“I thought being tethered to our computers even more would help push us to demand a more democratic, collectively-owned vision of the Internet, but I’m not sure I really saw that happen.” That’s what Canadian comic artist Michael DeForge said to us a couple of years ago, right after Covid-19 pushed us all into isolation. He was referring to the stranglehold of technocrats, and the statement was a prescient one given what the world is going through.
Anyone familiar with DeForge’s work will know that technology is just one of his many obsessions, given how his stories dwell upon everything from infidelity and adolescence to the behavioural patterns of fictional slugs. This time around, his roving eye alights upon abduction by aliens and the way they see human emotions. Is it a snide reminder that we look at everything all wrong? A satire on our age of social media-induced narcissism? A good old-fashioned story about something that has long obsessed comedians as well as science-fiction writers? All of the above?
Jackie, the book’s celebrity protagonist, wakes up naked in a sweet-smelling room and is confronted by a floating extraterrestrial head that resembles the mask from the Scream movies. He takes it all calmly in his stride, submitting to his kidnappers with quiet resignation. It is only when he gets weepy that his value as the saddest person in the world reveals itself. It’s an absurd premise, but perfect for someone with DeForge’s credentials because of his ability to use the seemingly ridiculous to his advantage and turn it into something sublime.
To attempt this in prose is a doomed endeavour, which is also why Holy Lacrimony serves as a reminder that comics possess the ability to tackle weighty themes in unusual ways. What makes this message go down easier is DeForge’s effortless humour that appears when one least expects it. There’s a hint of it in the book’s title too, which references not just ill-feeling, but an adjective used almost exclusively to describe something dramatic. Jackie is a dramatic protagonist, but also a funny one because of his lack of self-awareness.
The art here is as distinctive as ever, all loops and squiggles, although the use of colour is somewhat muted. There are fewer explosions of what some have referred to as Pepto Bismol pinks, and more panels in black and white. The human figures here are also among the straightest DeForge has created in a while. That said, it is still impossible to find a panel that doesn’t bear his now familiar style — testament to avowed influences like Derek Jarman and Saul Steinberg.
Ultimately, Holy Lacrimony works not just because it’s funny, strange, or oscillating between multiple levels of meaning. It works because it leaves us with more questions than answers, and that feeling in the pit of one’s stomach that the joke may be on us. Perhaps the only way to enjoy anything by Michael DeForge is to do what the movies demand: suspend disbelief and hang on for the ride. It’s almost always an entertaining one.
Michael DeForge (W/A) • Drawn & Quarterly, $24.95
Review by Lindsay Pereira
