Christopher P. Reiller & Chris Grine, Igor: Fixed by Frankensteins (Slave Labor Graphics, 2007). $5.95, paperback.

by Jared Gardner

I was bored, bored, bored in the comic store the other day. All the big ticket monthlies were playing out their last Events and gearing up for their next. The Serious Indies were showing off their seriousness, while the distant offspring of the underground comix were showing off their Wackiness. And zombies were everywhere (what is with all the damned zombies? And this from a man who openly aspires to one day be a zombie). Well, I didn’t want another Event, and I wasn’t in the mood for meditations on childhood traumas, so I settled for some zombies and some zaniness. The book I grabbed was a slim early-reader-sized paperback with an alluringly absurd title. It was an impulse buy of the kind I make less and less often in these days of college funds and second mortgages. But happily, it proved a reminder of how, just when everything is starting to seem so cookie-cutter and predictable, comics will always find a way to surprise you.

I must say I don’t usually find myself inclined to review the wild and zany books, as much as I often enjoy them. Somehow doing so feels to do a disservice either to the comic (if it is good) or to my own intelligence (if, as is usually the case, it is just zany). And in the case of Igor, which was most definitely very good, it really tasks the limits of my critical vocabulary to precisely describe the mysterious alchemy of the ingredients—rats, vomit, drunken sadistic astronauts, gutted evil monks (whose hide makes a convenient costume in an exciting plot twist), and, in a surprising turn of events, more vomit. But it works, and it works because the book somehow makes the most random and wild swing of the storyline feel just right. It is in fact that Goldilocks effect—the “just right”—that is the accomplishment of the book. Without giving too much away (because the fun is all in how we get there), the book ends with Igor’s desiccated corpse flying from a flagpole on a barren lunar landscape: a symbol of true love, heroism, and the promise of eternal rebirth. Seriously. But also a symbol of everything that laughs in the face of such symbolism. I can’t wait for some made doctor or renegade astronaut to come and replenish his flagging form (preferably with an injection of fresh gorge and rats) so he can continue his adventures, reaffirm his love of his zombie gal, Muffin Doll, and continue his fight for the infinite plastic possibilities of comics storytelling.

I know nothing about Igor’s creator, Christopher P. Reilly, or about the earlier adventures of our poor reanimated sidekick. And I only knew Chris Grine’s work by sight, never having read his Chickenhare books. But the two are a splendid team. Grine has a sophisticated sense of the full potential of the form (the ability, for example, to tell the history of the universe in a handful of panels), without any of the high seriousness of his fellow comics cognoscenti. And Reilly pours just enough of himself into his loveable little ratboy to give him a real heart, but not enough to make him or his adventures maudlin and manipulative. There is a lot of what is good and right about Richard Sala in their collaboration, but also a lot of what Sala too often misses of late—a dynamic sense of impish laughter. One can feel Reilly and Grine cracking themselves and each other up with each page, daring each other to go further. And by the end, it is clear they haven’t found their limits. I can only hope that the stormy sea of Fate (with all its vomit, bile, and random acts of Scottish terrorism) will conspire to allow them to continue penning Igor’s ongoing adventures for years to come.