Graphic Novel Reads: Batman: Year One by Frank Miller, David Mazzucchelli, Richmond Lewis

The darker, edgier Batman origin story that inspired the superhero crossover from frivolous teenage stuff to grim adult themes, Frank Miller's Batman: Year One (1987) remains a kickass, gold standard graphic novel, an ultra-engaging retelling of Batman/Bruce Wayne's error prone, almost fatal first steps to becoming Gotham's vigilante no.1.

Miller sticks to the fabulous story and dialogues, lets David Mazzucchelli travel the classic comic book illustration road, while Richmond Lewis splashes textured, layered colouring.

Miller, against the tide

Miller had already made a name for DC Comics with the formula defying Batman: The Dark Knight Returns (1986), featuring a 55-year-old Bruce Wayne returning from retirement to fight off mutants and Harvey Dent.

Already obliged by contract to work on a Batman origin revamp series, Miller makes the crucial decision to not illustrate, the elaborate Mazzucchelli drawings are now legendary, especially the Sergio Leone-like close profiles. This is more like a perfect tweaking of Batman's origins, relatedly-human, grimy, frizzling with big city blues.     

James Gordon, badass!

A modern parallel to Batman's first year on the job, is not exactly like Peter Parker's almost embarrassing teenage errors in Spider-Man: Homecoming, but is no smooth sailing either. 

Bruce Wayne's first crime-fighting attempt almost ends in disaster, leading to his arrest and a close call to exposing his secret identity.   

Apart from a wonderful Catwoman origin story, corrupt policemen, fiendish villains, my utmost favourite is James Gordon, the incorruptible, courageous policeman, who is not without his faults.

In fact, the compelling parallel monologues are of Wayne and Gordon, letting us see things from their perspective, their nature to do good and what they have to sacrifice to rid Gotham of crime.  

Miller gives Gordon a badass persona - vulnerable, noble, headstrong, and the daring of giving it back as good as he gets! By his protective air, Gordon can easily be mistaken for Batman-in-standing.

The breathtaking bridge climax is one among many stellar moments. The siege to worm out Batman, the spectacular action centerspread.

Realism rocks! 

The tragedy of living in corruption-ridden cities, greed, depression, paranoia, Gotham is a mirror to a world where laughter and carefreeness are mega casualties.

That Bruce Wayne is extremely vulnerable is neatly conveyed, causing instant audience connect with Batman's failures, frustrations and victories. 

This is no superpower-blasting, alien nemesis world, but a world we identify with, a world that is coming apart in chaos and crime, a world we live and breathe in every day.  

But for some illustrated wee bits that are not detailed, can't find many glitches in this telling, still awed on repeat reads, by the imaginative, sturdy storyboarding, crunchy realistic dialogues, melancholy setting, and almost pitch perfect characterization.

Definitive, iconic, Batman: Year One remains a pathbreaking classic that led to the gritty Christopher Nolan Batman movie trilogy.

(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

Non-Fiction Reads: The Lonely Tiger by Hugh Allen

If not for a friend's recommendation, wouldn't have known of The Lonely Tiger (1960). 

Out of print for more than 50 years before Rupa Publications (Rainlight) released the work in hardcover (2014), this episodic collection of true and thrilling wildlife encounter stories is an exceptional, evergreen page turner. 

Probably pushed to near-oblivion by the looming popularity of Jim Corbett's works, The Lonely Tiger is at multiple times a breathless, pulsating experience, dense with rare repeated calls of - What will happen next?

Once upon a time in central India...

All stories are set around Mandikhera, Madhya Pradesh. As life unfolded, Allen was discharged from the British Armed Forces during the Second World War due to a head wound. On the spur, Allen and his widowed sister Babs bought large tracts of land, and cultivated peanuts, barley, etc. at this central Indian village. 

Meanwhile, India gained independence and the siblings' friends went - For heaven's sake get out while you can.

In the preface, Allen admits he was a trigger-happy hunter, before remorse and guilt led him to take up the gun only to hunt man-eaters or creatures that destroyed his crops.

Homo sapiens, the most dangerous species...

What follows is an astonishing jungle trial of 14 stories, featuring amorous tigers, kill-crazy leopards, deadly wild boars, meandering bears, and the sole tiger that makes for the melancholic title story. 

In between, the human cruelty holds a horrific mirror to who we are, hammering our greed and will on wild animals, the ones crossing their path and not the other way around. Hunting was not yet illegal in India in the 1950's and almost anyone who owned a gun killed animals for pleasure. 

Nature lovers will be deeply disturbed by the descriptive accounts of casual killing. The Lonely Tiger is a constant reminder of what we have become as allegedly, the most advanced species on the planet.   

Thrill-a-minute 

Most man-eaters featured here are animals injured by bullet wounds, which made me side with the creatures immediately. 

Allen is clearly a gifted writer, builds a relentless stifling tension to a level that every sentence leads on to alarming blind turns. The sheer daring of it, to hunt for man-eaters in the dark on foot, cut through dense growth, be vulnerable to death every second, and thus invariably be alive to the moment...

Among the brilliant tales, Death in Sixty-Five Minutes particularly made my mouth dry with anticipation, The Odd Chance... turns out to be more lethal than anticipated, The Laughing Leopard is a stunning illustration of a leopard's killing expertise, expect the unexpected in The Three Bears, and The Tiger's Trap has the most hair-raising climax. 

For all reading seasons...

The Lonely Tiger is the only book Hugh Allen wrote, it is filled with the entire rich essence of his life at Mandikhera, gold-plated wildlife experiences like no other.

Even as we mutely watch more jungles make away to blankness, probably our false comforts, or temporary refuge then are works like The Lonely Tiger. It is the best non-fiction account I have read this decade, hard to beat in sheer reading experience, can't wait to devour its contents again, whole and raw.   

(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

Short Story Reads: Night in Tunisia and Other Stories by Neil Jordan

Over the years my shepherd like attitude to books has waned. No longer does my heart bleed if a page has a dog-ear.

Placing a book under a heap of dozen other books to straighten out the dog-ear, applying steam iron on the page, binding books with cardboard hardcover, designing a separate book cover with newspaper cut outs, book title and author name inscribed in a stylish handwritten blue scrawl - these adolescent pastimes no longer hold me.

After losing a British Library withdrawal sale copy to a colleague (the perils of lending books), the epic search for an elusive copy lasted half a decade. Finally, an UK-based rare books website airmailed an almost brand new copy in an otherwise listless 2020, getting to me with no tracking system in place over 30 days, unscathed through rain, lockdowns, sanitizers, with lots of suspense and uncertainty. 

So, I still do love books to a fault then. 

The 1950 born Jordan first established his reputation as a contemporary Irish novelist and later on as an Academy Award winning film maker.

His written work is still published from time to time. Jordan was yet to delve into film making when this particular collection was first published in 1976.

Now on to...

The stories in this collection prominently deal with thoughts. Interesting, observant inroads are made into the intangible, invisible thing - the mind.

There are no convenient endings as racing, random, nostalgic, angry, happy, lonesome and wondrous thoughts are revealed, much like scraps from a dairy entry.

The opening story Last Rites comes across like an experimental piece of abstract cinema, the effect in the tumult of words is disturbing.

Seduction starts with the promise of mischievous expectation, then washes up like a sea wave with the boil of pent up sexual desire.

Sand is another unpredictable tale - what seems to be a harmless squabble between a younger brother and the elder sister leads to a shocking event involving a gypsy and a donkey.

Mr. Solomon Wept is an observant, cold note on the effect of betrayal in marriage on a middle-aged man.

Night in Tunisia is easily the happiest, free flowing story of the collection. Bathed in the perpetual sunlight that childhood seems to be, sea salt and breeze dissolves to the sounds of jazz and a father-son bridge to an alto saxophone.

In Skin, we see how engaging words can vividly describe an Irish woman's mundane life along with an incident that displays her vain hope for change to occur.

Moving on...
A brief, dreamy, drowsy rambling of a woman apparently doused in alcohol during a party, Her Soul gives us a drab look at the female wondering and theorizing where her soul has slipped away to. 

Outpatient tells of strained husband-wife relations, and how both quietly realize that their relationship is meant to smother away.  

In Tree, the view of a whitethorn tree sets off intense nostalgia and the urge to change in a woman driving past it.

The book culminates with a beautiful story -  A Love.

Apart from mind reading, the sense of place and occasion are strong here. A young emigrant returns to Dublin to play out the last strands of his love affair with an older woman, even as the funeral procession of President Éamon de Valera passes by.

To a great degree, the tales in Night in Tunisia and Other Stories hold a mirror to how much we identify with our minds, replicating the chaos that swirls within our seemingly sane heads.

(first edit - May 28, 2013

second edit - June 30, 2020)

(Article by Snehith Kumbla)                                                                                     

Poetry Reads: Basanti Hawa by Kedarnath Agarwal

There are innumerable things about the Hindi language that appeals to this writer's heart. 

Expressing in English has its joys in putting pen to paper, in arranging, rearranging words, in description, documentation, rhyme and flow. 

But for the sheer spontaneity of conversation - Hindi it is.

The following Hindi poem (featured here with my translation) is a school favourite. Years have withered away but the poem has remained entwined in memory.  

Roughly translated as Spring Wind, this Hindi poem by Kedarnath Agarwal (1911 - 2000) is a first person narrative by none other than the eternal traveler, invisible, omnipresent, and free - Wind. 

The poem's sing-song flow is such that it conveys in its deliberate clipped arrangement, a continuous, ageless quality of an element we usually take for granted.

बसंती हवा

केदारनाथ अग्रवाल

हवा हूँ, हवा मैं                                                                                        

बसंती हवा हूँ।                                                  

सुनो बात मेरी -       

अनोखी हवा हूँ।       

बड़ी बावली हूँ  

बड़ी मस्तमौला। 

नहीं कुछ फ़िकर है 

बड़ी ही निडर हूँ  

जिधर चाहती हूँ 

उधर घूमती हूँ 

मुसाफिर अजब हूँ।

(wind am, wind I, the spring wind am I...it begins and then goes - am crazy, mischievous, naughty, no worries, fearless, I roam where I please, am a strange traveler.) 

न घर-बार मेरा,

न उद्देश्य मेरा,

न इच्छा किसी की,

न आशा किसी की,

न प्रेमी न दुश्मन,

जिधर चाहती हूँ

उधर घूमती हूँ।

हवा हूँ, हवा मैं 

बसंती हवा हूँ!

(Breathlessly, the wind blows its tale like a whistle - no home, no ambition, no desire, no hope, no lover, no enemies, go where I please, wind am, wind I, spring wind am I...)

जहाँ से चली मैं

जहाँ को गई मैं -

शहर, गाँव, बस्ती,

नदी, रेत, निर्जन,

हरे खेत, पोखर,

झुलाती चली मैं।

झुमाती चली मैं!

हवा हूँ, हवा मै

बसंती हवा हूँ।

(from where I passed, to where I went, city, village, ghetto, river, sand, desolation, green fields, pond, I went swinging, I went swaying, wind am, wind I, spring wind am I...)     

चढ़ी पेड़ महुआ,

थपाथप मचाया;

गिरी धम्म से फिर,

चढ़ी आम ऊपर,

उसे भी झकोरा,

किया कान में ‘कू’,

उतरकर भगी मैं,

हरे खेत पहुँची -

वहाँ, गेंहुँओं में

लहर खूब मारी। 

(climbed a tree, made havoc, fell with a thud, went for the mangoes, shook them too, said "ku" in the ear, leapt off running, reached the green fields, there, among the wheat, made many waves)

पहर दो पहर क्या,

अनेकों पहर तक

इसी में रही मैं!

खड़ी देख अलसी

लिए शीश कलसी,

मुझे खूब सूझी -

हिलाया-झुलाया

गिरी पर न कलसी!

इसी हार को पा,

हिलाई न सरसों,

झुलाई न सरसों,

हवा हूँ, हवा मैं

बसंती हवा हूँ!

(not for a moment, but for moments eternal, I dwelt here. Then the wind eyes yet another mischief - tried to budge the splashing earthen pot from its hold, but it did not fall! Raw from this defeat, did not sway or shake the mustard, wind am, wind I, spring wind am I ) 

मुझे देखते ही

अरहरी लजाई,

मनाया-बनाया,

न मानी, न मानी;

उसे भी न छोड़ा -

पथिक आ रहा था,

उसी पर ढकेला;

हँसी ज़ोर से मैं,

हँसी सब दिशाएँ,

हँसे लहलहाते

हरे खेत सारे,

हँसी चमचमाती

भरी धूप प्यारी;

बसंती हवा में

हँसी सृष्टि सारी!

हवा हूँ, हवा मैं

बसंती हवा हूँ!

(the pulses shied away on seeing me, I tried to charm, but she didn't yield...I didn't spare him too - a traveler was coming, I lunged at him, I laughed aloud, laughed all directions, laughed all swaying fields, laughed the sparkling lovely sunlight, in the spring wind all creation laughed, wind am, wind I, spring wind am I)      

#  

(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

(First edit - 20/5/2013

Second edit - 17/6/2020)

Fantasy Reads: Things you didn't know about The Hobbit by JRR Tolkien #1

Did you know that celebrated American children's book writer and illustrator Maurice Sendak (1928 - 2012) nearly ended up working on the 30th anniversary deluxe edition of The Hobbit?

Sendak was first approached for the opportunity when his 1963 picture book Where the Wild Things Are had just been published.

Why didn't the imminent creative partnership happen?

The only surviving Maurice Sendak illustration 

The alleged occurrence 
As the story goes, once upon a time Tolkien requested samples from Sendak as a selection process for the esteemed job.

Sendak drew two images, one featured dancing Wood-elves in the moonlight and the other, the only image that survives, featured Bilbo's first encounter with Gandalf outside his home.

Now the plot thickens.

An erroneous editor is said to be the proverbial, fire-breathing dragon of destruction in this story. As the tale goes, the editor wrongly labelled the Wood-elves image as those featuring hobbits. When Tolkien noticed this grave error he assumed that Sendak hadn't read the book and clearly didn't know anything about hobbits.

Tolkien subsequently didn't approve of the drawings, causing Sendak to be furious.

A meeting was later scheduled between Sendak and Tolkien, set around the Where the Wild Things Are UK release, but Sendak is said to have suffered a heart attack, a day before the meeting! It was weeks before Sendak left the hospital.

Sendak never worked with Tolkien or on any of his books again.

The sole illustration is all that remains of a what-might-have-been yarn.

Attributed sources 
While there is no reliable documented evidence to suggest what exactly happened, Wayne G. Hammond & Christina Scull's weblog contains a detailed article on the entire matter.

Wayne's article attributes a piece American children's writer and movie producer Tony DiTerlizzi wrote for the Los Angeles Times about the events (on which the above article is based).

DiTerlizzi claims to have received the information from American novelist Gregory Maguire, who had interviewed Sendak about the so-near-yet-so-far collaboration.


(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

(image copyrights, theatlantic.com,  openculture.com, attemptedbloggery.blogspot.com)

Poetry Reads: Train Journey Bits #1 by Snehith Kumbla

Train journeys have given me many moments of joy, poise, scenery, conversations, and priceless window seat scenery views over three decades of an otherwise mundane existence.

For a long time until my adolescence, I wanted to be a train engine driver. Every time I watch the train robbery scene in Sholay, I want to be in that last goods train compartment, quietly relishing the disappearing scenery on a twilight evening, and preferably not warding off dacoits.

I have a dislike for closed air-conditioned compartments, even the warmest summer can't deter me from the constant enhancement the second class window seat provides. Every passing second in motion is but a fleeting vision to the eye. This constant feeling keeps me riveted for hours during every train journey I take.

Presently, train journey bits #1 is my most read poem on hellopoetry.com, garnering 14000+ views till date. The poem is a glue-collage picture book of various scenes I encountered on the return journey from Kerala to Pune in December 2014.

train journey bits #1

by Snehith Kumbla

what forests are those we pass, 

blazing along the railway tracks,

a tree bloom of still cranes, 

stream black of rubbish bane, 

stench of dead city rubble, 

factories of rusted cast metal, 

distant cotton twilight skies, 

sun slide across a bunch of wires,    

passing tunnels echo 

lonely platforms, frantic gecko, 

looming hillside, 

crackle dry wood fire, 

a god barred in lock&key, 

blink glimpse of the sea 

one rush of vision, 

pebble fling at frisson, 

metal-crunch rhythm, 

grind music sublime, 

spark, grunt, grate, 

we arrive, we dissipate...

***

(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

Poetry Reads: Paper Boat Echoes by Snehith Kumbla

I first posted my poem, paper boat echoes on hellopoetry.com in June 2016. Since then, the poem has garnered over 7500 views. The readership count for this particular poem has had a steady curve and it is certainly a happy realization for a poet to know that his work is consistently read. The poem is also featured on my poster art blog in a design celebration.

On Posting Poetry Online 
Posting and reading poetry online has a dead fish kind of charm in it. It doesn't have the restless splash of a live rendition, permanency, and magic of a magazine or book publication, or a recitation among friends. I do not know who my readers are. Their profile pictures and bio only tell me about how they want to be perceived, rather than who they are.

The comments are usually lavish and generous. There is barely any constructive feedback nowadays. Fellow poets barely venture to suggest a better meter, title, word or anything that could add to a poem. I know poetry posting websites that discourage criticism of any kind. Mention only the good, they say. You scratch my back and I will scratch yours is the general attitude in the online poetry circuit, as experienced.

Bright Screen Addiction
Children and adults dipped down and intent over cell phone screens is a usual scene now. They only had to look up to see the breeze nudge the trees and a retreating monsoon mingle into winter's arrival. In a world shorn of richness, bloated in misery, self-alienation, and widespread bright screen hypnosis, paper boats don't take to turbulent waters as often. Adventure dies in trickles every day, in enclosed spaces and rooms.

paper boat echoes

by Snehith Kumbla

No 

land ho!

for you.

Doomed 

expeditions,

oblivion, 

Only

a wreck's 

inevitability, 

Yet 

soggy, 

dogged, 

Your 

floating 

cheer,

Echoes

in childhood 

infinite, 

At water's 

origin, paper's 

invention...    

(Article by Snehith Kumbla)