kurtwombat's Reviews (902)

 My favorite character in Dr. BLOODMONEY is the astronaut left orbiting an earth mostly destroyed by nuclear war. He stares down and communicates randomly with civilians on earth who have survived and managed to acquire a working radio. That’s how I felt reading this book. Characters would pop up randomly deliver some information—often outing themselves and their various levels of desperation or ennui. Then on to the next character. Sadly for me, these mostly interesting characters fail to cohere into anything I found interesting.  There is an attempt to run a thread through the characters and draw them together near the end but by then I was feeling a lot like the astronaut—mostly uninvolved.   

 I’ve always been a sucker for a motley crew: a band of folks brought together by a specific task or event who otherwise likely would never cross paths. From the French Foreign Legion to The Lord of the Rings to any book involving “that one final heist before I retire” –I  am your audience. 

 

This brilliant story blends absurdist and existential elements almost 100 years before Camus & Kafka strode the page. Not surprised this story came from Melville—his Moby Dick is one of my favorite books. Both the book and this story express an enveloping darkness. Both have lots of funny moments  but they diminish as the light to nourish them is choked out. Both have a title character that seem to be blank canvases. They exist only for the reader or other characters to project elements of themselves upon that canvas. The main character of each is actually the narrator. In Moby Dick, he famously declares his name. Since the name is biblical, an archer standing in for a  harpooner, in a book heavy with religious themes it may not be a real name. In Bartleby, the main character remains unnamed allowing him to stand in for many of his type. In both the story and the book, the business world chugs along uncaring of the fates of those involved. 

 

The very creation of this “graphic novel” is an act of madness. The concept of surrealist painter Salvador Dali writing a screenplay for a proposed madcap Marx Brothers movie in the 1930’s is mind blowing enough. Then comes the modern hubris to create a graphic novel from fragments of that screenplay—the audacity itself being a kind of nod to both Dali and the Marx Brothers. I have been a huge Marx Brothers fan pretty much since birth and a reasonably sized fan of Dali so I was both sides of anxious approaching this book (equal parts eager and concerned). I was eager to see these greats at play but concerned about how they could pull if off without insulting either or both. 

 

Of course this “screenplay” met serious resistance from studios. Despite the author liking to tease otherwise, even if the producer shepherding the Marx Brothers career hadn’t suddenly died—there is no way this movie was being greenlit in 30’s  Hollywood.  There are two critical flaws in getting it accepted and they translate to the book as well. The first is context. While it seems a natural fit to put the madcap Marx Brothers in a surreal setting, the result is they just become part of the wallpaper. The work of the Marx Brothers, as well as Dali’s surrealist paintings, succeed partly because they are set against banal backgrounds. The Marx Brothers need the stuffed shirts and haughty dowagers, straight folks to bounce off of.  Dali too is better served in a gallery—spotlighted insanity—than if his works were put up in the middle of a circus.  The second flaw is saturation. While there is plenty of Dali to be had, the Marx Brothers are underutilized. Groucho & Chico are relegated to goofy sidekick rolls (like the talking animals or objects in a Disney musical) and Harpo doesn’t really appear until the last few pages.  I assumed Harpo would be front and center because it was his meeting with Dali that inspired the who enterprise. I was confused and saddened  by his absence. 

 

That being said, I did mostly enjoy this. Like the Disney characters, Groucho & Chico did add needed spark. Their gags were a mixture of new stuff, referential stuff and stuff simply lifted from their movies. (There is a dictionary gag in this book lifted straight from the “Tootsi Frootsi Ice Cream“ bit in DAY AT THE RACES.) I will admit to a modest thrill seeing them in action, some of the bits deftly delivered—the artist capturing multiple Groucho eye rolls was a particular highlight. The art in general often bordered on the spectacular—a difficult task considering the singularity of Dali’s work. Artist Manuela Pertega, a native of Spain like Dali, caught the spirit of Dali while making a case for her own vision—particularly with her presentation of the Woman Surreal. As this book moves along, the plot calls for and Pertega delivers a growing visual insanity conveying the schism between reality and sur-reality. 

 

I would like to recommend everyone read it in the hopes that they get curious enough to check out a Marx Brothers movie (DUCK SOUP, NIGHT AT THE OPERA, DAY AT THE RACES all classics) or look into the works of Salvador Dali but I acknowledge it likely has a select audience. One can always dream.