Alistair Fitchett on ‘British Comics: A Cultural History’ by James Chapman.
At the conclusion of the introduction to James Chapman’s ‘British Comics – A Cultural History’ the author assures us that his “aim throughout has been to analyse what comics tell us about their producers, their readers and their society and culture.” Prior to this he has been at pains to make clear that he has no desire to engage in the kind of “impassioned debate” that has long ranged with regards the (alleged) “corrupting, harmful, pernicious or silly downright ‘bad’ influences” comics might (or might not) have had on children. On this, he proudly states, he holds “no moral view or ideological position.” Such a stance, whilst no doubt being applauded amongst academics, is sadly detrimental to enjoyment of the book by pretty much anyone else.
It’s a great shame, because there is such scope for taking the contents of this book and making them fun. There’s an argument surely for making such an investigation gleefully confrontational, even. An opportunity to have a giggle, a smirk, a sideways glance and a wink of an eye. But no, there appears to be no glimmer of amusement in Chapman’s pen. No titter in his typewriter or schoolboy snigger in his laptop. He even somehow resists the temptation to make a ‘strip’ gag about the ‘Jane’ picture story. Such remarkable restraint.
There are chapters in the book that cover just about (I’m certain that the author would say that there is no ‘just about’ in it) every imaginable sub-genre of comic produced in Britain between the late nineteenth and the early 21st centuries. As one might imagine, there is a fair amount of space dedicated to ’70s comics like ‘ACTION’ and ‘2000AD’, in which the moral panic about their depictions of gore and violence is carefully documented. What’s sadly lacking, however, is how it felt to be actually reading these comics at the time. Or, indeed, any other of the titles prodded and poked throughout the book. The thrill. The sense of being on an edge. The communal experience of moving through the same stories, of being isolated yet connected. Knowing the in-jokes, getting the references and pretending you did even, or especially, when you really didn’t. Being part of the gang. Leaving the gang and joining a different one. Starting your own gang, all by yourself… Reading these chapters, for anyone who was ten years old in 1976, say, is akin to sitting through a PowerPoint presentation where the presenter is droning like a Heinkel and reading the text off the slides at you. “Another interesting point is that…” Yawnsville Arizona.
To be fair, Chapman does a fine job of pulling together a great many cultural threads of reference that place the comics he writes about within a broader cultural and historical context. The book appears, even to my jaundiced eye, to be terribly well researched. Every historical ’t’ has most assuredly been crossed and every ‘i’ dotted and cross-referenced. The evidence is there in the extensive references section at the end of the book. However, it all rather lends an air of being a PhD thesis shoehorned into a book, or perhaps vice-versa. If that is your idea of A Good Read then more power to you, but personally I should enjoy being entertained a little more when I’m reading about these kinds of things. Perhaps an editor or an academic mentor could have taken Chapman to one side and suggested a little more chutzpah. A sprinkling of pizzaz. A splash of ‘POW!’ Even some arched eyebrows and knowing in-jokes would have helped things along. Something about the writer wishing ‘Marvelman’ (the first British superhero, it says here, and who am I to argue?) had been around to help him do the research. “Holy Macaroni! It’ll take years sorting through this lot!” It might take you years to read the book, too.
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