Adrian Tomine’s latest effort, “Shortcomings,” reflects the continued rise of the graphic novel, a form initially received with skepticism. Currently, several authors, including Tomine, have garnered enough critical acclaim and demonstrated the literary prowess necessary to bring an amount of respect to their art.
The misconception of comics as solely fantasy or action-adventure dulled the medium’s ability to penetrate the fortress of high culture. Despite arguments for the symbolic or metaphorical meaning of a superhero’s apocalyptic scenario, the depiction of everyday life without forced comedy was absent until this current generation of comics. In fact, many of today’s comic book “superheroes” are geeks and fan boys that find themselves stepping out of their milieu to tackle issues they’d rather avoid through immersion in books or B-movies.
This rise in prestige may be attributed to cartoonists’ incorporation of both realistic and modernistic techniques. Rather than following a protagonist over a continued course of many years, Tomine’s novels focus on pivotal moments in his characters’ lives. The title page in “Shortcomings” makes it clear how Tomine is interested in depicting his characters through their key moments of being: each character’s side portrait is outlined within a circle, above which only essential data is provided.
From the early nineties forward, Tomine self-published his work. In 1995, “Drawn and Quarterly” began to serialize his strip, “Optic Nerve.” The influences on Tomine are apparent. He has the same scathing and offbeat wit as filmmaker Todd Solondz, frames societal underbellies with succinct, emotionally raw prose like Raymond Carver, and draws his scenes in public and private locations similarly to Woody Allen. Daniel Clowes, his close friend and the author of “Ghost World,” admittedly influenced his flat, clean drawing technique. Tellingly, Tomine cites Jaime Hernandez as his strongest influence; Hernandez’s “Locas” serial describes the lives of a group of Latinos just as Tomine primarily creates Asian-American characters. Both cartoonists draw upon their cultural heritage to find transitory beauties in decaying American urbanity.
The cast of characters in “Shortcomings” demonstrate aging Gen X stereotypes quite adeptly, as the plot follows the unraveling of protagonist Ben Tanaka’s relationship with Miko Hayashi. Ben manages a movie theater and has no further life goals than to acquire a white, blonde lover. His caustic and judgmental remarks grate against Miko, who leaves Ben for New York. Both Ben and Miko, like all of Tomine’s players, have either abandoned hopes of academic stardom or reside somewhere between publication and nihilism. In another Gen X tradition, pop culture references abound, often taking the place of more meaningful truths. Tomine employs “Lolita,” Margaret Cho, and porn to represent the existential crises jumping from the page.
Also impressive is Tomine’s ability to silently convey emotion through the use of pictorial imagery. Whereas on a page of written text the relationship between the spoken and unspoken is intangible, a graphic novelist may visualize rather than verbalize a powerful scene, a technique that Tomine employs to full effect. Late in the novel, Tomine uses a postcard in place of a protracted break-up scene, providing the details necessary to destroy one life and catapult another to semi-celebrity status. Only when the emotional pitch reaches a high point does Tomine employ absence through the use of either empty black or white space. The final six frames of the novel literally delineate the stasis found on an empty page.
“It’s like you’re obsessed with the typical Western media beauty ideal, but you’re settling for me,” Miko declares before her departure. Issues of beauty, desire, art, fashion, academia, race, sexuality, and religion casually float between Ben and his companions. None of these social ills plague Ben, although he often flippantly pretends they do in order to receive attention. Miko’s accusation is true and therefore hurtful; Ben cannot live with his denial. Miscommunication and deception destroy his movement towards happiness.
Tomine’s women are as desperate as his male protagonist. Their longing for intimacy drives them to rambling, self-centered conversation and an ironic lack of self-awareness. Alice Kim, Ben’s lesbian best friend, finds love in her competitive spirit. Her irrational fear of family drives her to lying and sexual promiscuity. Autumn Phelps, an employee at Ben’s theatre, takes Polaroids of her urine every morning. Sasha Lenz, a blonde graduate student that Ben has a momentary affair with, runs between men and women to further enjoy the power of her physical appearance. Meredith Lee, Alice’s girlfriend at the novel’s conclusion, lacks characterization beyond loud sex noises.
The familiarity of these themes and situations only support Tomine’s purpose. Ben finds nothing but loses everything. His self-pity leads to destruction, in a circular pattern that does not find relief. Sympathy should not enter the reader’s mind. The art of these pages arises from their depiction of fumbling human interaction and the tenderness of Tomine’s hand. Never does the story reach crescendos; never does a false note ring.
On a Brooklyn bound subway, Alice asks Ben: “Doesn’t it make you feel like you’re in some nostalgic movie about being Jewish or something?” Walking between restaurants and apartments, Tomine’s characters reek of the aforementioned second-generation Woody Allen films. Unlike the multitude of derivative coffee shop romances churned out by Hollywood or atop the bestseller list, Tomine pays homage and then moves on. The impurity of his artistic vision reemphasizes the novel’s self-effacing tone. Influence serves to enhance the emotional vapidity that pushes the resistant Ben towards continued life.
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