From now on, I will be posting my book reviews on adrienneblaine.com! That way all of my published arts & culture writing and blogging will be in one place.
How are Bambi and Buddha related? For Osamu Tezuka, “the godfather of Japanese manga comics,” the connection was clear. Inspired by Disney’s Bambi and Donald Duck, Tezuka defined the iconic wide-eyed features of Japanese cartoons. And while he is best known for Astro Boy, the manga turned animated cartoon, his series depicting the life of Buddha made manga accessible to all ages.
The cutesy aspects of Tezuka’s characters are balanced by hefty themes of sacrifice, discrimination and spiritual awakening (also by some surprisingly crude language at times). Tezuka’s drawing style varies depending on the caste each character belongs to: Brahmin, Warrior, Commoner or Slave.
We first meet Naradatta, a Brahmin, on his search for “the great one.” Meanwhile a slave named Chapra and his mother are tormented as slaves. When Chapra is robbed by a beggar, his slave master threatens to sell his mother if he can’t get it back. This is where we meet Tatta, a beggar who looks more like a kewpie doll than a thief. We learn that Tatta has special powers and a sensitivity that his crude humor belies. While Chapra and Tatta’s city is decimated by General Budai, all of these characters’ lives become intertwined.
I prefer pages that demonstrate Tezuka’s technical skills as an illustrator and storyteller. Tezuka’s sprawling landscapes, featuring the Himalayas and the Indus River Valley, give these characters a historical context.
Keep an eye out for Tezuka’s cameo as a doctor in this volume. As someone who left medical school to pursue his art, Tezuka gets to explore what his life may have been like in the fantasy of his drawings.
This volume introduces the birth of Buddha. I hope to learn more about him in the next volumes. I hear there’s an animated movie adaptation of this series. Does anyone know a good way to find it?
Sand Castle is one of those books that draws you in with its cover. The imagery has been flipped so a naked woman floating in water looks like she is going to fall into the sky below her.
This sense disequilibrium sets the reader up for the mood of this graphic novel. What starts as a sunshiny day at the beach quickly becomes a waking nightmare for three unwitting families.
It is not hard to believe that Pierre Oscar Lévy is a documentary film-maker, with the cinematic quality of the story. You can almost read the screenplay as you look at the opening panels devoid of text.
Through his illustrations, Frederik Peeters creates a sharp contrast between the human tragedy that unfolds and the indifferent natural surrounding. The imagery balances the sweeping landscape with the nuanced expressions of individual characters.
Although I am not one for horror graphic novels, this thriller is more psychological than anything. Maybe don’t read it at the beach though.
Much like Wilson, this large format graphic novel explores themes of masculinity through a series of vignettes. As you can probably tell from the cover, this is a superhero story that draws on comic book conventions.
There is an origin story, a damsel in distress and a sidekick. But much like Clowes’s other works, the imagery marks the passing of time. From the ’70s to ’80s to 2004, Clowes skillfully captures the colors, fashions and attitudes of each era.
We follow Andy and his friend Louie as they navigate the trials of puberty on the path to manhood. Their development illustrates how damaging a patriarchal society that elevates men as all-powerful decision makers can be.
As Andy transforms into a man, he trades sensitivity for strength and intimacy for power. There’s a reason superhero comics appeal to pubescent boys. If you read this book, you’ll understand why.
While interning in Iceland, I had the pleasure of becoming friends with a Finn. She considers herself an ex-patriate, however she never passed up an opportunity to discuss Finnish culture.
Every Friday became “Finnish Candy Friday” at the Reykjavík Grapevine offices. This is where I was exposed to my first — and most likely last — Turkish Pepper black licorice candy, along with countless individually wrapped Fazer chocolates and these hard peppermint candies with chocolate on the inside.
My Finnish friend never missed the opportunity to identify something as Finnish, whether it was candy, design or even people. While roaming Reykjavík, she could snoop fellow Finns by even the slightest movements.
But there was nothing she was more proud to proclaim as Finnish as the Moomins. When I asked her what Moomins were, she couldn’t believe I had truly never heard of them.
This Finnish cartoon created by artist and author, Tove Jansson, is a national treasure on par with Disney’s Mickey Mouse. In fact, the main reason most Americans don’t know anything about Moomins is because Jansson refused to sell the rights to her characters to Disney.
Moomins were everywhere in Iceland: even on Björk’s house! But it wasn’t until I returned home and was browsing a used book store that I found my first Moomin back in America.
I too, “only want to live in peace and plant potatoes and dream!”
San Francisco’s KQED Arts gave me the opportunity to share these wonderful creatures with a featured article: Finnish Art Icons: Tove Jansson and her Moomins. I have my Finnish friend to thank for providing the insight and inspiration.
After graduating from college, I spent three months living in Reykjavík, Iceland. I interned at the street magazine, the Reykjavík Grapevine while connecting with my Icelandic relatives.
During the rainiest summer Reykjavík had experienced in ten years, I found myself with solitude to spare. I lived alone in one of Reykjavík’s most sought after neighborhoods, the 101 district, thanks to a rare sublet arranged by my relatives.
I had been meaning to pick up this book for many years and was happy to have the opportunity to read it. Reykjavík is UNESCO’s “City of Literature,” and the impressive bookshelves visible from the window of each home I passed is a great testament to this. Needless to say I felt I had some catching up to do.
Magical realism is not just a literary genre, it is a part of my Icelandic heritage. Blurring the lines between what’s real and what could be real is something I believe I inherited from my mother and her Icelandic upbringing. Interactions with my relatives confirmed this.
The story of the Buendía family unfolded as I learned about my own family’s mythology. The vivid characters and cyclical interactions among them resonated with my own experience of tracing my roots.
I continue to read this book because, much like my time in Iceland, I’m not ready to turn the final page just yet.
I am not so young that I missed the boat on Disney’s 1993, talking-animal hit, Homeward Bound: The Incredible Journey. That’s why I can now point out — in an attempt at humor — that there is no mention of Chance, Shadow or Sassy in this book.
And while these furry friends had a serious impact on my formative years — particularly in intuiting the inner monologues of my pets — Emily Matchar’s Homeward Bound has similarly revolutionized my post-gradute outlook.
It’s safe to say, I want to be Emily Matchar when I grow up. She’s a Harvard grad, journalist and author. And while starting a family and making a home may well coexist with goals like mine, Matchar argues that Millennials, particularly those who grew up with executive parents, romanticize the domesticity of our grandmothers and great-grandmothers.
A 2012 episode of the television show, Portlandia, confirms this hipster predilection. A riff off their original theme song declares, “The dream of the 1890s is alive in Portland”:
Remember when kids grew up to be artisan bakers? Everyone had homemade haircuts? Guys shaved with straight razors?
I mean I don’t remember it, I wasn’t born. But yeah, I’ve read about it.
Belts didn’t really exist yet; everyone wore suspenders? Everyone used to carve their own ice cubes?
I thought that died out 120 years ago.
Not in Portland.
I have yet to make the pilgrimage to this northwestern hipster mecca, however, I spent three months in Iceland, learning more about my Icelandic great-great grandmother. If I hadn’t been reading Homeward Bound concurrently, I probably would have romanticized the brutal farm lives of my Icelandic relatives even more than I already did.
I understand the appeal of traditional domestic values and practices, yet, Matchar’s book shows how “the new domesticity” invalidates the work of feminists who broke through glass ceilings with the help of TV dinners. And while the 1890s were a prime time for facial hair, it wasn’t so much for women, the economy or public health.
My mother is an incredible businesswoman, who has successfully juggled family and working life since before I was born — with the valuable help of my father. Even so, I’m still not sure how she managed to run a company with over a hundred employees while creating a loving home for three children. I do know that it had nothing to do with canning her own preserves.
I recommend this book for any Millennial looking to:
Books I've Read Since College 