Red Death” (1842).

Chapter 8 1. Gelder (1994: 30) notes that while “A Fragment” itself contains no clear clues to this, the plot Byron sketched out (Skarda 1989) can be directly transposed onto “The Vampyre.” 2. Despite these alterations, Stoker’s widow sued and won her case in 1925, although copies of the film survived. 3. Also the name of the antagonist in the first series of Josh Whedon’s Buffy the Vampire Slayer. 4. Scans of “Somewhere Waits the Vampire” are available online at Banes 2008 (http: //thehorrorsofitall.blogspot.co.uk/2008/10/ somewhere-waits-vampire.html). 5. Eccarius is a vampire who has only been dead for ten years and has consequently based his behavior and lifestyle religiously upon all the various multimedia versions of vampires offered in twentieth-century life: embodying the postmodern, performative vampire.

Chapter 9 1. The following comments from Tim Seeley are also taken from this interview. 2. See for example the work of Craig Venter.

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Index Numbers in bold italics indicate pages with photographs.

Abel 37, 110, 157–158, 181; see also House of Secrets abjection 4, 15–16, 73, 76, 108, 155, 160, 167, 171, 198–199, 108, 227; see also Hogle, Jerrold E; Kristeva, Julia Abnett, Dan 10, 127–130 Abraham, Nicolas 18, 56, 108, 109; see also The Wolf Man’s Magic Word absorption 8, 10, 13, 22, 26–27, 43, 48–49, 55, 89, 109–111, 113, 125, 128, 130–131, 151, 154–158, 160, 164, 166–167, 174, 188, 193, 198, 218, 226–227 Action Comics 26, 65 Adams, Neal 8, 10, 36, 114–116; see also The Game; House of Mystery adaptation 11–13, 15, 22, 27, 38, 45, 48–49, 53, 67, 144, 152, 156, 161, 173–174, 178, 199, 202, 204–207, 209–211, 213, 216, 218; see also absorption; intertextuality Adkins, Dan 36 Adlard, Charlie 84, 153, 199, 204, 213–217, 232ch6n4; see also The Walking Dead advertising 31–33, 35, 39–40, 47, 107, 134, 152–153, 210 affect 56, 74, 77, 79, 84, 88, 95, 107, 114, 129, 217, 221, 229 Ahrens, Jörn 51 Alan Moore: Comics as Performance, Fiction as Scalpel 52 Albano, John 181 Albuquerque, Rafael 195; see also American Vampire Alcala, Alfredo 105, 213; see also Hellblazer Alfrey, Aeron 231ch2n5 All-Star Squadron 156 Allred, Michael 10, 119–121, 199; see also iZombie Ally Sloper 25, 51

alterity 49, 56, 60, 63, 78, 82, 86 Amazing Stories 142 AMC 152–153, 215–217 American Dream 196 American Gothic 7, 9, 13, 55; see also Poe, Edgar Allan American Vampire 96, 132, 168, 176, 195– 198 American Zombie Gothic 200 Anatomy of Criticism 29 Andrews, Lew 66 Angoulême (France) 148 Annunaki 19, 177 Aparo, Jim 70, 104; see also Batman: A Death in the Family apocalypse 23, 56, 229 archive 58, 61, 69, 96, 98–100, 102–103, 106, 111–113, 126, 130, 151, 158, 215, 229 Arguing Comics 50 Arkham Asylum 109; see also Batman: Arkham Asylum artifice 22, 38, 57–58, 75–95, 100, 102, 139– 140, 167, 174, 192, 229; see also authenticity; inauthenticity Asia 146 Astonishing 30 Atkinson, Paul 58 atomic bomb 2, 23; see also war Auerbach, Nina 172–173, 175–176, 178 Augustyn, Brian 47 Auschwitz 15 Austen, Jane 7, 12 authenticity 10, 19, 20, 36, 56, 59, 75–76, 81, 84–85, 94–95, 125, 130, 139–140, 142, 152, 155–156, 158, 164, 167, 170, 180, 187, 198, 209, 227, 229; see also inauthenticity authority 2, 78, 80, 227 The Authority 45

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autodiegetic 94 Ayre, Jon 226–227; see also “In Sickness”; “Pariah” background (of page) 41, 67, 71, 74, 84–85, 88, 105, 112, 120–122, 127–129, 152, 163, 165, 184, 190, 196, 210, 224 Bacon-Smith, Camille 136 Baetens, Jan 58, 83 Baily, Bernard 29–30, 159 Bak, John S. 172, 175 Bakhtin, Mikhail 88 Baldick, Chris 16–17, 171, 209 The Ballad of Halo Jones 40 Banes, Steve “Karswell” 211, 231ch2n3 Barbour, Judith 170 Bark, Jasper 210 Barker, Martin 26, 31, 46, 51, 134, 137 Barnes, David 99 Barrett, Eaton Stannard 7 Barry, Lynda 8 Barthes, Roland 54, 58, 69, 79, 111, 134, 151, 232ch6n6; death of the author 97, 110 Barthes’ “Mythologies” Today 232ch6n6 Batman 26, 39, 47, 51, 70, 82, 84–85, 109, 138, 147–148, 152; Batman: A Death in the Family 70, 104; Batman: Arkham Asylum 84–85; Batman: Gotham by Gaslight 47; Batman: The Dark Knight Returns 39; Batman: The Killing Joke 39, 79–80; see also Arkham Asylum; Brooker, Will; Nolan, Christopher Beano 1, 26 Beaty, Bart 32, 34, 51, 143 Bechdel, Alison 8, 190 Beer Street 86 Bender, Hy 94, 166 Benjamin, Walter 83, 205 Bennett, Andy 138 Bennett, Peter 232ch6n6 Benton, Mike 28 Berger, Karen 38, 43–46, 48, 232ch6n4 Berninger, Mark 51 Birkhead, Edith 14 Bishop, Kyle William 200–201 Bisley, Simon 145 Bissette, Stephen R. 36–37, 43; see also Swamp Thing Black Cat Mystery 30 Blade 174, 197 body 15, 139, 108 Bolland, Brian 39, 79; see also Batman: The Killing Joke Bolter, Jay David 66, 205 Bongco, Mila 99

The Books of Magic 161 Booth, Wayne 67 borders (of panels) 24, 41, 66, 69, 71, 73–74, 97, 100, 106, 112, 114, 117, 120, 123–124, 127, 183–184, 187, 190, 193, 196, 212, 215, 224, 232ch3n1 Bordieu, Pierre 136 Botting, Fred 9, 15–17, 75, 139, 140, 151, 154, 172, 174–175, 178, 190, 204–205, 209 Boyle, Danny 80, 178, 200–201, 207, 216; see also 28 Days Later “The Brain-Bats of Venus” 30, 212–213 Braindead 210 Briefer, Dick 27 Bristol (England) 4, 146–147, 206, 208 Brit invasion 8, 24, 43, 45 Brite, Poppy Z. 13, 175 British comics 51, 66, 73 British Comics: A Cultural History 51 Bronfen, Elisabeth 19 Brooke-Rose, Christine 67–68 Brooker, Will 51, 152 Brooks, Max 215; World War Z 204, 206; The Zombie Survival Guide 206 Brown, Dan 153 Brown, Jeffrey A. 137 Browning, Tod 173 Brubaker, Ed 8 Bruhm, Steven 15 Bryson, Norman 81 Buckingham, Mark 91–92, 160; see also Fables; Sandman Buffy the Vampire Slayer 137, 143–144, 147, 149, 167, 174–175, 182, 185, 232ch8n3 Bunty 40 Burns, Mal 143 Burrows, Jacen 199, 221–222; see also Crossed Butler, Judith 136, 176, 187 Byron, Lord George Gordon 12, 170, 174, 232ch8n1; see also “A Fragment”; “The Giaour” Byron, Glennis 151, 170, 172 Cain 37, 45–46, 110, 117, 157–159; see also House of Mystery camp 137, 150, 167 Campbell, Eddie 40, 103; see also From Hell Campbell, Joseph 197 capitalism 48, 141, 156, 171, 176, 194, 196, 207, 210–211 Carey, Mike 43–45, 49, 160–164, 168, 194– 195; see also Hellblazer; Lucifer; The Unwritten caricature 7, 25, 84, 136, 159

Index Carmilla 37, 171, 173, 174, 177 Carrie 19, 41 Carter, Angela 4, 154 The Castle of Otranto 7, 12 Castricano, Jodey 9, 18–19, 22, 56, 71, 86, 88–89, 94, 96, 101–102, 106, 108–111; see also cryptomimesis Cell 203, 221 censorship 2, 9, 11, 27, 30–34, 143, 229; see also Children and Young Persons (Harmful Publications) Act; Comics Code; Comics Magazine Association of America Centre for Studies on New Religions (CESNUR) 168, 179 Chaifetz, Stuart 68, 72; see also Hellblazer Chamber of Chills 165 Chamber of Chills Magazine 165 Champions of the Oppressed 51 Chapman, James 25–26, 40, 51, 59, 66, 73 Chew 199, 211, 218 Children and Young Persons (Harmful Publications) Act 31, 34 Children’s Comics: A Guide for Parents and Teachers 33 Christianity 156, 177, 188; see also religion Christiansen, Hans-Christian 51 Chute, Hillary 23, 211 cinema see movie The Circle of Guilt 32; see also Wertham, Fredric City of the Dead 200 Claremont, Chris 8, 44 Clarke, Arthur C. 200, 203 class (social) 14, 17, 31, 127–128, 130, 135, 153, 156, 160, 169–170, 172–173, 181, 193, 196, 207, 210; see also society cliffhanger 107, 120, 121, 186 closure 52, 58, 61, 94, 98–99, 101 Clowes, Daniel 190 The Clutching Hand 180 Cochran, Russ 29 Cohn, Gary 182 Cohn, Jesse 52–53 Cohn, Neil 99, 101 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 12 collection 7, 28, 38–39, 143–144, 148, 150– 151, 232ch6n3 Collins, Wilkie 13 color 30, 38, 49, 58, 76–77, 83–86, 88, 90, 93, 95, 113, 119–121, 124, 129, 139, 163, 170, 174, 177, 183–184, 190–191, 196, 210, 215, 221, 224 “Colorama” 30, 232ch2n4 Colville, Jamie 35 Combined and Uneven Apocalypse 207

249

comedy 208–210; see also parody Comic Books as History 51 Comic-Con (San Diego) 145, 148, 149, 151– 152; see also convention (con) Comic Cuts 25 Comic Strips and Consumer Culture 1890– 1945 51 A Comic Studies Reader 50 Comics and Culture: Analytical and Theoretical Approaches to Comics 51 Comics and Geography 51 Comics and Sequential Art 52 Comics as a Nexus of Cultures 51 Comics as Culture 51 Comics Code 27–29, 31, 33–39, 51, 143; see also Nyberg, Amy Kiste; pre–Code comics Comics, Comix & Graphic Novels: A History of Comic Art 51 Comics, Ideology, Power and the Critics 51 Comics Magazine Association of America 33, 35 Comics Versus Art 51 comix (underground) 38, 51 commix see comix commodity 16, 19, 22, 27, 55, 131, 133–135, 138–139, 141, 144, 146–147, 152, 154–155, 164, 167, 177, 204–205, 231ch2n1, 232ch6n1 communication 77, 143, 145, 152, 203–205, 227 communism 19, 31 The Communist Manifesto 19 conference 145, 149, 150; see also convention (con) Conrich, Ian 207–208 Constantine, John 45, 47, 67, 68, 71, 106, 156, 158, 177, 193; see also Hellblazer; Swamp Thing constitutive otherness 14; see also negative capability Contino, Jennifer M. 44, 47 continuity 2–3, 36, 36, 47–49, 55, 143, 156; see also retroactive continuity continuous narrative 66; see also de Luca effect A Contract with God 39 convention (con) 38, 131, 134, 135–136, 144–152, 154, 206 Convergence Culture 137, 144, 148–149, 151, 154; see also Jenkins, Henry Coogan, Peter 51 Cooper, Andrew M. 170 Copjec, Joan 171 Coppola, Francis Ford 174–175, 178 Corben, Richard 46

250

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the Corinthian 81, 168, 189–194, 198 “Corpses ... Coast to Coast!” 211 cosplay 134, 145–150, 154 Count Dracula 177 Coupland, Douglas 203 covers 30, 37–38, 41–42, 158, 166, 223, 226 Cowe-Spigai, Kereth 44 Craig, Johnny 8, 28, 36 Crandall, Reed 29 Creed, Barbara 15 Creepy 36 crime comics 27–28 Crime SuspenStories 28 Crisis on Infinite Earths 47 The Critique of Judgment 65 Crossed 132, 145, 199, 211, 221–225, 228 Crumb, R. 8, 84 Cruse, Howard 8 crypt 9, 10, 18, 19, 56–59, 61–63, 69–73, 96, 100–113, 122, 130, 166, 168, 187, 197–198, 200, 203, 215, 223, 227, 229; see also cryptomimesis Crypt-Keeper 28, 37 cryptomimesis 18–19, 22, 73–74, 94, 101, 106, 197, 204, 215, 218, 227 cryptotechnophobia 202–204 Cugley, Damian 156 Culbard, I.N.J. 10, 127–130 Cult Collectors 144 cummings, e.e. 50 Currie, Mark 80–81, 232ch4n1 cut 107; see also cliffhanger cybergoth 140, 142, 204 “Cycle of Horror!” 165 A Cycle of Outrage 51 Dadoun, Roger 177 Dandy 1, 26 dandyism 140, 190 Danielewski, Mark Z. 20, 75 Daredevil 39 “Dark Brown” 219 Dark Horse Comics 49 Dark Mysteries 30 Davenport-Hines, Richard 11, 19, 169 The Da Vinci Code 153 Davis, Jack 29 Dawe, Ian 84 Dawn of the Dead see Living Dead Daybreak 226 DC Comics 26–27, 35, 37, 39, 43, 45–47, 110, 144, 146, 158; DC Vertigo 9, 23, 38, 43–48, 73, 131 145, 155, 165, 199; “New 52” 47–48, 144, 182 DC Thomson 40–41

“The Death of the Author” 97, 110; see also Barthes, Roland DeCarlo, Mike 70; see also Batman: A Death in the Family decay 17, 140, 179, 202, 207, 215–216, 220, 226–227 Deitch, Kim 8 Delano, Jamie 24, 45, 105, 107, 158; see also Hellblazer; The Horrorist de Luca, Gianni 67; see also de Luca effect de Luca effect 41, 66–67, 71, 114, 128, 165, 184 DeMatteis, J.M. 168, 182–184 the Depression 179 depth 62, 69–71, 73–74, 90, 93, 112, 114, 121, 123, 139–140, 154, 184, 187, 190, 193, 196, 220, 224, 232ch3n1 Derrida, Jacques 10, 18–19, 56, 60, 62, 65, 69, 89, 96, 100–102, 106, 111, 166, 203 Detective Comics 26; see also DC Comics dialogue 22, 29, 61, 68–69, 79–80, 83–85, 88, 90, 93–94, 106, 107, 111, 121, 145, 162– 163, 184, 191, 193, 198, 209, 223–224; see also emanata diegesis 20, 42–43, 53, 60–61, 67, 69, 71, 76–80, 82–83, 85, 88–90, 95, 101–102, 106–107, 109–110, 112–113, 121, 123–124, 127, 130, 155–156, 158–159, 162–165, 167, 180, 182, 190, 195, 197, 212, 216, 222, 231ch1n1; see also autodiegetic; extradiegetic; intradiegetic; Genette, Gerard; hypodiegetic Di Liddo, Annalisa 51–52, 82 Dillon, Steve 67–68, 72, 79, 85, 87–88, 103, 109–110, 177, 185–188; see also Hellblazer; Preacher direct address 30, 37, 42, 79, 88, 99, 107– 108, 111, 113, 117, 121, 129, 159, 180, 184, 186–187, 191, 193, 198, 211–212, 222, 226 Discworld 161 disembodiment 58, 63, 75–76, 85–89, 95, 108, 112–113, 116–117, 119–122, 129, 179– 180, 186–187, 191, 193, 195, 198, 221–224; see also embodiment dismemberment 207, 215, 225 Disney 176 Ditko, Steve 45 Dittmer, Jason 51 Dr. Occult 179 Doctor Who 147 Doom Patrol 45, 79–80 double 16, 20, 56, 62, 63, 65–66, 73–75, 78–81, 83, 88, 95, 107–108, 111, 113, 120, 125, 160, 162, 178, 185, 193, 203, 205, 223, 226, 229

Index Dracula 13–14, 16–17, 18–20, 37, 56, 89, 139, 155, 169, 171–175, 177–178, 186, 190, 194; see also Browning, Tod; Coppola, Francis Ford; Fisher, Terence; Lee, Christopher; Lugosi, Bela; Nosferatu; Stoker, Bram; Tomb of Dracula; vampire Dracula: Contemporary Critical Essays 172 Dringenberg, Mike 104, 122; see also Sandman drugs 38, 176, 182, 185, 213 Duncan, Randy 8, 51, 77–78, 83, 99 Dundee (Scotland) 145 Eadeh, Al 165 Eagle 26 EBM 140, 142 EC Comics 8, 23, 27–31, 35, 37, 125, 231ch2n2 Eccarius, J.G. 177, 188 echo 64, 79, 110, 120, 125, 128, 156, 162, 188–189 Ecke, Jochen 51 Eco, Umberto 50, 53–54; The Philosophy of Language; see also semiotics Eerie 27, 36 Eerie Comics 27 Eerie Publications 36–37, 39, 231ch2n5; see also Bisette, Stephen R.; Creepy; Howlett, Mike; Tales from the Tomb; Tales of Voodoo; Terror Tales; Weird; Witches’ Tales Eighteen-Bisang, Robert 168, 179 Eisner, Will 9, 39, 52, 57, 61–62, 78 El Santo 231ch2n3 Ellis, Warren 45–46 emanata 76–77, 83, 95, 106, 113–114; speech balloon 26, 84–85, 88, 90, 93, 216; thought bubble 77, 114; see also dialogue; narration embedded stories 19, 20, 22, 30, 42, 45, 55– 56, 61–62, 64, 71, 76–77, 84, 88–90, 95, 107, 112, 158, 165–167, 180–181, 204, 211, 224; see also flashback; hypodiegesis embodiment 9, 30, 42, 58, 63, 75–76, 80, 85–89, 95, 107–108, 112–113, 117, 120– 122, 124, 129–130, 139, 175, 180, 186, 190, 194–196, 223–224, 226; see also disembodiment Emerson, Ralph Waldo 219 Enfantino, Peter 28 Engels, Friedrich; see also Marxism the Enlightenment 1, 12 Ennis, Garth 24, 45, 67–68, 72, 79, 85, 87– 88, 103, 109–110, 145, 168, 177, 185–189, 199, 221–222, 224–225; see also Crossed; Hellblazer; Preacher

251

Epic Illustrated 39–40 Evanier, Mark 32, 34 excess 4, 8–9, 12, 14, 16, 53, 57–59, 75–78, 83–84, 86, 90, 94–95, 112–113, 116, 117, 121, 124, 126, 129, 186, 190, 192–193, 195–197, 209, 210, 215, 222, 229 extradiegetic 9, 21, 22, 76, 78–79, 88, 95, 119, 121, 159 extratextual 20, 22, 56, 62, 74, 94, 95, 97, 108–111, 113, 120, 124–125, 130, 134, 161, 185, 187–188, 210 eye 3, 29, 30, 42, 58, 65, 88, 104, 116, 120, 159, 166, 168, 170–172, 174, 177–178, 180–181, 183–184, 186, 188–195, 197–198, 200, 213, 216, 220–221, 224, 226, 228; see also injury to the eye; seeing “The Eyes of Death!” 30 Fabe, Maxene 181 Fables 160 fanboy 133–134, 143, 150–151; see also fan(dom) fan(dom) 24, 38, 43, 46, 131, 133–134, 136– 138, 142–145, 147–154, 156, 160, 164, 175, 187, 200, 220 fangirl 143; see also fan(dom); fanboy fantasies 15, 32, 39, 76, 100, 109, 179 the Fantastic 67, 81–82, 171, 232ch4n3 Fantastic Four 35 fantasy (genre) 39–40, 45–46, 48, 75–76, 82, 89, 109, 137, 153–154, 160, 171, 202; see also the Fantastic fanzines see ’zines Farnell, Gary 207 Fass, Myron 36–37; see also Eerie Publications Feldstein, Al 8, 28–29 fetish 135, 140–141, 177 Fido 210 Fifty Shades of Grey 153 film see movie Finger, Bill 8, 26; see also Batman Fish, Stanley 97 Fisher, Terence 173 Fiske, John 133, 136–137 Flash 26, 35, 47 flashback 30, 42, 76, 79, 88–89, 163, 182, 193, 221; see also embedded stories; hypodiegesis Flashpoint 47 Fleetway 40 Florescu, Radu 14 “Fors” 18, 100, 102 Foucault, Michel 9–10, 76, 98, 100; archive 10, 96, 98–100, 102, 106, 111, 151; author

252

Index

function 50, 97, 158; episteme 24, 201; heterotopia 48; see also archive “Four Conceptions of the Page (‘planche’)” 53 fourth dimension 60, 73; see also time fourth wall 42, 79, 117, 120–121, 129–130, 180, 184, 186–187, 191, 193, 196, 198, 212– 213, 221, 223; see also direct address “A Fragment” 170, 232ch8n1 frame 20, 52, 56, 61–63, 67, 73, 84, 86, 88– 89, 94, 116, 121, 123, 144, 157–159, 178, 202, 222 Frankenstein 13–14, 18–20, 27, 40, 56, 80, 89, 156, 158, 161, 162, 167, 170, 171 Freud, Sigmund 13–16; see also psychoanalysis; The Wolf Man’s Magic Word Friedrich, Mike 37, 159 From Hell 40, 60, 66, 103, 128 Frontline Combat 28 Frye, Northrop 29, 55 Gaiman, Neil 3, 8–10, 24, 43, 44–45, 49, 63–64, 79, 81, 89–90, 91–92, 104, 107– 110, 122–126, 150, 157–158, 161, 166, 168, 184, 189–194, 232ch7n2; see also The Books of Magic; Sandman Gaines, William 27, 33, 35 “The Game” 114–116 Game of Thrones 149, 153; see also HBO; Martin, George R.R. gargoyles 122, 159 gaze 76, 79, 95, 129, 168, 172–174, 177–178, 226; see also seeing Geary, Rick 163; see also The Unwritten Gelder, Ken 169–173, 177, 232ch8n1 Gencon 206 gender 3, 15, 23, 32, 40, 73, 143, 147–148, 171–177, 180, 183, 185, 187, 232ch6n3 Generation X 203 Genette, Gerard 62, 64, 67–69, 78, 89, 231Intro.n1; 231ch1n1; 231ch2n8 genre 7–8, 11–15, 18, 26–29, 31, 39–40, 46, 49, 51, 53–56, 67, 84, 110, 131, 133, 140, 142, 151, 153–156, 160, 167, 178, 186, 200–201, 210, 216, 218–219, 228, 231ch2n6 Geraghty, Lincoln 144 Gernsbeck, Hugh 142 ghost 1, 11, 16, 18–19, 27, 29, 59, 70, 74, 76, 79, 96, 99, 101, 106–108, 111, 113, 119–121, 124, 129, 139, 165, 166–167, 170, 179, 193, 218–219; see also haunting; revenant; specter GhouLunatics 37 “The Giaour” 170

Gibbons, Dave 8, 20, 66–67; see also Watchmen Gibson, Ian 40 Gibson, Mel 40, 51 Gibson, William 217 Gilbert, James 25, 32, 51 Gin Lane 86 Glenarvon 170 Gordon, Ian 25, 35, 51 Gosden, Emily 206 Gothic Fiction 155 The Gothic Flame 14 Goulart, Ron 27 Grant, Alan 40 Grant, Douglas 22 Grant Morrison: Combining the Worlds of Contemporary Comics 52 graphic novel 1, 3–4, 8, 24, 39, 49–50, 89, 94–95, 133, 231ch2n6 “Grave Results” 159 Gravett, Paul 66–67 Gray, Jonathan 136–137, 144, 151 Grixti, Joseph 16 Groensteen, Thierry 9, 52–53, 61–62, 70, 90, 96, 99, 101, 107, 109; arthrology 52– 53, 57, 62, 63, 73–74; braiding 52, 57, 60, 62–64, 73–74, 78, 81, 109; breakdown 62, 64, 73, 77; gridding 52, 60, 62; iconic solidarity 52–53, 63, 65, 78, 93, 109 Gross, Peter 160–164, 194–195; see also The Unwritten Grossman, Lev 207 Grost, Mike 179 grotesque 4, 84, 207, 209, 222 growth 17, 220, 227 Grusin, Richard 66, 205 Guerra, Pia 23 Guillory, Rob 199; see also Chew gutter (comics) 9, 58, 69–71, 93–94, 96– 107, 111–113, 122, 127–128, 159, 180, 181, 191, 196–197, 223, 229; see also background (of page); borders (of panels); crypt Haberkorn, Gideon 51 Hague, Ian 61, 64, 93 Hajdu, David 31 Hall, Stuart 135 Hamlet 67 Hamon, Philippe 67 Harman, Chris 207 Harrington, C. Lee 137, 144, 151 Harry Potter 160–161 Harvey, R.C. 77–78 Haslem, Wendy 76

Index Hatfield, Charles 9, 53, 57, 61–62, 78–79, 90 haunting 1, 9, 12, 17–19, 28, 30, 49, 56–74, 77, 81, 96, 101, 108–109, 111–112, 114, 121, 123, 126–128, 130, 183–184, 186, 190– 192, 196–199, 202, 215–216, 219, 229; see also ghost; revenant; specter Hayles, N. Katherine 178 HBO 153, 176; see also Game of Thrones the Heap 43; see also Swamp Thing Heavy Metal 39 Hebdige, Dick 133–135, 140, 151 Heer, Jeet 50 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich 17, 151, 181, 108, 227 Hellblazer 43, 45, 47, 67–68, 72, 85, 105, 107, 109–110, 156, 158, 177 Hempel, Marc 64, 84; 192; see also Sandman Hergé 67, 84 The Heroine or Adventures of a Fair Romance Reader 7 heterosexuality 185 Hildebrandt, Ralf 124, 160 Hill, Stephen 226 Hilton, Laura 104 His Dark Materials 161 History of Demonology & Witchcraft 14 Hobbes, Thomas 164 Hodkinson, Paul 134, 136, 139, 141 Hogarth, William 25, 86 Hogle, Jerrold E. 9, 12, 156, 160, 166–167, 202, 209; gothic matrix 17, 49, 155, 201– 202, 214 the Holocaust 22 homosexuality 32, 185–186, 225 Hooper, Tobe 200 Horner, Avril 208–209 horror comics 5, 11, 22, 24, 27–31, 34–37, 4142, 46, 110, 116, 120, 125, 143, 157, 165, 179, 211, 231ch2n3; see also pre–Code comics The Horror of Dracula 173 Horror Tales 36 The Horrorist 107–108 host 28, 30, 37, 41–42, 45, 110, 125, 157–159, 181 House Mother Normal 80 House of Leaves 20, 75 House of Mystery 10, 37, 45–46, 110, 114– 116, 117–118, 119–121, 157, 159, 218 House of Secrets 37, 110, 117–118, 157–159, 181, 213 Howard, Wayne 159 Howlett, Mike 36–37 Hughes, William 171, 174 humanity 3–4, 13, 17, 28–29, 121, 124, 130,

253

142, 172–173, 176, 178–179, 180–182, 184–185, 187, 189, 192, 194, 198, 200, 203–205, 210–212, 215, 217, 219, 220, 224–228, 231ch2n1; see also posthuman Hume, Robert D. 16, 155, 178 Hunsaker, Andy 48 Hurley, Kelly 15 Hutcheon, Linda 95 hyperreal 83 hypodiegesis 42, 71, 88–89, 95, 123–124, 129–130, 162, 181–182, 189, 193, 212, 218, 221, 224, 231ch2n8 I Am Legend 178, 195 I...Vampire! 37, 121, 132, 168, 182–184 I Walked with a Zombie 201, 203 Icke, David see Annunaki identity 108, 111, 119–121, 131, 133, 135–136, 138, 141, 144–147, 151, 156, 160, 172, 178– 180, 188, 192, 199–200, 209, 211–213, 218–219, 221, 223, 225–227 ideology 19, 24, 32, 48, 50–51, 69, 76, 79, 86, 88, 95, 98, 102, 133–135, 137, 160, 167, 169, 174–175, 201, 226, 228 Image Comics 49, 199, 219 In Search of Dracula 14 “In Sickness” 226 In the Flesh 210 inauthenticity 9, 81, 83, 110, 139–140 Incredible Hulk 35 infanticide 216, 223 infection 13, 178, 180, 184, 197, 200–203, 211, 215–216, 219–222, 226–227 Inge, M. Thomas 51 Ingels, Graham 29 injury to the eye 29, 30, 114, 116, 120, 168 internet 107, 141, 146, 152, 205, 222 intertextuality 8, 45, 53, 62, 65, 74, 97, 108– 109, 111, 113, 120–121, 124–125, 128, 130, 134, 136, 143, 150, 154, 161–162, 164, 167, 185, 187–188, 190, 193–195, 209–210, 223, 225 Interview with the Vampire 173, 175, 185 intradiegetic 9, 22, 58, 76, 78–79, 85–86, 88, 90, 94–95, 117, 119, 129, 159, 162, 222 The Invisibles 23, 44, 46, 162 Iser, Wolfgang 54, 59, 62, 81–82, 86, 96–97, 99, 101, 107, 112, 154 “The Island of No Return” 181 isolation 22, 88, 142, 199, 205, 214–215, 227 iZombie 10, 119–121, 132, 199, 211, 218–219, 228 Jackson, Peter 210 Jackson, Rosemary 82, 232ch4n3

254

Index

James, E.L. 153 James, Henry 16 Japan 28, 146, 148–149 Jekyll and Hyde see The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde Jencks, Charles 150 Jenkins, Henry 8, 136–138, 142, 144–145, 232ch6n4 Jinty 40 Johns, Geoff 47 Johnson, B.S. 80 Johnson, Dave 47 Johnson, Derek 143–144 Jones, Bruce 182 Jones, Malcolm III 104; see also Sandman Journey into Unknown Worlds 180 Judge Dredd 137 Kahn-Harris, Keith 138 Kamen, Jack 29 Kane, Bob 8, 26; see also Batman Kane, Gill 37–38, 159 Kanigher, Robert 159 Kant, Immanuel 65, 76 Kaplan, Arie 179 Kapow Comic Con (London) 146 Karloff, Boris 162 Kieth, Sam 8, 122 King, Stephen 11, 13, 19, 41, 89, 175, 195, 203, 221; see also Carrie; Cell King of the Zombies 209 Kirby, Jack 8, 35, 39 Kirkman, Robert 8, 199, 204, 213–217; see also The Walking Dead Kominsky-Crumb, Aline 8 Korea 28, 146, 212 Kristeva, Julia 9, 15, 73; see also abjection Kubert, Andy 47 Kuebeck, Peter 153 Kunzle, David 50, 54 Kwitney, Alisa 193 Lamb, Caroline 170 Lanci, Yari 207 Lang, Fritz 201 Langley, Travis 51 Lapham, David 222; see also Crossed Las Vegas (USA) 195–196 The Last Days of Christ the Vampire 177, 188 “Last Respects” 29 Laws, Robin D. 206 Layman, John 199; see also Chew Lazarus, Harry 180 The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen 104, 106–107

Lecercle, Jean-Jacques 14, 19, 20, 89 Lee, Christopher 125, 177 Lee, Stan 8, 35, 39–40 Leeds Thought Bubble (England) 145 Le Fanu, Joseph Sheridan 37, 171, 173, 174, 177 Lefèvre, Pascal 53, 77, 83, 85 Lenzi, Umberto 200 Lestat 18, 175, 187 Lewis, Matthew 12 LiBrizzi, Marcus 19, 177 Lifeforce 200 ligne claire 84 Little Nemo in Slumberland 109 living dead 18, 101 Living Dead 200–202, 205, 215, 220; see also Romero, George Lloyd, David 107; see also The Horrorist; V for Vendetta Locke, Simon 137 Locke, Vince 91, 92; see also Sandman London (England) 12, 109, 141, 216; London Super Comic Con 146–147, 232ch6n4 The Lost Boys 174 Lost Souls 175 Low, David E. 99 Lucas, George 161 Lucifer 43, 45, 157 Lugosi, Bela 139, 177 Lyden, Jacki 153 Lyons, James 8, 51 Maberry, Jonathan 169, 184 Macan, Darco 193; see also American Vampire; Sandman Presents: The Corinthian Death in Venice MAD (magazine) 28, 35 madness 13, 79, 162, 220–222, 227 Maffesoli, Michel 136 magazines 7, 11, 25–26, 33–40, 61, 84 magic 41, 79, 122–124, 128, 130, 132, 164, 166, 200–204, 213, 227–228 Magnussen, Anne 51, 77 Maneely, Joe 30 manga 24, 53, 147, 149 The Many Lives of the Batman 51 Marion, Isaac 210; see also Warm Bodies Markstein, Don 27 Martin, George R.R. 142; see also Game of Thrones Marvel Comics 26–27, 29, 35, 39–40, 43, 49, 144, 146 Marvelman see Miracleman Marx, Karl 19, 188; see also Marxism Marxism 18–19, 136, 141, 207, 231ch2n1

Index “Mask of the Red Fox” 159 Massé, Michelle A. 14 Matheson, Richard 178, 195 Maturin, Charles 20–22, 55 Mayer, Sheldon 158 McCay, Winsor 67, 109 McCloud, Scott 9, 52, 57–58, 60–61, 69, 76–78, 83–84, 86, 96, 98–99, 101; see also closure McClure, Michael 219 McDougall, Julian 232ch6n6 McKean, Dave 8, 84; see also Batman: Arkham Asylum; Sandman McKenzie, John 39 McLuhan, Marshall 50 McNally, David 207 McNally, Raymond T. 14 medicine 199–201, 214 Melmoth the Wanderer 20–22, 89; see also Maturin, Charles metafiction 37, 45–46, 82, 108, 159–161, 163, 168, 179, 195, 198, 225 Meteling, Arno 51 Metropolis 201 Meyer, Stephenie 187; see also Twilight A Midsummer Night’s Dream 66, 71, 125 Mighall, Robert 16–17, 110 Mignola, Mike 47 Millar, Mark 45, 47, 65; see also Superman: Red Son Miller, Ann 99 Miller, Frank 8, 39, 67; see also Batman: The Dark Knight Returns; Daredevil Milligan, Peter 44–45 Mills, Pat 40 Milne, A.A. 162 Miodrag, Hannah 53, 78 Miracleman 110 mirror 41–42, 62, 65–66, 74, 112, 116, 117, 122–123, 128, 157, 166, 167, 186, 190–191, 195, 227; see also double Mishkin, Dan 182 Mister Mystery 29, 212 Misty 40–42, 66, 165–166, 213 Mitchell, W.J.T. 78, 227 The Monk 12 Monsters of the Market 207 monstrous-feminine 15 Moon Girl 28 Moore, Alan 8–9, 20, 24, 39, 40, 43–46, 48–49, 52, 66, 79, 82, 103, 106–107, 110, 128, 157–158; see also The Ballad of Halo Jones; From Hell; The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen; Miracleman; Swamp Thing; V for Vendetta; Watchmen

255

Moore, Tony 199, 214; see also The Walking Dead Morales, Lou 29 More Fun Comics 179 Morris, Steven 206 Morrison, Grant 8, 23–24, 43–45, 51–52, 79, 84, 162; see also Batman: Arkham Asylum; Doom Patrol; The Invisibles; Supergods Morrow, Greg 124, 160 movie 16, 34, 38, 53, 64, 81–82, 97, 120, 124–125, 133–134, 137, 139, 146–150, 152, 162–163, 173–178, 183, 194, 200–204, 206–207, 210, 216, 218, 220–222, 224, 232ch8n2 Muggleton, David 136 multiverse 47 Mulvey, Laura 76 Murphy, Jill 161 Murray, Chris 43–45, 48, 51, 155 mutilation 103, 173 The Mysteries of Udolpho 12 narration 21, 29–30, 42, 56, 59, 69, 71, 75– 76, 79, 81, 85, 88–89, 93–94, 107, 119–122, 124, 159, 162–165, 183–184, 198, 211–212, 218, 222–223, 226–227; see also dialogue; emanata narrative box 88, 90, 93, 119–120, 163, 225, see also dialogue; emanata; narration Near Dark 174 negative capability 105, 162 Neighly, Patrick 44 Nelson, Elizabeth 143 Neuromancer 217 Nevett, Chad 164 “New Adventures of Frankenstein” 27 The New Deadwardians 10, 127–130 New Fun Comics 179 newspapers 7, 25 Night of the Living Dead see Living Dead Niño, Alex 181 Nolan, Christopher 82, 152 Northanger Abbey 7, 12 Norton, Mike 199, 219; see also Revival Nosferatu 173, 175, 194, 232ch8n2 nostalgia 12–13, 142, 144, 209 “Notes on Camp” 150 Nuremberg 28 Nyberg, Amy Kiste 31, 33, 51 O. Henry 29, 37, 227 O’Brien, Paul 34 Old Witch 37 Oleck, Jack 213

256

Index

One Neck 227 O’Neil, Dennis 8 O’Neil, Kevin 106–107 “...Only Skin Deep!” 29 Orlando, Joe 10, 29, 36, 117–118, 157, 159 the Other 2, 16–17, 19, 23, 31, 58, 86, 101, 106, 133, 136, 138, 176, 179, 201, 207, 220, 229 Otto, Peter 155–160 Outcault, Richard 25 Paffenroth, Kim 217 page (comics) see background (of page); borders (of panels); dialogue; emanata; frame; gutter; narration panel (comics) see background (of page); borders (of panels); dialogue; emanata; frame; gutter; narration Panic 28 paratext 19–20, 22, 56, 62, 65–66, 74–75, 106–109, 111–113, 136–137, 151, 157–159, 166, 209, 223; see also extratextual “Pariah” 227 parody 12, 30, 49, 55–56, 150, 162, 187–188, 198, 208–210, 227 Pat the Zombie: A Cruel Adult Spoof 209 Pearson, Roberta 51, 152 Peaty, Gwyneth 178 Peeters, Benoît 52–53 Pekar, Harvey 8 Penfold-Mounce, Ruth 217 Pensa, Shea Anton 91–92; see also Sandman Pérez, George 47 performance 5, 19–20, 52, 59, 82, 83, 95, 100–101, 108, 110–111, 131, 133, 135–136, 138, 139, 141, 147–148, 150, 154, 161, 167, 176, 187, 189, 192, 194, 206, 208, 232ch6n6, 232ch8n5 performativity see performance perspective 3, 9, 20–21, 30, 42, 44, 56–59, 62–64, 67, 71, 75–77, 81, 85–89, 95, 107– 109, 112–124, 129–130, 137, 162, 180, 186– 187, 191, 193, 195–196, 223, 226–227 Pi Roman, Rafael 23, 211 The Picture of Dorian Gray 13, 56, 80 Piracy 28 Poe, Edgar Allan 7, 13, 159, 232ch7n3 poetry 11–13, 75, 81, 130, 140, 170, 187, 219, 231ch2n6 Polhemus, Ted 138 Polidori, John 170–171, 177; see also “The Vampyre” Pontypool 203, 227 Post/modern Dracula: From Victorian Themes to Postmodern Praxis 172, 175

posthumanism 174, 178–179, 229 postmodernism 13, 17–18, 20, 23, 49, 80–81, 83, 95, 136, 150, 163, 168, 178, 194, 199, 227, 232ch8n5 Potocki, Jan 20–22, 55, 93; see also The Saragossa Manuscript Potter, Mitch 206 Powell, Bob 30 power 2, 12, 17, 25, 32, 51, 58, 88, 97, 136, 141, 145, 150, 161–162, 164, 176, 181, 183– 185, 208 The Power of Comics 77, 145 Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection 15; see also abjection; Kristeva, Julia Pratchett, Terry 161 Preacher 5, 46, 79–80, 87–88, 102–103, 109, 132, 168, 177, 185–189, 192, 194–195 pre–Code comics 22, 29–30, 34, 36, 116, 165, 168–169, 211–213, 231ch2n3 Principles of Physiological Psychology 13 Prize Comics 27 protest 36, 206 psychoanalysis 13–19, 23, 56, 172, 179, 229 Pullman, Philip 161 Pumphrey, George H. 33 punk 135, 140 Punter, David 1–4, 9, 15, 17, 19, 22, 48, 55, 151, 156, 201 Pustz, Matthew J. 143 queer theory 171, 175 Rabey, David 62 racism 23, 29, 135, 180, 182, 209, 220 Radcliffe, Anne 12 Ralph, Brian 226 Rance, Nicholas 171 reader response 96–97, 134; see also Barthes, Roland: death of the author; Iser, Wolfgang; Rosenblatt, Louise Reed, Darren 217 Reiber, John Ney 161 Reinman, Paul 180 Reinventing Comics 52 religion 81, 102, 160, 169, 177, 188, 199– 200, 220, 222, 227 remediation 66, 205 Renaud, Jeffrey 195, 164 Resident Evil 202 “Rest in Peace” 213 retroactive continuity (retcon) 48–49, 55, 125, 156, 162, 164, 193, 232ch7n1 revenant 9, 58, 94, 106–108, 111–112, 121, 124, 187, 218–219; see also ghost; haunting; specter

Index revisionism 3, 34, 36, 45–46, 48, 56, 167 Revival 132, 199, 211, 219–221, 228 Reynolds, Richard 51 Rice, Anne 18, 173–176, 185, 210; see also Interview with the Vampire; Lestat Ridgway, John 105; see also Hellblazer Riffaterre, Michael 97 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 12 The Rise of the American Comics Artist: Creators and Contexts 51 Rival, Rico 158 Robbins, Trina 51, 143 Roberson, Chris 10, 119–121, 199; see also iZombie Robertson, Darrick 46 The Rocky Horror Picture Show 150 Rogers, Mark C. 38 Rogers, Martin 202 Rogers, Vanessa 45 romance 11–13, 26, 28, 39, 55, 143, 174, 207, 210, 229 Romanticism 7, 9, 12–13, 24, 48, 97, 133, 140, 229 Romero, George 200–202, 205, 207, 210– 211, 214–215, 220 Rosenberg, Robin 51 Rosenblatt, Louise M. 96–97 Ross, Henry 25; see also Ally Sloper Ross, Jonathan 48 Round, Julia 43–44, 46, 66, 76, 79, 81, 84, 94, 145, 147, 153, 155, 293, 204, 211, 232ch4n3, 232ch6n1, 232ch6n6 Rowlandson, Thomas 25 Rushkoff, Douglas 231ch2n1 Russo, Arlene 169, 184 Ruthven, K.K. 75 Rymer, James Malcolm 170–171; see also Varney the Vampire Sabin, Roger 11, 25–26, 51 Sacco, Joe 67, 83 Sacks, Harvey sadism 32–34, 221–222, 225 Sage, Victor 208 Said, Edward W. 97 Sanders, Joe 51, 160 Sandman 3, 5, 9–10, 45, 63–64, 66, 71, 75, 79–81, 84–85, 89–93, 104–105, 107–110, 122–126, 131–132, 143, 150, 155, 157–158, 160, 166, 168, 189–195, 232ch7n2 The Sandman Papers 51, 160 Sandman Presents: The Corinthian Death in Venice 192–193; see also Corinthian Sandvoss, Cornell 137, 144, 151 Sanna, Antonio 110

257

The Saragossa Manuscript 20–22, 89–94 satire 12, 25, 31, 39, 109, 185, 209–210 Saunders, Norman 29 Savage, William W. 32 Saville, Philip 177 Schell, Martin 93–94 Schelly, Bill 142 Schweitzer, Darrell 160 science fiction 27–28, 37, 39–40, 46, 142, 147, 217 Seal of Approval: The History of the Comics Code 31, 51 Seduction of the Innocent 32, 143; see also Wertham, Fredric seeing 9, 30, 58, 75, 80–81, 85–86, 174, 198, 220, 232ch4n1 Seeley, Tim 199, 219–220, 232ch9n1; see also Revival Seifert, Mark 30 semiotics 10, 18, 22, 53 Semiotics and the Philosophy of Language 53, 59, 74, 77, 136 senate investigation 27, 31–33, 35 Senf, Carol 169–170, 174 Señor Editor 29, 231ch2n3 Sense of Wonder 142 serialization 7, 11, 25, 27, 39, 40–41, 47, 106– 107, 134, 143, 170, 182, 214 Shade, the Changing Man 45; see also Ditko, Steve; Milligan, Peter Shakespeare, William 44, 125, 160; see also Hamlet; A Midsummer Night’s Dream Shelley, Mary 7, 13, 27, 55, 80, 170, 186; see also Frankenstein Shelley, Percy 12 Shelton, Gilbert 8 Shildrick, Margrit 15 Shock SuspenStories 28–29 Showcase 35 Shuster, Joe 8, 26, 179; see also Superman Siegel, Carol 139, 232ch6n5 Siegel, Jerry 8, 26, 179; see also Superman A Sign for Cain 32; see also Wertham, Fredric The Signal 200, 203, 221 The Simpsons 143 Singer, Marc 44, 52 Skarda, Patricia L. 170, 232ch8n1 Skeates, Steve 159 Skywald Publications 39 Slimelight (nightclub) 141–142 Smith, Andrew 17 Smith, Andy W. 62 Smith, Matthew 8, 51, 77–78, 83, 99 Snyder, Scott 8, 168, 195–196; see also American Vampire

258

Index

social trauma 15, 17, 22–23, 36, 43, 48, 55, 156, 179, 202, 211; see also society society 1–2, 13–18, 22–23, 29, 31–37, 39, 40, 43, 46, 48, 50, 55–56, 76, 128–130, 134– 138, 141–143, 150, 161, 169–173, 175–187, 198, 200–202, 204–206, 209–212, 217, 224, 227–228, 231ch2n1 “Somewhere Waits the Vampire” 180, 232ch8n4 Somtow, S.P. 13, 175 Sontag, Susan 150 Soofi, Kaveh 209 soul 175–176, 183, 194, 213, 219, 225, 227 specter 10, 12, 18–19, 58, 89, 96, 106, 111– 112, 140, 205; see also ghost; haunting; revenant Specters of Marx 18–19 speech balloon see emanata; see also dialogue Spellbound 40–41 Spiderman 35, 82–83, 152 Spiegelman, Art 22, 61 Spooner, Catherine 16, 134, 138–142, 155, 167, 232ch6n5 Star Trek 144 Star Wars 161 Starlin, Jim 70, 104; see also Batman: A Death in the Family “The Statement and the Archive” 98 steampunk 3, 56, 140 Steele, Valerie 140 Stein, Gertrude 80–81 Stevenson, Robert Louis 14, 80; see also The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde Stevick, Philip 208 Stoker, Bram 7, 13, 17, 55, 169, 171–175, 177, 185–186, 195, 232ch8n2; see also Dracula Stone, Allucquère Rosanne 174 storyworld 77, 80, 156, 222; see also diegesis The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde 14, 27, 56, 80 Strawberry Hill 12; see also Walpole, Horace subculture 10, 14–16, 22, 31, 55, 131, 133– 142, 148, 150–151, 154, 178, 186–187 Subculture: The Meaning of Style 135; see also Hebdige, Dick the Sublime 16, 160, 224, 228 subversion 2, 7–8, 13–15, 22, 31, 38, 43–44, 46, 55–56, 79, 81–82, 102, 113, 117, 120, 133–134, 136–137, 141, 148, 151, 160, 163, 168, 179, 184–186, 188–189, 198, 208–209 Summers, Montague 14, 169 Supergods 51 superhero 8, 23, 26–27, 31, 35, 38–39, 43– 44, 46–48, 51, 56, 80, 82, 84, 110, 143, 154, 156, 179, 182, 231ch2n6

Superhero: The Secret Origin of a Genre 51 Superheroes: A Modern Mythology 51 Superman 26, 35, 152, 179, 195; “The Death of Superman” 38; Superman: Red Son 47, 65 Sutton, Thomas 182–184 Suvin, Darko 67 Swamp Thing 45; Saga of the Swamp Thing 9, 43, 45–46, 156–158 The System of Comics 52; see also Groensteen, Thierry taboo 12, 15–16, 179 Taboo 40 Talaoc, Gerry 181 Talbot, Bryan 8, 84, 89; see also Sandman The Tale of Terror 14 Tales from the Crypt 28–30 Tales from the Tomb 36 Tales of Voodoo 36 Tammy 40–41 technology 8, 49, 171, 174–175, 178, 179, 199–215, 200, 227–229 teeth 139, 168, 172–173, 189–191, 193–194, 220–221, 225 The Ten-Cent Plague 31 Terror Tales 36 Tett, Gillian 207 Textual Poachers: Television Fans and Participatory Culture 137; see also Jenkins, Henry The Thing 29 Thomas, Roy 156 Thornton, Sarah 136 thought bubble see emanata; Leeds Thought Bubble time 60, 64, 67–69, 73–74, 78, 96–97, 102– 103, 105–106, 112, 119, 163, 166, 200, 229, 232ch4n2; as space 52, 57, 60–62, 163, 166, 229 Todorov, Tzvetan 67, 81; see also the Fantastic Tokyo Comiket 149 Tomb of Dracula 174 Torok, Maria 18, 56, 108, 109; see also The Wolf Man’s Magic Word Toth, Alex 159 Tower of Babel 65 trade paperback 39, 89, 94–95, 231ch2n6; see also graphic novel Transmetropolitan 46 Triggs, Teal 143 Trombetta, Jim 22, 28–30, 34, 179–180, 211–212 True Blood 176 Tupper, E. Frank 156 The Turn of the Screw 16

Index 28 Days Later 200, 203, 216 Twilight 149, 174, 185, 187, 199, 207 Twitchell, James 171 Two-Fisted Tales 28 2000AD 40, 43–44, 66, 73, 137 Uhlig, Barbara 99 ultraviolet 140, 184, 196 the Uncanny 16, 28, 71, 114, 116–117, 124, 199, 202, 205, 209, 213 underground comics see comix Understanding Comics 52 United States Senate see senate investigation The Unwritten 43, 131–132, 155, 160–165, 168, 194–195 Uricchio, William 51, 152 V for Vendetta 43, 46 vampire 10, 13–15, 18–19, 29, 33, 37, 67–68, 71, 73, 96, 110, 121, 127–128, 130–132, 137, 139, 141, 143, 149, 154, 168–200, 202, 207, 210, 219, 232ch8n4, 232ch8n5 “Vampire” 181 The Vampire: His Kith & Kin 14 The Vampire in Europe 14 Vampire Junction 175 The Vampire Lestat 175; see also Lestat “Vampires? Don’t Make Me Laugh!” 180 “The Vampyre” 170–171, 173, 232ch8n1 Van Elferen 139, 142 Varley, Lynn 39 Varma, Devendra P. 14 Varney, the Vampire 170–171, 174, 177, 185 Vaughan, Brian K. 23 Vault-Keeper 37 Venter, Craig 232ch9n2 Vess, Charles 84; see also Sandman Victorian 3, 13, 17, 47, 107, 127–128, 130, 140, 173, 190, 205 virus 184, 201, 203, 205, 227–228 “Voice from the Dead” 159 VOODOO 211 Vozzo, Daniel 64; see also Sandman Wade, Mark 8 Wagner, John 40 “Waiting...Waiting...Waiting...” 158 Walker, Kev 145 The Walking Dead 51, 132, 149, 152–153, 159, 199, 204, 211, 213–217, 218, 222, 226– 228; see also Adlard, Charlie; AMC; Kirkman, Robert; Moore, Tony The Walking Dead and Philosophy 51, 217 Waller, Gregory A. 172–175, 177, 217 Walpole, Horace 7, 12, 75, 167

259

war 26–28, 32, 36, 40–41, 51, 79, 129, 179, 181, 193, 195, 202, 204, 210–212, 219; see also atomic bomb; Auschwitz; the Holocaust war comics 26, 40 Warm Bodies 210, 219 Warren Publishing 36, 39; see also Creepy; Eerie Watchmen 20, 30, 39, 43, 46, 48, 61, 63–64, 66, 93–95, 107, 143, 196 Watt-Evans, Lawrence 27 Way of the Barefoot Zombie 210 Wein, Len 45; see also House of Mystery; Swamp Thing Weinzierl, Rupert 136 Weird 36–37 Weird Chills 30 Weird Fantasy 28 Weird Mystery Tales 157 Weird Science 28 Weird Science-Fantasy 28 Weird Tales 7 werewolf 33, 120, 193, 219 Wertham, Fredric 32, 34, 50, 143 Whale, James 162 Whedon, Josh 137, 144, 174–175, 232ch8n3; see also Buffy the Vampire Slayer White, Steve 40, 43–44, 145, 147, 232ch6n4 White Zombie 201, 213 Whitson, Roger 103 Wigley, Mark 61, 65, 100 Wilde, Oscar 13, 80; see also The Picture of Dorian Gray Williams, Evan Calder 207 Williams, Paul 8, 51 Williamson, Al 36 Willingham, Bill 157, 160 “Winner Take All!” 159 Winnie the Pooh 162 Wisker, Gina 176 Witches’ Tales 36 Witek, Joseph 51 Witty, Sarah 99–100 Wolf Man (Freud) 18, 100–101, 106, 108; see also The Wolf Man’s Magic Word The Wolf Man’s Magic Word 18, 100, 101, 106, 108 wolfman see werewolf Wolfman, Marv 47, 159 Wolverton, Basil 212 The Woman in White 13 Women and the Comics 51 Wood, Wally 8, 28, 36 woodcut 11, 163 Worcester, Kent 50

260 “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” 83, 205 The World of Fanzines 143; see also Wertham, Fredric World War Z 204, 206 Worlds of Fear 29 The Worst Witch 161 Wrightson, Berni 36 Wundt, Wilhelm 13 X-Men 35, 44, 134 Xena 147 Ximm, Aaron 209 Y: The Last Man 23 “The Yellow Kid” 25 Yoe, Craig 211 Yronwode, Cat 51 Yuen, Wayne 51

Index Zezelj, Danijel 193; see also American Vampire; Sandman Presents: The Corinthian Death in Venice ’zines 136, 142–143, 151; see also Robbins, Trina; Sabin, Roger; Wertham, Fredric Ziuko, Tom 68, 72; see also Hellblazer Žižek, Slavoj 108, 228 Zlosnik, Sue 208–209 zombie 1, 10, 23, 27–28, 31, 119–212, 125, 127–132, 168, 173, 176, 178–179, 199–228; zombie walks 206, 208, 211, 232ch6n6; see also Boyle, Danny; iZombie; Shaun of the Dead Zombie Capitalism: Global Crisis and the Relevance of Marx 207 The Zombie Survival Guide 206 “Zombie Terror” 28; see also Craig, Johnny Zombies on Broadway 209–210