Review: The Manara Library Vol. 1 by Milo Manara and Hugo Pratt

The Manara Library Vol. 1 – Hugo Pratt (w) Milo Manara (w/a)

Dark Horse, $59.99, 978-1-59582-782-1

It’s one of the great ironies of the 20^th Century that the best and most-enduring visions of the American West have come from Europeans — the films of Sergio Leone (and the music of Morricone), Django, Moebius’ Blueberry, to name but a few.  To that pantheon, we can safely add Milo Manara.  Although more famed for his erotic works, Manara’s dramatic Westerns stand as beautiful works of art, and invite us to reconsider any preconceptions that we may have of him.  They are also certain now to endure for English-speaking audiences, thanks to these handsome hardcover reissues of his work.

Within the context of the current reprint renaissance, it’s pleasing to see this reframing of Manara as a serious cartoonist. American audiences tend to view his work as exploitative and pornographic and, while there is a helping of sex and nudity in this volume, it is tempered by the craft and literary weight that the creators bring to them.  This is helped by the introductions from Italian comics scholar, Andrea Plazzi, and Frank Miller (who, whatever your opinion of his current work, was responsible for a surge in interest in Japanese comics in the ’80s and remains hugely influential).  By framing his life as an avid student of illustration and comics, with a strong devotion to the work of Hugo Pratt and Moebius, they ground Manara as a consummate artist and help to demystify his notoriety.

Of course, nothing helps to do that more than the work itself.  Contained herein are two albums from the early 1980s: Indian Summer and The Paper Man (leaving something to be desired of the cover’s promise of “Indian Summer and other stories,”) the former being a collaboration with Hugo Pratt, who the young Manara not only revered, but mythologised in his H.P. and Giuseppe Bergman series.  The resulting work is nothing less than stunning.

Indian Summer begins elegantly with a 9-page wordless sequence that acts as the story’s catalyst.  On a beach, a young pilgrim girl is raped by two American Indians. The tragedy and savagery of this act is offset by the stillness of the landscape, and the elegant squalls of seagulls flying past, so much so that it strikes a curious tone that’s neither horrific nor gratuitous, but rather serene and matter-of-fact…which makes it all the more chilling.  Even Manara’s notoriously lustful gaze is tempered. His usual indulgence in the soft curves of his women is less evident, and when Sheva is stripped of her clothing, her nudity serves more to shock than arouse.

Although the scenario is Pratt’s, it is naturally Manara’s line that makes this opening so powerful.  His style is so idiosyncratic that it is instantly recognisable, and the range of subjects here allows us to appreciate it in great depth.  From the rolling sands of the beach, to wild, untamed forests and crude pilgrim villages, his backgrounds practically overpower his characters.  So meticulously rendered are they and with such subtle expressionism — billowing clouds that suggest mystery and changing weather practically dictate characters’ thoughts to us — that we can follow the story’s emotional dynamics through landscape alone. 

But Manara’s true talent obviously lies with his figures.  So gentle and fine is his ink-line that allows for a great deal of nuance in every character.  In a story such as this with a large ensemble cast, it’s difficult to think of any other artist being able to capture such a diverse range so well.  In his bodies and faces, it is easy to see the indebtedness to Moebius (and also in the tell-tale stippled hatching) but equally easy to trace his influence on modern artists like Paul Pope and Frank Quitely, with the expressive body language that he seemingly so effortlessly employs and an obsessive attention to detail in even the smallest wrinkle of cloth. 

In his crowd scenes, he avoids the mistake of having a single focal point for every figure.  Rather, they capture the chaos of the scene, with each character fully acting their part.  It’s a wonder that he did not go on to illustrate war tales, or become more renowned as an action scenarist.  

Perhaps it is not so baffling, though, as it is Manara’s women that overshadow all else.  He obviously takes great pleasure in capturing their form, as every one of his female characters is impossibly beautiful and sensual.  With the loose period clothing here, he indulges in several opportunities to flash a buttock or breast — the female lead in The Paper Man is even referred to as “Princess Rump-in-the-Breeze” — yet, it never really feels exploitative.  Yes, the women are sexually-charged (but so are the men, in a far more insidious way) but they are also strong and empowered, rarely weakening in the company of men or driven by romance.

For that very reason, this volume should be everyone’s introduction to Manara’s work. It is easy to flip through Click or Butterscotch and dismiss it as degrading, but works like Indian Summer and especially The Paper Man — with its tough, no-nonsense Indian girl — show that Manara was a true artist.  Even as a writer, he has been given his due with a new, polished translation from Kim Thompson that reflects the vivacity of the original prose.  This is stunning work and a welcome addition to the comics canon.

— Gavin Lees

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