Alan Moore's Lost Treasures - #6 in a 6 Part Limited Series

“The Bowing Machine”

The third issue of Raw (volume two), the digest-sized final collection of Art Spiegelman’s art comix series, is the best single volume of a comics anthology ever published. Included among the book’s extraordinary contents are Spiegelman’s own penultimate chapter of Maus: A Survivor’s Tale, a classic 32 page excerpt of George Herriman’s Krazy Kat (the famous “Tiger Tea” sequence), an exquisite Gary Panter sketchbook, “Thrilling Adventure Stories,” the first glimpse of the genius that was to come from Chris Ware, “Proxy,” a highly under-appreciated collaboration between novelist Tom DeHaven and Richard Sala, and Kim Deitch’s masterpiece, “The Boulevard of Broken Dreams.” The anthology also includes strong pieces from Lynda Barry, Muñoz and Sampayo, Drew Friedman, Marti, Justin Green, Kaz, and several lesser-known but equally talented European artists, not to mention the brilliantly sarcastic R. Crumb cover. With such an impressive lineup, it’s easy to see how a little story by Alan Moore got forgotten in the mix.

Yet “The Bowing Machine,” Moore’s unlikely collaboration with Amy and Jordan creator, Mark Beyer, is among the highlights of this impressive book. The story, which runs all of nine pages, is a subtle exploration of the socio-political tensions that arose between the US and Japan in the early 90s as Japan’s economy returned to international prominence. In the very first panel, Moore’s nameless Japanese protagonist describes, in scathing fashion, the toxic influence that foreign investment has had on Japanese culture: “Ah, there is so much money, rolling west in giant waves of dollar green topped with a silver froth of dimes, to break amongst the broken crab-claws down in Tokyo Bay.” Once again we are immediately confronted with evidence of Moore’s unparalleled grasp of the English language.

The story quickly narrows its focus onto a single rivalry between the narrator and a co-worker, both employees of an unnamed Japanese company, as each struggles to curry the favor of their superiors that they may ascend the corporate ladder. The personal competition between these two is a metaphor for the larger competitive tensions that existed between the US and Japan, and Moore plays a note-perfect riff on international politics in the way he depicts these two rivals, each going to ritualistic extremes of politeness in their professional behavior, while secretly harboring a seething mutual hatred for one another.

Eventually the story takes a Steven Millhauser-esque dive into obsession as the protagonist becomes a self-trained master at bowing to his superiors. The importance of the bow as a professional and cultural ritual is keenly understood by the Japanese narrator, but as one of the story’s many newspaper articles describes, “It is not enough to just bow in Japan. The exact angle of the bow must be determined by the nuances and subtle shades of a complex system of social intercourse. But today, as the country continues to absorb the ways of the West, older Japanese are worried that the new generation is losing the gentle art of bowing.” In the narrator’s hands, this simple social grace is once again elevated to a high art, and becomes the foundation upon which he briefly stakes his professional reputation.

But of course, the American rival has no concept of the bow’s importance in traditional Japanese culture, and instead seeks to best his rival by use of technology. He purchases the “bowing machine” in an effort to learn to bow in the same impressive manner as his Japanese rival, never understanding that bowing is a revered cultural tradition, not some mundane skill one can learn on the weekends with a simple machine.

The story ends with a bitter irony when, despite his ignorance, the rival becomes entangled in the bowing machine for several days, and suffers a crippling back injury in which he is permanently bent forward, like some hideous monstrosity. When he returns to work, hunched in his grotesque posture and relegated to a wheelchair, the Japanese narrator realizes he has been bested in their silent competition. His superiors, whether out of pity or admiration, are unable to ignore the immense sacrifice they perceive he made in pursuit of cultural sensitivity, and are moved to promote and favor the tragic figure over his upright, majestically bowing rival. Thus, a grave miscarriage of justice prevails as the accident victim is shown favor and privilege within the corporate culture.

Mark Beyer’s art is an acquired taste. His style is over-simplified and to the untrained eye, may seem childlike and unattractive. But upon closer examination, his panels are deceptively complex. First of all, Beyer makes great use of colors and patterns, using meticulous hatching and shading, as well as bright swaths of primary colors to add tone and texture to his panels. In addition, Beyer rises to the considerable demands of Moore’s script, which calls for several recurring images that inform the story’s underlying themes. In particular, the arcing posture of the bow itself, noted not only in the physical act depicted throughout the story, but also in the breaking arc of the “waves of dollar green,” operates as a visual motif for the cynicism and defeatism of the main character. Beyer also incorporates newspaper articles, both in Japanese and English, to convey a large quantity of story context (including a brief history of the machine’s invention) in a relatively small amount of space. Finally, each page features a shifting series of symmetrical wallpaper patterns, set against stark black backgrounds, adding a distinctively Japanese aesthetic to the story.

In the end, this is one of Alan Moore’s most cynical tales. Its focus on the unspoken bitterness inherent in international politics is a brutal indictment of American arrogance. What lingers most is the final image of the rival, pathetically mangled in his wheelchair. Though victorious, his bastardization of a sacred cultural ritual, not to mention the self-destructive nature of his behavior, makes him a loathsome and disgusting figure. His victory is pathetic and hollow, and, in the story’s larger metaphor, it portrays America as a scrupulous giant, blindly destroying the world in search of the all-important profit. Moore’s final words are scathing in their indictment of America's globalization and the impact it's had on the world.

“Now he has laid himself so low that I can never rise above him.”

****************

That's it! I really hope you enjoyed this series of posts. If you're still hungry for more Alan Moore short stories, I also recommend checking out:

1) "Brighter Than You Think" - an awesome mini-biography of occultist John Whiteside Parsons, illustrated by Lost Girls collaborator, Melinda Gebbie, which appeared in the anthology Top Shelf Asks the Big Questions.

2) "Tapestries" - a great little story about the horrors of war that appeared in Real War Stories #1 (Eclipse Comics, 1987). Illustrated by Miracleman collaborator, John Totleben (with Stan Woch) and Stephen Bissette.

3) "The Bojeffries Saga" - the majority of this story originally ran as a back-up in Fantagraphics' Dalgoda and Flesh and Bones, and was recently collected by IDW.

4) The New Adventures of the Spirit #1 and 3 - The first issue features a new, full length collaboration with Dave Gibbons, while the third issue contains a short story with stunning illustrations by Daniel Torres. Both issues published by Kitchen Sink Press.

Alan Moore's Lost Treasures - #5 in a 6 Part Limited Series

“Madame October”

“Madame October” originally appeared in issue #16 of Negative Burn published by Caliber Comics. The “song” was part of a recurring series of poems and short verses that were featured in the anthology and referred to generally as “Alan Moore’s Songbook.” This particular poem, which features spot illustrations by Strangers in Paradise artist, Terry Moore, was also included in the Best of Negative Burn Year Two collection.

The poem recounts the tale of two French men, Albert and Rene, both lovers betrayed by the same woman known only as “Madame October,” conspiring to murder a third, unknown man who they suspect has stolen their lover’s affection. Compared to Moore’s body of work, this story is slight; there are not a lot of character and plot developments, per se.

But once again, Moore’s prose in this song has the elegance and beauty of spun silk. With just a few words, Moore’s lyrics conjure stunningly vivid mental images. Consider the opening stanza which sets the scene as we are introduced to Albert and Rene, the two protagonists, conspiring together in a smoky French café:

“Albert and Rene, like a poison cruet set,
Sit perched on chrome stools,
In the Gaulois bar.
From the jukebox,
Piaf tells Manuel not to go there,
And out in the streets,
Where the pug-dog faced cars
Sound their horns,
There are soldiers and girls by the Seine,
And gendarmes, in wet midnight capes,
Look away when they kiss.
Garlic breeze haunts the mews,
And you’d swear nothing bad ever happened
On nights such as this.”

While the poem doesn’t quite adhere to a strict iambic pentameter, there is definitely a rhyme scheme in place. But the tempo is disjointed, and the musical tone of the words is hard to hear. Nevertheless, Moore is on his game in this short piece. The meandering rhythm of the poem fits its mysterious, drunken subject matter, as if the words, like the two heroes, are staggering drunkenly down a narrow cobbled alleyway toward an inevitable, tragic mistake.

Terry Moore’s five richly detailed spot illustrations are gorgeous, enhancing the dramatic elements of Moore’s poem without overshadowing its lyrics. The drawing of the cobbled Parisian alleyway where the crime takes place is particularly beautiful and captures both the romance and menace of the accompanying prose.

But Moore not only contributed illustrations, he also designed the elegant page borders which frame Moore’s words in a rich shroud of looping fabric and autumn leaves, brambly trees and arching gates. Even “Madame October” herself lurks in the margins, mysterious and seductive, casting a ghostly shadow across the unfolding drama. Rather than carrying any particular storytelling responsibilities, the design is strictly decorative; yet, like a theatrical backdrop, its presence is invaluable in heightening the erotic tension of the of the underlying mystery.

The song concludes with a clever Roald Dahl-like twist-in-the-tale which imposes a painful sense of irony on the characters’ actions. But it is Moore’s masterfully woven language that makes “Madame October” memorable. The writer’s ability to conjure specific and emotionally wrought images from such an economy of carefully arranged words is a skill that never fails to amaze.

Alan Moore's Lost Treasures - #4 in a 6 Part Limited Blog Series

“Come On Down”

“Alan describes this story as ‘an inversion of regular horror stories: What’s horrible isn’t that grotesque things happen to people, but that people want grotesque things to happen to them.’”

- Stephen Bissette from the Introduction to “Come On Down” in Taboo #1.

Most people probably remember From Hell and Lost Girls as Alan Moore’s two major contributions to Stephen Bissette’s under-appreciated late '80s anthology, Taboo. Chapters in progress from both stories were serialized in the square-bound series, which spotlighted a number of highly talented creators (many British) working on black and white, EC-style short horror stories.

But what may have flown under the radar was another short story by Moore, with artist Bill Wray, which appeared in the first issue. “Come On Down” is a nine-page story which was originally intended to appear in Harris Publication’s short-lived revival of Creepy magazine, but ended up in Taboo #1 instead. The story was written in 1985, just a year shy of the first issue of Watchmen.

“Come On Down,” as the title implies, is a parody of The Price Is Right, a long-running TV game show in the United States. Five times a week, the popular show’s announcer selects a few lucky audience members to “come on down” and play “pricing games” for cash and other prizes. The contestants are not alerted beforehand, adding an element of surprise and excitement to the show’s proceedings.

In Alan Moore’s story, however, audience members compete not for cash and prizes, but something far more macabre--their own death. This unique game show, whose name, “Brief Candle,” underscores perfectly the fading emotional state of its depressive audience, invites contestants “to spin the big wheel,” in order to choose their method of suicide. Then, in front of “a live studio audience,” the lucky contestant is put to death in whatever manner the fickle wheel of fate has chosen for them.

Moore introduces us to this deeply disturbing world through the eyes of Carol Steiner, a young woman afflicted with a hobbled leg (a lingering effect of childhood polio) as she acclimates and is quickly overwhelmed by the chaotic life of New York City. Nearly killed by a suicide jumper just days after her arrival, Steiner immediately slips into a depression she never really recovers from, and after spending days at home in front of her TV recuperating, she unexpectedly discovers “Brief Candle.” Of course, the networks know nothing of this show (“we only broadcast to folks we think will enjoy it,” a cameramen later quips), so at first Steiner wonders if she imagined it, but when she finds it again, almost without trying, her horror and revulsion are not enough to overcome her morbid curiosity.

Inevitably, Steiner’s sick fascination gets the better of her and she finds herself drawn to the show. Even the shock of her first live studio experience is not enough to deter her, and like a masochist discovering a new, exotic fetish, she becomes obsessed with the show, reorganizing her life around its schedule, even as she grows numb to the shocking horror of the deaths she witnesses. Eventually, Steiner’s detachment devours her, and she watches with an almost inhuman indifference as, week after week, a new suicide is perpetrated with the glitz and glamour of a Broadway musical. The story’s nightmare ends with a final image of Steiner, much older, the lines of horror etched into her squalid face, sitting in the same studio seat, patiently awaiting her own turn at the big wheel.

Bill Wray’s stark black and white art is well-suited for the satirical tone of Moore's story. His panels do a nice job heightening the feelings of paranoia by exaggerating perspectives and distorting the relational size of objects within the frame. His character designs are menacing with exaggerated Cheshire grins for the hosts, and angular, Chaykin-esque faces for the contestants. Wray’s varying panel sizes and grid layouts also add a sense of visual dynamism, and his technique of allowing panels to bleed into each other at the most shocking moments conveys the surreality of the terror being depicted.

Like everything else he’s written, Moore seems to have an innate sense of human psychology, and in this short piece, he demonstrates a keen understanding of the emotional insecurities that underlie real fear. In the end, “Come On Down” may lack some of the sparkling prose evident in Moore’s later works, but its underlying concept is much more intelligent and terrifying than the usual slasher, blood-and-guts fare.

Alan Moore's Lost Treasures - #3 in a 6 Part Limited Series

I Keep Coming Back

“Write about a place and you’re cemented to it.” – Alan Moore

It’s Dark in London is an interesting book. Published in 1996 with a grant from the London Arts Board, the anthology purports to “capture (London’s) fundamental essence as exquisite mixture of lofty towers and gutter sleaze, of suburban gentility and urban depravity, of private vices and public philanthropy.” Although relatively obscure, the book, edited by Oscar Zarate, gathered a fairly impressive lineup of Britain’s heavy hitters from the mid-'90s comics scene. In addition to Alan Moore, Neil Gaiman, Melinda Gebbie, Dave McKean, Warren Pleece, Iain Sinclair, Ilya, Carol Swain and several other of England’s prominent creators are featured. The book includes a dozen short stories of varying quality, all coming at the city from different perspectives. Alan Moore’s story, “I Keep Coming Back,” is the book’s end-piece and, without question, its highlight.

Moore’s story is a rare autobiographical piece, a reflection on the recently-completed graphic novel, From Hell, which saw Moore spend nearly a decade researching and meditating on the infamous Jack the Ripper killings. “I Keep Coming Back” reads like a series of hastily dashed off notes, scribbled on a late night train ride home after a strange and unsatisfying night at a pub. Moore had just spent the evening in Whitechapel, filming a BBC2 special about From Hell. The film was shot at the Christ Church in Spitalfields (a photo of Moore on the steps of this Church graces From Hell’s back cover), across the street from the Ten Bells pub, the infamous location of one of the most brutal Ripper killings.

Moore’s reflections of this bittersweet evening are both somber and beautiful. At first, Moore, who manages to seem both strangely detached from the proceedings while simultaneously immersed within them, describes, in brutal terms, his observations about both the Church itself and the unnatural feelings of shooting a documentary about serial murder within its hallowed chambers. Moore’s prose matches its divine setting in the off-handed way he describes the “redundant dry ice fumes and overstated under-light” that the producer has employed to create “stripes of light (that) burn into the uneven floor-stones, unaccustomed to the sun and sensitive as film.”

Throughout the opening pages, Moore seems indifferent about the film. He’s passively willing to go along with the charade for the sake of promoting his book, but derives little pleasure from the experience. After the interview, as the director and film crew huddle to capture a few additional shots, Moore finds himself unexpectedly free and, with a photographer friend, decides to go across the street to the Ten Bells for a pint of ale. Before entering, however, Moore is convinced to pose for another brief photo in front of the pub, and again, his nimble prose reveals a strangely detached man, intellectually distant from the whole affair. As the camera looms ominously before him, Moore recalls in an elegiac tone how the photographer plans to use the shot to “dissolve from the fiction into me, in real life” as if the notion of a writer intertwined with his fictional subject matter is a disturbing prospect.

And indeed, as the small group moves into the pub, Moore’s feelings that the killings he spent so much time writing about still haunt the place like a ghost become painfully apparent. A popular tourist stop by day, the pub moonlights as a venue for “exotic dancers,” and while the “creased-suit city refugees on happy hour” ogle the young dancer, Moore is, at first, taken more with the reactions of these stoic men (“gulls on a fence, all staring in the same direction") than moved by the performance. Deeply cynical, Moore observes with biting candor that “I have never previously understood the face of male lust to be so passionless. So frantically indifferent.”

However, eventually, as his first pint fades into a second, Moore turns his keen eye toward the dancer, unable to avoid her desperate gyrations (“She flails her hair like Glenda Jackson in the film of Marat-Sade”). Once again, Moore stares dispassionately at the anonymous woman while the wheels in his mind begin to dissect her in poetic verse. His descriptions on these few pages are short bursts of creative genius, evidence of Moore’s unparalleled skill at turning a phrase. “The orbit of her dance is fixed upon the lodestone of the metal pillar that supports the roof. Some female pubic hair’s like Cirrus; some fanned out in test-card peacocks tails viewed on a black and white. Hers is an exclamation mark.”

As the night seeps forward, his imagination sufficiently lubricated, Moore begins to project his own knowledge of the Ripper slayings on this unsuspecting woman. After witnessing some old broadsheet photos of the five victims hung up on the wall near the restrooms, Moore wonders if the stripper “lingers, dressed and on her way to her next venue, gazing up into the calm, unknowing ink-blots of their eyes.” For anyone who’s read From Hell, Moore’s underlying message resonates loud and clear. Do others feel the haunting presence of the murder victims as acutely as Moore does, or is the writer “forever cemented” to his subject matter, unable to detach himself from the horror that lingers in the smoky haze?

Unlike any of Alan Moore’s other stories, this particular account resonates with me on a personal level. From 1999 to 2001, I lived in a one-bedroom flat in Whitechapel with my girlfriend (now wife) literally ten minutes by foot from the very pub Moore is writing about. I witnessed daily the groups of “murder tourists,” their cameras poised like weapons, snapping pictures of “the sacred gutters.” I too experienced the conflicted feelings of curiosity and revulsion at the site of these daily mobs. And while I never saw an “exotic dancer” show, I drank several pints at the Ten Bells and walked by the same church dozens of times, often vaguely aware of the history surrounding me, though certainly never as deeply afflicted by the past as Moore clearly is.

Oscar Zarate’s art in this story is scratchy and surreal, muddied and dark. It may not be to everyone’s taste, and certainly Zarate pales in comparison to many of the other artists Moore has worked with (if only Eddie Campbell had illustrated this piece), yet I found Zarate’s thick, inky brushwork to be well-suited to the tone of the story. The artist uses frantic slashes and broad strokes to create heavy, foreboding shadows, while his depiction of the patrons in the pub, the dry stares on their indifferent faces, are perfect reflections of Moore’s grave descriptions. In a few places the artwork feels a little too abstract, and one or two panels require a fair bit of staring to distinguish the exact action being depicted, but the effort required seems to match the slightly drunken, highly introspective nature of Moore’s script.

“I Keep Coming Back” is a sobering look at the after-effects of the creative process. Though he assumed that when he had finished the story, he could finally put the Ripper slayings behind him and move forward, Moore realizes (as both the title and the final line of prose echo) that the past “keeps coming back” to him, or he keeps returning to it, or both. The somber voice of a man coming to the realization that he will be forever haunted by these vicious killings permeates his prose, giving the piece a highly personal feel that is rare in Alan Moore’s writing.

The story is also profoundly beautiful in its use of the English language, always measured and precise in its words, a highlight even among Moore’s considerable body of work. In these 12 pages, Moore wields his pen like a scalpel, cutting to the heart of the complicated mix of emotions he’s feeling throughout the night. For fans of From Hell, “I Keep Coming Back” is an essential epilogue, a rare glimpse behind the curtain, and a hauntingly personal statement from the medium’s best writer reflecting on what is arguably his best novel.

Alan Moore's Lost Treasures - #2 in a 6 Part Limited Series

Pictopia

“Pictopia” is perhaps Alan Moore’s most highly acclaimed short story.

In The Comics Journal #210, the infamous “100 Best Comics of the Century” issue, “Pictopia” was rated #92 by editorial consensus (interestingly, Watchmen was just one slot ahead, at #91). Regarding the story, Robert Edison Sandiford wrote that “as an indictment of a literate public and soured public taste, ‘Pictopia’ is as sharp, poignant and hilarious a prosecution as comics has yet leveled against itself.” The fact that the central premise of this attack still resonates more than two decades later is a sad commentary on the state of modern super-hero comics.

"Pictopia" originally appeared in the second issue of the short-lived Fantagraphics anthology, Anything Goes! in 1986 (at virtually the same time Watchmen was being serialized) and was later reprinted in The Best Comics of the Decade from Fantagraphics in 1990.

“Pictopia” (which Moore had originally titled “Fictopia”) is only thirteen pages long, and its basic premise is simple. All of the comic books and cartoons that have ever been published – from superheroes to funny animals to romance comics to newspaper strips – all exist simultaneously within a single city called Pictopia. This meta-locale serves as a backdrop for Moore to write some biting and insightful commentary about the shifting state of the comics industry in the mid-'80s. The story is written as a rambling monologue by Nocturno, a Mandrake-like magician character who serves as the reader's tour guide through the crumbling and forgotten neighborhoods of comics past, as well as the mean streets and dive dive bars of its future.

But Moore is not writing a fan letter to comics; “Pictopia” is a dark allegory for the ill effects of the gritty realism and violence that pervaded superhero comics in the '80s. The most obvious example of this shift is seen in the transformation of “Flexible Flynn.” Flynn, a Plastic-Man parody, is a close confidante of Nocturno’s in the beginning of the story. He’s a casual, easy-going hero in decline, sagging in posture from his years of adventure, and happy just to observe the “black clouds with occasional yellow flares” on the horizon without contemplating their deeper meaning. However, when Nocturno next encounters Flynn, he has transformed into a younger, buffer version of himself. What he’s gained in muscle mass, he’s lost in personality, as he exudes a hostile attitude not unlike that of Marvel’s Punisher or DC’s Lobo (both characters at the height of their popularity during the mid-'80s). As Nocturno recoils, horrified by Flynn's redesign, he notes that even his costume has "slight modifications" that "look similar" but make him appear "more sinister" and even "his face, his build, they were more...well, more realistic."

Moore’s underlying point is that by turning Flynn into a more realistic character, the artists and writers responsible have bled him of those qualities which made him appealing in the first place, leaving only a hollow and superficial shell. Upon witnessing this terrible transformation, Nocturno is so horrified, he flees the scene but, as he quickly learns, there is no escape from this neo-realism. It’s everywhere in Pictopia. As he wanders aimlessly back to Funnytown, where he once found solace in the comfortable predictability of the past (“I’m here five minutes, I start smiling, whistling. I love it.”), now he finds that everything has changed. He wanders past a gang of super-powered thugs (a parody of the X-Men) torturing a small cartoon dog (a stand-in for Disney’s Goofy, taking sick, twisted pleasure in the fact that no matter how badly they “mutilate” him, he heals within seconds.

Don Simpson’s artwork is extraordinarily well-suited to this particular story. Simpson captures the urban squalor of Funnytown while ably mimicking the various styles of artists from that era. Similarly, Simpson does an excellent job layering all kinds of obscure and not-so-obscure comics characters into the background, adding to the overall sense of place Moore was going for. In fact, for readers familiar with comics history, half the fun of reading this story is spotting all the satirical references – i.e. “Sammy Sleepyhead” is clearly “Little Nemo,” “South Sea Sullivan” is “Corto Maltese,” etc. There are also references to Crumb, The Yellow Kid, Happy Hooligan, the Phantom, Nancy and Sluggo, Judge Dredd and literally dozens of other characters. Peter Poplaski’s coloring is also excellent, enhancing the mood of the different comics districts, from the bright and colorful superhero-dominant neighborhoods to the dark and muted shadows of the “the funnies ghetto.”

Throughout the story, there is a nostalgic sense of innocence lost. Comics used to offer readers an escape from the real world, a brighter, simpler universe, free of the moral ambiguities and daily horrors that suffocate the modern world. Sure, there was always crime and violence, but the stories were written for children; evil was always defeated. But by the '80s, the real world had overrun superhero comics and their fictional universes were forever transformed. Comics were now written for adults; violence and sex became the dominant themes. Readers could no longer expect to escape into comics in the same way; innocence was permanently lost.

In the final scene, Nocturno wanders to the perimeter fence of the city, searching for some kind of redemption he can barely even describe, but instead glimpses only “the horizon with its churning darkness; its smoldering sulphurous light.” This bleak assessment of the future has proven to be sadly prescient, and the fact that Moore was able to so accurately predict the future of the comics industry is a testimony to his visionary understanding of the medium. Two decades after it was published, "Pictopia" reads like a eulogy for the Silver Age of comics.

Alan Moore's Lost Treasures - #1 in a 6-Part Limited Series

Introduction
Alan Moore is the John Lennon of comics writers.

Like Lennon, Moore is at once a visionary, poet and prophet, that rare artist who has stood alone at the top of the mountain for more than two decades now, almost universally recognized as comics’ best writer. Yet, like Lennon, there is a whole wealth of great work that lies just beyond the knowledge of the mainstream audience, stories that, for a variety of reasons, never quite made it onto most comics fans’ radars, but which are definitely worth tracking down and reading.

As I’m sure you’ve figured out by now, in this limited blog series honoring Alan Moore in the month of his birth, I’m going to be taking a closer look at some of these "lost treasures" from Moore’s prolific past. Many of these stories are rare, out-of-print and buried in this anthology or that backup feature. The stories are vastly diverse, including everything from biography, poetry, satire, and war stories to comedy, slice-of-life and autobiography. But all offer fascinating glimpses into Moore’s unparalleled and indefatigable imagination. In reality, Moore has several dozen short stories that fall into the category of obscure and forgotten, but in this series, I’ll be focusing on six of my personal favorites. I hope you enjoy it!


“The Hasty Smear of My Smile…”
I haven’t done the actual research, but if you asked 1,000 comics fans what their favorite Alan Moore story is, I’m guessing 75% of them would say Watchmen without batting an eye. 15-20% would probably be split evenly between Miracleman, V for Vendetta and From Hell, while the final 5-10% would probably cite some of the author’s lesser regarded, but still excellent mainstream works like Swamp Thing, League of Extraordinary Gentleman, Top 10 or Promethea.

But I think I can confidently state that NOBODY would answer “The Hasty Smear of My Smile.” Yet this four page story, which ran as a backup feature in the final issue of Peter Bagge’s Hate (#30), is a mini-masterpiece. It’s a capsule version of Moore’s considerable skill, the epitome of everything that makes him fascinating as a writer.

The story essentially brings personality, perspective, voice and history to the Kool-Aid man character, who up to that point, was never anything more than an advertising logo, a ubiquitous corporate mascot used to sell powdered swill to unsuspecting children. But at some point in recent history, the Kool-Aid man transcended from corporate mascot to cultural icon. Like Kleenex, or Xerox, the brand name of Kool-Aid entered the popular lexicon and became interchangeable with all other similar powdered drink products. Of course, the history of Kool-Aid as a consumer product is irrelevant. What’s fascinating is what Moore, and Peter Bagge, who illustrated the short story, created with the concept.

In this story, the Kool-Aid man is not only a real person living in the real world, he is acutely aware of the absurdity of his existence. He knows he’s just a pitcher of Kool-Aid with a face “hastily smeared” on it, yet he has the same human desires to be loved and accepted as anyone else. His voice, too, is a note-perfect evocation of somberness, a recalcitrant reflection on a life comprised mostly of torment and ridicule, only occasionally rising from the depths to experience a few brief moments of fleeting joy.

As usual, Moore’s prose is more than just functional, it’s poetic. Even the title is strangely beautiful, foreshadowing the melancholy meditation that follows and implying hidden depths of depression behind that gleaming, yet unsustainable smile. On the opening page, Moore immediately sets the scene, establishing the Kool-Aid man as a highly sensitive writer and poet, uniquely talented at translating the horror and ridicule he’s endured into haunting and painful prose. “Sometimes I am purple in angry negro thunder over night tenements,” he writes, “sometimes I am rock-a-dile red, queer commie blood leaked from America’s television asshole.” In just these few panels, Moore has revealed the soul of a tormented genius.

Moore also cleverly references the few familiar cultural references to Kool-Aid, including most notably, Tom Wolfe’s classic novel, The Electric Acid Kool-Aid Test. But rather than play it straight, Moore twists the concept to imply that the Kool-Aid man himself was addicted to psychedelics. After a fight in which he called Wolfe “a hack journalist,” the Kool-Aid Man recalls how “Hunter S. Thompson held me down while Wolfe pissed into my head.” Not only is Moore a vastly talented writer, his sense of humor is also razor-sharp.

Of course, Peter Bagge (with inks by Eric Reynolds) deserves much of the credit for the comedy in this story. His looping, rubbery drawings, which hyper-exaggerate emotions to their cartoon extremes, are perfectly suited for the psycho-mascot lead character. And the red-tone coloring adds a certain tenor of sadness to the proceedings, while also staining the panels the all-too-familiar color of its subject.

In the hand of a gifted writer, anything can become a character. Yet Alan Moore, more than just about anybody in the history of comics, possesses the perfect combination of imagination, talent, skill, and vision to not only bring this bizarre figure to life, but to use his story to mock and ridicule the society which created and worships such an absurd character. In the end, the Kool-Aid man’s story is a tragedy, an elegiac memoir of a difficult life, and while I hardly expect it to garner the same praise or critical attention as Moore’s longer works, it’s every bit as satisfying, and is among my favorite Alan Moore stories.