For my money, the Best Book of 2009 was Kirk Anderson’s Banana
Republic, which we reviewed at length at the Usual Place in R&R, Opus 238.
Observing Anderson’s bold and tapering line — a line supple as liquid sheen, not
to mention the crispness of his stylistic mannerisms, the inherent drama of
their composition and the superlative comedic timing of the breakdowns — his wit,
his graphic genius, his satirical savagery, I laughed the silvery laughter of
pure, unadulterated pleasure at beholding the symphonic beauty of his work, its
visual distinction yoked to an intellectual assault on the issues of the day, a
ramble engaging both eye and mind — cartooning at its most sublime.
A satire, a
newspaper comic strip reprint, Banana
Republic also qualifies as a graphic novel as surely as anything Marvel or
DC produced serially before compiling the pages into a single volume: Anderson
did the work first as a quarter-page newspaper comic strip for the Minneapolis Star Tribune from October
13, 2005 to November 17, 2007. For over two years, in nearly 100 comic strips, Anderson unflinchingly
lambasted the Bush League and its demonstrably unAmerican policies. For that
purpose, Anderson invented a “zany Third World dictatorship, Amnesia ...
[where] the government engages in roughhousing practices we would consider
unconstitutional in our own country — such as torture, warrantless surveillance,
and imprisonment without charge!”
To give his
fictional country a cohesive satiric focus, Anderson
invented the dictator, Generalissimo Wally, who “may often represent the U.S. president, but on any given week, he may
just as likely represent power more generally, or a corporate CEO, or the U.S. government, or Minnesota’s governor. Regardless of whether
we think American torture is right or wrong, when it’s Genralissimo
Wally melon-balling some poor bastard’s eyes, we know it’s appalling,
unAmerican, and proof of his illegitimacy.”
Purely
visual comedy often sharpens the satire by reason of its contrast to the
grimness being depicted. Dangling by his arms and pestered with the idiotic
preoccupations of his torturer, the political prisoner Diego Meza “lightens the
mood for his fellow detainees” by trying to swing his eyeball back into its
socket — an outright imitation of a child’s game, which might even be called
“ball in the socket.” In another scene
in the torture chamber, Anderson
resorts to a simple albeit graphically effective visual pun — showing a victim
vomiting blood, about which Wally says, “He even speaks in bloodbaths.”
The last
strips in which Rita Meza finally secures the release of her tortured husband
deploy breathtakingly inspired visuals. After years of relentless torture, the
hapless Diego has been reduced to a liquid, as if his skeletal structure has
been completely crushed, mulched. This symbol Anderson exploits for two pages as Rita tries
to arouse public indignation — Diego drips from her arms as she carries his limp
remains around — all to no avail. Unable to talk, Diego answers his wife’s
question about what “they” have done to him with speech balloons the show
images of melon-balling, brain removal, and simple beatings. Ugly stuff. But in
Anderson’s
hands, the ugliness is given an image so grim, so metaphorically accurate, that
ugliness is transcended and becomes excruciatingly satirical.
Anderson’s book — his comic
strip — makes for vastly entertaining reading. Unabashedly irreverent on every
note it strikes, it withholds nothing. There are no sacred cows; no wickedness
committed in the name of making the world a better place is ignored, no
justification accepted. The book is relentless as well as unflinching. It is
also a supreme example of how the arts of cartooning can be assembled for
telling satire, satire that is humorous as well as insightful, hilarious as
well as inciteful.
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