By Eva Yonas and Taylor Nems

Comics artists seem to love the turn of the (last) century—that brief interstitial moment in American history when the bloodstains and tragedies of the Civil War were first beginning to fade, those of the Great Wars had yet to appear on the horizon, and anything seemed possible—especially when gazing out over the wide expanses of the American West. From Ben Katchor to Chris Ware, comics artists seem attracted to the era’s unflagging optimism, unrestrained creativity, and general free-for-all ataxia. Eddie Campbell’s newest work, The Black Diamond Detective Agency, published by First Second, is in some ways, no different, drawing heavily on the themes and iconography of the era. The full “title” (if you can even call it that), for example, runs the length of the cover, promising “ORPHANS! MAYHEM! TERROR! In this the most recent offering from the FIRST SECOND quality line of books, an epic tale of a newly industrialized America as revealed in words and pictures BY THE INIMITABLE MR. EDDIE CAMPBELL … THE BLACK DIAMOND DETECTIVE AGENCY. A rousing tale of the hunt for a mysterious train bomber. A tale so filled with twists, turns, and heart-stopping thrills, that its telling is best experienced through the modern wonder of the graphical narrative.”

A mouthful to say the least (we’ll just shorten it to TBDDA), but the cover is a textbook replica of the kind of carnival or ‘Wanted!’ poster one might find in 1899—the year the action begins and an overtly symbolic choice at that. The cover acts as a carnival barker, ushering the reader into a darkened tent with the promise of human spectacle. The lengthy appellation, however, is more than a call to the reader (although it certainly worked its magic on us); it also summarizes much of what Campbell wants his readers to walk away with: a “rousing,” even “epic,” narrative, filled with adventure and (importantly) some understanding of the promise and commotion of the era. Unfortunately, by the end it comes across more like a snake-oil-salesman than anything, offering hope and spawning anticipation but failing to deliver the promised mayhem, terror, or thrill.

It’s sometimes hard to come to grips with books like TBDDA—books that should be good, should be excellent, but for one reason for another just seem stale. We wanted to like Campbell’s novel, but after the promising beginning, the book falls flat: plenty of violence, but not enough substance. A little like the 20th century, in fact, but we doubt that’s what Campbell had in mind.

Much of the time, it’s difficult to figure out what’s going on in this world of train robberies, guns-for-hire, double- and triple-crosses. Campbell is creating comic book poetry, effortlessly evoking moods, time periods, feelings, and relishing in a grandiose sentimentality for violence, love, and the past. In fact, the book is an attempt to rework our basic ideas about comics (for which Campbell should be lauded), but somewhere he seems to have forgotten about his plot. Campbell excels at setting scenes, but he is so completely devoted to presenting and experimenting with such a specific aesthetic that the narrative as a whole (not to mention character development) suffers. The story itself becomes so muddled and impenetrable that, by the end of the novel, Campbell himself seems to be confused and is forced to end not with a bang, but a whimper—and with as trite a dénouement as that phrase implies. It’s disappointing, more than anything, to see an artist with such vision and skill back himself into a cliché.

We should be fair. TBDDA is beautiful. Too often, reviews of graphic novels leave out the art; when Eddie Campbell is involved, that would be a grievous error, for his work in TBDDA is strikingly staged and composed. Each frame is given individual attention, and many of them are individual works of art—especially some of his splash pages. It’s too bad that much of the time Campbell does much better evoking sensation or playing with form than telling a story. But enough harping: TBDDA is a book of pictures (a “picture novel” the front cover declares), and as such it is an expression of Campbell’s mastery. Of course, TBDDA is also more than a mere showcase. The artist in Campbell is working through some complex and interesting issues, including visual (re)presentations of exclamation (through timing and color), memory, and especially action. Campbell is in fact vividly violent, as any reader familiar with From Hell, his classic novel penned by the equally inimitable Alan Moore, would be aware. Truly no other artist depicts mangled body parts, fire, and general carnage with such reverent thoughtfulness.

Part of Campbell’s project is to play with the framing of such action, overlapping frames (as if individual compositions, sometimes only loosely linked to the “next”), experimenting with composition and perspective, sometimes leaving differently-sized rectilinear swathes of white space, and sometimes filling a page to its very edges. Fittingly, the “bleeds” are most effective when depicting violence and action and nicely complement the bloody red to which Campbell returns throughout. That red provides an intense thematic contrast to the generally subdued palette of Campbell’s newly industrializing world, tying much of the book together at least stylistically. Moreover, Campbell’s exploration of framing generates a recurring metaphor: he appropriately emphasizes the liminal nature of “frames”—those we look through, e.g. windows and eyeglasses, as well as those that sometimes catch us up in them, such as when being framed for a crime, “framing” one text as another, etc. Campbell, then, is interested in seeing how far he can stretch our ability to understand the language of pictures. While each “frame” is individually (com)posed and beautiful by itself, taken together, multiple frames often appear disconnected. This of course could be a possible Brechtian maneuver, calling attention to the making of the text as a way to inspire the reader to rethink its construction. Perhaps TBDDA is an instructional comic in disguise? For us, at least, TBDDA works better as an exercise in—or examination of—form itself.

This makes sense, considering the narrative’s historical context. Campbell has picked this overtly transitional period for a reason. As a time of great technological and creative promise, experimentation, and also intimidation, the turn-of-the-century offers a pretty parallel to the state of graphic novels today. Articles like “Why Comics Aren’t Just For Kids” are old hat now, and—at least in intellectual circles—graphic novels like this one are taken quite seriously as potentially great literature or art. Campbell knows this and is using the newly accepted freedom of form to explore the more abstract capabilities of comics. By ushering in new ways of understanding comics’ artistic power and potential to tell stories and produce affect, Campbell interestingly hearkens back to the early days of comic strip, when people like Winsor McCay and George Herriman could explore the form as a blank slate for modern aesthetic sensibilities and possibilities. It is this image of Campbell as comics pioneer, forging a path through the Wild West of visual abstraction, that we would like to remember. It’s just too bad that, at least in The Black Diamond Detective Agency, he doesn’t ride off into the sunset.