I am a big admirer of year-end lists.  Yet there are reasons not to be.  Lists can reduce the year's output to a simplified collection of already well-covered moments.  They can inadvertently steer a body away from searching deeper into the records of pop culture, to discover objects on one's own.  They can define taste, instead of interrogating it.  On the other hand, such lists can still introduce a person to a movie or book or play they'd never consider otherwise.  Or, lists can force one to reconsider something long filed away as inconsequential or lost.  And, let's face it, there's a lot of entertainment to be had in seeing critics praise art you already appreciate.   I guess what I'm saying is, your mileage may vary.

Me, I love lists!  So I thought I'd post one of my own on the good old blog, specifically centering around achievements in comics this year.  I spend a lot of time on this blog being critical Sarah.  I thought it might make a nice change of pace to celebrate the year 2013 in comics, through five (by my standards) noteworthy comics.  These are my choices.  What are yours?  Sound off in the comments section!

I'll start with my most anticipated read of the year:  March.  I actually gave Congressman John Lewis' graphic memoir to my father for Christmas.  Largely inspired by his connection with and consumption of the 1957 comic Martin Luther King and the Montgomery Story, this book is the first of three to chronicle Lewis' life and his involvement with the Civil Rights movement.  The first volume deals with Lewis' young life, and Nate Powell's beautiful black and white art quickly draws you into Lewis' perception of the world around him.  Particularly striking are the book's opening moments, when a young Lewis preaches to the family chickens, and the closing pages, which involve a paddy wagon full of arrested individuals driving "off-screen" as they sing about overcoming great obstacles.  Lewis and co-writer Andrew Aydin intended this story to teach future generations about civil rights and the work of Dr. King, just as that 1950's book taught him.  There are many lessons throughout the book, but it never reads as dry or didactic, only engrossing and awe-inspiring.

Brian K. Vaughan and Fiona Staples' Saga arrived on shelves in the spring of 2012, but it's been on my mind ever since.  The story of two parents trying to raise a child in a mixed-up world might seem old hat by this point in human history, but add in intergalactic wars, ghost nannies, robot princes, and a cat who can tell when you're lying, and everything old becomes new again!  Staples' down-to-earth pencils and ink ground this space opera in human concerns, like what happens to a body after pregnancy, or how to get a job when one's entire family is on the run from two sides of the same war -- and while I don't discuss lettering much in this space, Staples' handwritten narration gives a glint of the sassy grown-up child these parents will raise.  Of course, Vaughan's signature sense of humor and heart saturates the plot, but it is his dissection of narrative as life-sustaining, and family as the forge that shapes and even melts our sensibilities, that define the book.   Released in increments to give Staples enough lead time to craft the tale well, this creator-driven work engages with its audiences' real-life concerns in a visceral, vibrant way.

How to talk about Young Avengers?  I've read interviews where writer Kieron Gillen equates the team book with the adolescent act of starting a band.  It's also clear the entire short season of fifteen issues is meant to be a metaphor for being eighteen, for being on the cusp of adulthood, of learning one's possibilities and limitations.   Hailed by many comics sites as something new, a pop-infused story that addresses ACTUAL young people (instead of middle-aged readers who grew up with Superman and The Simpsons), this book was labelled Tumblr bait by cynics, even as optimists embrace its shirtless Noh-Varr scenes and emotional roller coasters.  What can't be disputed by anyone is the genius of the artwork -- Jamie McKelvie and Mike Norton sculpt classic comics facial expressions into pop art shots, and muck about with traditional layouts, even breaking borders between panels to connect their isolated teenagers.  This book may be ending soon (I blame the need to boost Loki's age, in order to appease Tom Hiddleston fans, I suspect), but its appeal lies in its "flash-in-the-pan" nature.  The Young Avengers save the world, then go for Korean barbecue afterwards; the sad truth of adolescence is that good nights like that aren't meant to last forever.

Astro City brought me back to reading comics on a monthly basis two years ago.  So it's only fitting that the series' return should end up on my "top of 2013" list.  Now published under Vertigo's banner, Astro City hasn't lost a step, even after vanishing for a time due to scribe Kurt Busiek's health concerns.  The new group of issues has examined both the heroes and regular citizens of the titular city, with covers from painter Alex Ross warmly inviting us into Busiek's bright world.  Interior artist Brent Anderson has made the transition from pen and paper to digital, and his work remains as clear-eyed and emotional as ever. Meanwhile, Busiek builds and builds his superheroic universe, adding in call responders to a hero hotline, a giant alien presence intent on studying humanity, and a potentially unhinged fourth wall-breaking miscreant -- while revisiting old faces, including a retired family man, a stuntwoman psychic, and our first-ever look into his Wonder Woman stand-in, Winged Victory.  At the end of each issue, a tiny street sign alerts us that we are now leaving Astro City.  When the book was on hiatus, that notice struck me as bittersweet.  Now the story continues, and I can't wait to come back.

I've written and written and written about Daredevil.  About Mark Waid's interrogation of fear and fearlessness, of perception and obsession.  About Chris Samnee and Paolo Rivera and Marcos Martin and Javier Rodriguez and their consistent, snappy artwork.  About my appreciation for a book that actually addresses disability, even if its central character is essentially sighted, given his radar sense.  So what haven't I praised about this title?  What's left to write about?  I'll tell you what's left -- lawyer and Dare-love interest Kirsten McDuffie.  She's amazing.  She's basically Lois Lane, except she was in on the secret identity thing from the get-go.  So I guess she's more like Linda Park, a woman Waid has had some experience scripting in the past.  In the latest issue of the Dare-saga, Kirsten flirted with danger by addressing New York citizens via some sort of super-microphone during a crisis.  In the process, she officially won Matt Murdock's heart, as she set everyone straight about the fear-mongering Sons of Serpents, a group of racists intent on creating mob rule in the Big Apple.  Corny, sure.  But Kirsten's heroics are just as important as Daredevil in this book; that is a refreshing change of pace for a love interest.

Hawkeye is a book about what Hawkeye does when he's not being an Avenger, usually when he's hanging out with the other, cooler Hawkeye.  Also, it's about his dog Lucky, who loves pizza.  Helmed by writer Matt Fraction, artist David Aja and colorist Matt Hollingsworth, this book has been a fan favorite for months, even as it's gotten a bit behind schedule, shipping-wise.  But it's worth the wait.  Fraction's decompression of time can be trying when read a month at a time, but his current insistence on telling street-level stories from a variety of perspectives, including Pizza Dog's, has brought a lot of enjoyment to me, personally.  Aja's work  can be sprightly and perceptive (as when Hawkeye leaps through the air naked, and a little Hawkeye mask covers his unmentionables; or when a phone conversation with Kate is split into thirty-something distinct panels).  Hollingsworth gives everything a purple tinge and a cartoony look that makes Hawkeye's world seem pretty basic, even as the writing deepens Hawkeye's descent into poor behavior.  With Clint Barton's book, come for the humor, stay for the inventiveness and emotional gut punches!

Despite its reputation, I've never been a huge fan of The Killing Joke.  Graphic novel enthusiasts remind me it's long been considered one of the greatest Batman stories ever told, due to the Dark Knight's psychologically complex sparring matches with the Joker.  That doesn't make me like it any better.  The mental and emotional damage featured in its pages have heavily influenced twenty-plus years of Batman comics since, people point out; I acknowledge that this is true, and read a Superman book instead.  What about Chris Nolan's masterful portrayal of the chaos/order dichotomy at the heart of Batman and the Joker's battle for Gotham City in "The Dark Knight?"  I admit I like that movie a lot, even though it ends twice; I appreciate Nolan's distilling of the entire book into an intense ten-minute interrogation scene that allows the Joker and Batman time to highlight their similarities and differences.  But it still can't make me admire the source material.

Because for all its high-minded thoughts about justice and revenge and the human capacity to survive immense horrors, The Killing Joke still views the most humane character in the Bat mythos as cannon fodder.  And such a cynical mindset makes readers focus on the wrong things inside the tale itself.  Case in point: a lot has been said in recent months about Batman potentially killing the Joker at the end of the story -- giving context to the title, The Killing Joke.  I can understand Grant Morrison's need to structurally justify the story's violence with claims that author Alan Moore was not only investigating the hero and villain's relationship, he was finishing it; he was taking Batman over the edge.  Certainly, this hypothesis blew the minds of avid readers within the industry, people such as filmmaker Kevin Smith and comics legend Mark Waid.  But I couldn't get invested in that reading for two reasons.  One: the artwork and dialogue in the last pages of the book are subtle to the point of obfuscation; if Moore and artist Brian Bolland wanted us to understand a murder had been committed, and Batman had lost his mind and war on crime simultaneously (which, admittedly, is a pretty powerful ending), then they should have given us the clues we needed to finish the image in our minds.  The script itself doesn't offer much in the way of context, either.  Two: the relentless, continuing picking-apart of the hero and villain's relationship, while the point of the story, only serves to diminish examination of the tale's terrible treatment of its lone female figure, which yesterday, was revealed to be worse than previously thought.

I speak, of course, about Barbara Gordon, and her paralyzing at the hands of the Joker.  Yes, Alan Moore wrote a story about the Clown Prince of Crime psychologically torturing Batman and his colleague Commissioner Jim Gordon, but the way he chose to frame this torture through the physical violation and shooting of Barbara Gordon, then Batgirl, is the big set-piece of the story.  And it serves no purpose to change Barbara herself; the incident exists only to give stakes to Batman's run towards insanity.  Which folks admire as strong storytelling even today, even if I've heard Alan Moore himself regrets the tale, even after Brian Bolland has revealed, along with a comics researcher, that Barbara was initially supposed to be photographed fully naked, blood gushing from her lower regions in as pornographically violent a shot as I can think of.  But I ask -- what is psychologically complex about destroying a woman so that men can prove themselves able to endure witnessing it?  (Or, in the case of Morrison's take, what is complex about watching a man avenge a woman's unnecessary destruction?)

Sure, in the final printing, DC Comics toned down the violence and nudity on the page where Jim Gordon views a group of photographs, taken by the Joker, showing how much pain his daughter is in.  Kudos to them, I guess?  But there's still that nagging, well-known story that editor Len Wein gave Moore the okay to "cripple the bitch."  Discovering that Barbara's torment was initially drawn to titillate as well as horrify only gives the lie to this story, and proves how little Moore and Bolland cared about her, beyond her use as a plot device.

Some might tell me this revelation about Barbara's nude shot is irrelevant now, as it was never published in the first place.  To them I say, it's all the more relevant today, because it visually demonstrates the hugely problematic treatment of women in comics history, inside one of its most-purchased stories.  If women are to stop being victims in narratives, then books like this need to be seen for the flawed creations they are; they shouldn't be championed as innovative in all aspects, if they are simplistic in major ways.

What's most remarkable about The Killing Joke, to me, is that Barbara survived it; in fact, she flourished in spite of its twisted humor.  Today, she is back to being Batgirl, but thanks to the initial work of comics team John Ostrander and Kim Yale, Barbara became so much more than another creature in a cowl.  She became information broker Oracle, a woman who proudly accepted her disability and the different life it led her to build.  Greatly under-appreciated Bat-journeyman Chuck Dixon never shied away from spotlighting her feelings about it, and in his 1990's run on Birds of Prey, he gave Barbara the words to burn Nightwing and Batman for thinking of her primarily as damaged goods.

Her speech (pictured above) is so powerful because it recognizes her agency, her ability to build her life -- whereas The Killing Joke left her for dead, helpless and alone.  I loved Oracle my entire childhood, and well into my adulthood; she showed readers there were many ways to be a hero, and not every hero had to jump around on rooftops to accomplish good works.  The only reason I shy away from New 52 depictions of Batgirl now are because DC feels it necessary to remind readers over and over again how seminal her torture at the hands of the Joker was; I prefer to believe Barbara's best moments came after that heinous narrative choice.  I believe her best moments came when she did good works, while disabled, maybe because of her disability, all under her own steam.

Bruce Wayne: The Road Home -- Oracle #1:  Shane Davis & Barbara Ciadro, Cover Artists.
Birds of Prey vol. 1, #8:  Chuck Dixon, Writer; Greg Land, Penciller; Drew Geraci, Inker; Gloria Vasquez, Colorist; Albert DeGuzman, Letterer.

I don't know if it's because I've been teaching theatre history and trickle-down tradition this fall, or because I've been thinking a lot about how my generation's viewed in the media, or because of the blog posts (and one particular Howlround piece by OU colleague Ira Gamerman!!!) I've been reading, but lately I've spent a lot of time considering the concept of legacy and one's conversation with the preceding generation via art.

Whatever the igniting spark, the fire roared to life last week when I opened the latest issue of Young Avengers.  In its first few pages,  our intrepid young heroes pleaded their damned-if-you, damned-if-you-don't end run to Captain America.  His response was not "Avengers, Assemble!" -- as you can see above.  Of course, Cap's being controlled by a dimension-hopping parasite in the form of Hulking's mother (aptly named Mother), sooooo parents just not understanding is a big part of the book.  And appropriate to my ponderings about how generations communicate with one another over time (as when Renaissance artists looked to the Romans and Greeks to breed innovation in their own time).

Now some readers out there are critical of the unsubtle tone writer Kieron Gillen takes with a book about a bunch of teenage vigilantes moving from the drama of sixteen to the maturity and self-reliance of eighteen.  Most complaints I've read mock the book's chummy relationship with its fans on Tumblr (the alien Noh-varr's shirtlessness alone could launch a thousand picto-blogs), but other complaints center on the youth of the intended audience.  The book is for tweens or teens, folks argue; it's cutting-edge panel construction and kooky characters can't make up for its lack of a traditional plot and tugging at the heart-strings heroics.  But why shouldn't Young Avengers, a book about teenagers, largely for teenagers, be celebrated by the audience of young men and women who populate Tumblr?  Furthermore, does broad-based appeal outweigh an appeal to youth culture, or an appeal to something new in comics?

Personally, I think Cap's "Father Knows Best" attitude is hilarious -- particularly since his hand-waving away the threat of Mother is followed by Kate Bishop, aka the female Hawkeye, turning to her fellow teenage heroes and declaring that the world is ending, so the Young Avengers should assemble already.  Idealism versus pragmatism at its finest.  But what does all this have to do with legacy and talking to the past through art?  For me, this moment showcases Gillen's awareness of comics history.  Young Avengers, in its many "short season" stories, has always been about a bunch of aliens and young kids trying to live up the legacy set by the likes of Thor, Cap, and the rest of the Avengers.  Hence, the team being named Young Avengers.  Gillen comments on that here, with Cap's paternalism and experience actually hampering the kids' organizational efforts.  By hanging a lampshade on the older generation of heroes, he retains the sense of history that dominates and contextualizes the Marvel universe, while allowing enough room for the reader to see how Kate Bishop, Wiccan, Hulking, Loki, Miss America, Noh-varr, and various others will have to operate differently.  How will they deal with matters?  Not by reasoning with adults, or making elaborate battle plans.  They'll use magic and bickering with exes and lying to teammates.  They'll take their rightful place as heroes by acting like young adults becoming adults.  They'll take stabs at saving the world until they find a way to save it.  And I find that as innovative and impressive as the amazing layouts littering this comics run.  Certainly, Young Avengers deserves to be loved for all the traditions it will set, and others will later talk to and break.

Young Avengers #12:  Kieron Gillen, Writer; Jamie McKelvie, Penciller; Mike Norton, Jamie McKelvie, & Stephen Thompson, Inkers; Matthew Wilson, Colorist.

POST-SCRIPT:  This is an unrelated note, but its importance cannot be overstated.  It's been brought to my attention that I've tended towards abelist language in posts littered throughout my blog history, mostly terminology concerning mobility and mental illness (making pejoratives of  "crazy" and "lame," for example).  I am sad to say I used such language without thought, and will avoid all such usages in the future. I am sorry if use of such terms caused offense.