Response to Mazzuchelli

Mazzucchelli’s original breakout was in breathing life into the gritty streets of Gotham and Hell’s Kitchen with muted color palettes and a “take them as they are” approach to the characters that dwelled within these modern gothic hellholes. It is with great irony that today he should be renowned for a work that is practically teetering on the opposite edge of the spectrum. Asterios Polyp is a work that may begin on the streets of a fallen metropolis but by greyhound we are whisked away to a reality perceived in the eyes of those who inhabit it. In the world that Apogee rests in, character’s appearances are defined by their nature. Most explicitly, within our protagonist, Polyp, the crowned architect whose buildings never made it past the page. His obsession with straight lines and structure shape his very being. This is all thrown for a loop when he meets the less rigid Hanna, whose inability for connection colors here in shades that end up more or less completely the rigid outline of Polyp. Their connection is the key to the filling in the visual white noise of the story. From out of their relationship, new colors and forms are born and brought together. This gives completeness to an otherwise minimalist story in both illustration and writing. Sure in the end this can be written off a gimmick, hell even a bit on the pretentious side. But strikingly enough I could not for the life of me think of an artist who had executed this kind of graphic novelization before. The illustrations dont merely give visuals to the text or vice versa, but work hand and hand with the text to deliver feelings and character insights that would be hampered by regular comic conventions. While the story’s culmination may not be the most satisfying it is hard to deny the charm of the book’s self aware experimentation. 

I am a Film Major. Storytelling is what I do. I just let the brain do the narration. Film is a visual medium above all, which like Polyp, provides ways of delivering character and insight without piling philosophical text upon the heads of the viewers. A small man sits in a small chair in a great big empty house. Without even thinking about it, you know so much of this man because the picture told you. Not somebody whispering behind your ear, but your own inner narrator. I like films that excite the inner narrator. The juicy twists, the hair raising suspense, the joyful victories, and the harrowing failures. The real satisfaction comes in seeing the inner narrator of others awaken during one of your own works. A majority of the time, the audience will see the same series of images collectively, but the narration is rarely the same for each member. Everyone in their own little way reacts differently to the images thrown before them. Some will pass over while others will ingratiate themselves into the minds of the viewers and keep that narration going long after the images have extinguished.