For those of you seeking knowledge
Lord Morpheus is dead. His death and burial played out in the hit comic book Sandman. The last issue, #75, came out
just last month. In the wake of this final publication, Morpheus and his creator, Neil Gaiman,
have left behind a changed comics industry, one that is now open to a more sophisticated breed of fantasy, and is another step
further in its quest to legitimize comics as an art form.
Sandman was the most successful recent entry in this struggle, a subtle and intelligent contribution to an art form normally
associated with Spandex costumes and testosterone-laden fistfights. Although Sandman's publisher, D.C. Comics, is better
known for mainstay characters like Batman and Superman, Sandman has been one of D.C.'s top sellers for years now.
Sandman's success was not always so assured. In 1988, Gaiman was asked if he
wanted to write a regular series for D.C. Never a big fan of the superhero genre, he
suggested Sandman instead, and D.C., which has historically been more willing to
explore fantasy than other mainstream competitors, gave Gaiman the comic.
Sandman's creator, however, started with the impression that the book would be a
minor critical success, sell poorly, and then be canceled after the first year. Karen
Berger, who has edited the entire Sandman run, agreed: "None of us knew at the
time that the book would be what it would be."
Who, after all, could have reasonably expected that a comic book as thoughtful and
well-read as Sandman would become the success it became? What oracle would
have told Gaiman that his comic, which refers to Paradise Lost as effortlessly as to
Little Nemo in Slumberland, would earn him near-household-name status and a
three-book, $1 million advance deal with Avon Books?
Sandman is a contemplative, heady book. It stars Morpheus, the lord of all whimsy
and imagination. In the stories, which range from the fantastic to the horrific,
Morpheus is sometimes at the forefront of the action, and sometimes his powers and knowledge provide only a backdrop for
more intimate, mortal occurrences.
Sandman's succeeded, in part, because it appealed to the nontraditional comic book audience; the focus on myth and history
went against the mainstream grain. Lance Smith, who works at the Dreamhaven comic shop in Dinkytown, says that there have
been a lot of readers who buy only Sandman and no other comics.
In addition, Sandman attracted an unprecedented number of female readers. On one hand, says Smith, the mere omission of
the adolescent male concerns in superhero books was enough to merit a look: " ... it's not one continual fight scene, it's not a
slugfest with Spandex." On the other hand, Gaiman has a knack for well-rounded female characters: "The women in Sandman
may not always be sympathetic, but they're strong and realistic. They have problems, but they're real problems, not the kind of
problems you see in X-Men."
Of course, the best way to appeal to readers of both genders is to simply
write well, which Gaiman does. In doing so, says Berger, he has highlighted
the importance of plot in what is often considered solely a visual medium:
"With Sandman, with most of the stuff he's done, he's really helped raise the
value of a writer in comics."
In mainstream comics, significant control over stories is rarely given to the
writer. Instead, the writer can be tightly constrained by the company, which views its characters as valuable properties to be
protected at all costs. (Anyone who thought Superman was dead forever was fooling themselves.) Gaiman's prestige as a writer
gave him the leverage to buck this trend. Not only has he been the sole author of Sandman (unusual for the creators of comic
book characters), but when he decided that the comic would end at issue 75, D.C. had to concede, even though that meant the
end of a reliable and successful comic.
The idea of making a comic series finite is not entirely unheard of. Most notably, Gaiman's friend, Dave Sim, has planned for
years to end his self-published comic Cerebus at issue 300, sometime in the next millennium. The reason given by both is
sensible enough: real stories don't continue forever, outliving their originators as derivative, hackneyed versions. Real stories
work their way to an ending, and then they end.
That Gaiman would choose to end a comic of such fame was a public move away from the product-driven mentality of
mainstream comics. Instead, he asserted what would have been obvious in almost any other medium: the author makes or
breaks a story, and without an individual vision, all the rest -- setting, concept, character -- is just window dressing.
Beyond highlighting the importance of the individual author, the success of Sandman paved the way for more sophisticated
fantasy and horror comics. Its success convinced D.C. to launch Vertigo, a new line of comics whose titles have ranged from
the gleefully vulgar Preacher to the positively psychedelic Doom Patrol. Berger, who became the Vertigo group editor,
characterizes Vertigo books as "contemporary fiction for adults in comic form."
Success also brought imitation from other companies, says Smith, citing attempts by Marvel Comics, which is better known for
their X-Men books, to copy the Vertigo format. Their attempts included Razorline, based on concepts by Clive Barker, and
Marvel Edge, which Smith dismisses as "Vertigo lite." "People look at Sandman and its success, get a superficial view, mystical
powers, etc., etc. They don't understand that the writing behind Sandman is really good, and that's the important thing, not the
setting that the writing takes place in."
With Sandman finished, Smith predicts that he'll lose some customers, but not
too many. Bob Brynildson, who owns Source Comics and Games, isn't too
worried, either. "I don't think I'll sell less of a Vertigo comic because Sandman
is gone. If it happens, D.C. will redo Sandman or do something similar to it."
If D.C. does try to somehow redo or copy Sandman, however, they may have
a difficult task ahead of them. "I can't think of a really successful Sandman
clone," says Smith. "I can think of ... a lot of good stuff that's come because
Sandman and Vertigo opened up some opportunities, but none obviously
inspired by Sandman."
F
irst and foremost, Sandman is inimitable
because inspiration is a difficult thing to copy.
Gaiman's talent for characterization
and plot -- whether put to use on family drama, fantasy
or horror -- is what have drawn so many readers to Sandman.
In the first issues, Sandman runs at the same pace as many mainstream comics:
fast. But there are some individual issues that shine.
In the intimately terrifying "24 Hours," a madman uses one of Dream's talismans
to control and torment a diner's patrons. Gaiman creates a handful of believable,
sympathetic characters, and then tortures them before our eyes.
The enchanting "Ramadan" tells the story of ancient Baghdad and its king. The
king realizes that, as with all great cities, the glory of Baghdad is a fleeting one.
So he sells the city to Morpheus, accepting a fallen, dispirited Baghdad in its
place, so that the true Baghdad may continue to live in the dreams of others. The story behind "Ramadan" is good, but what
makes the issue remarkable is the florid, celebratory art of P. Craig Russell, which does as much to convey the glory of the
once-great Baghdad as any of Gaiman's descriptions.
In comics, the interaction between artist and writer can take many forms. Sometimes artist-writer teams establish themselves on
one book, and sometimes the artist and the writer are the same person. In the case of Sandman, Gaiman has always
been the driving force, with his writing being illustrated by a constantly rotating staple of illustrators.
When it comes to good artists, Sandman has never been lacking. Although Kelley Jones couldn't draw a relaxed facial
expression if his life depended on it, his stark, melodramatic linework is a nice complement to Gaiman's otherworldly writing in
Season of Mists. Shawn McManus is a good match in A Game of You; his work is rounded, almost caricature-esque, but
subtle enough to convey a fine range of emotion and mood.
Unfortunately, Sandman goes through artists at a dizzying pace. Few stories go by without a handful of artists tromping in and
out of the visual space Gaiman is working with; Season of Mists, for example, credits seven artists for work on eight issues.
According to Berger, she and Gaiman had planned originally to have all of the art done by only a few artists. However, they
soon encountered problems with artists being able to keep to a monthly schedule, which led them to the solution of spreading
the work out among more than just two artists.
It's unfortunate that Berger and Gaiman couldn't have found another way around the problem, whether by slave driving their
artists or simply slowing down their production schedule. When characters change appearance abruptly between issues, or
even in mid-issue, the effect is usually more distracting than interesting.
The Kindly Ones, the second-to-last story which details the death of Morpheus, offers a telling contrast. Marc Hempel drew
almost every issue of the work, and his gracefully simple art tilts between illustrative and iconic, lending the epic tragedy a sense
of timelessness.
In The Kindly Ones, Gaiman's writing, which had previously shown the
occasional, remarkable glimmer, begins to truly shine. Through a series of
machinations involving the Norse god Loki, the faerie Robin Goodfellow and the
witch Thessaly, the three Furies are set on Morpheus's trail. Weaving together
dozens of elements and characters from previous issues, Gaiman and Hempel
build a feeling of insistent dread and finality appropriate to the death of
Morpheus.
T
he Kindly Ones isn't the only time that characters return; despite
Sandman's huge scale, a sense of connectedness runs throughout the
whole book.
As one of the Endless, Morpheus can appear as easily in Roman antiquity as in
modern-day Los Angeles. Given the historical and geographical scope of the
stories, it's amazing that any character shows up more than once.
But Gaiman's world is rich with coincidence. For example, Judy, a minor character who dies in the same issue where she
makes her first appearance, haunts the rest of the book at the most unexpected times, when we learn that she was best friends
with Rose Walker (The Doll's House) and a former lover of Foxglove (A Game of You). The Sandman world may be infinite,
but it seems to be populated by a finite community.
Although Gaiman's talent shouldn't be downplayed, it should be noted that his breed of story owes some of its success to the
mood of the times, an environment where stories of coincidence and unseen powers fill a nagging cultural need.
Clive Barker has written that there are two kinds of fantastic fiction: "One ... offers up a reality that resembles our own, then
postulates a second invading reality, which has to be accomodated or exiled by the status quo it is attempting to overtake ...
The second kind of fantastique is far more delirious. In these narratives, the whole world is haunted and mysterious."
Describing a world that superficially resembles our own but is in fact influenced secretly by the movements of inscrutable forces,
Sandman certainly qualifies as Barker's second breed of fantasy. But it's not alone in this aspect. On one side, it is flanked by
the growing success of television shows such as The X-Files. On the other, it is flanked by the hit role-playing game Vampire:
The Masquerade, where vampires secretly struggle for control over a mortal world that looks, at first glance, like our own.
The renewed interest in these stories is an understandable reaction to the chaotic meaninglessness implied by the modern
condition. We are bombarded with information but have few viable paradigms to process them. We are becoming increasingly
aware that the worst political problems require solutions beyond the grasp of even the wisest leaders. And everywhere we
look, it becomes increasingly evident that everyone offering truth in any form is also serving an agenda, which renders their truth
suspect.
This kind of chaos heightens the need for myths, modern or otherwise. As Ray Mescallado wrote in The Comics Journal in
1994: " ... isn't mythology a way of arrogating control by humans, the claim of a greater pattering instead of inchoate
randomness, the illusion of human behavior in the machinations of the unknowable?"
So at first, Sandman would seem to make sense of what may be a fundamentally senseless existence, with gods defining and
determining the forces of nature and human existence.
Or does it? Gaiman's gods are not exactly gods in one crucial way: they grow up. This isn't really surprising, given that
Sandman is concerned with gods more as personalities than as archetypes. Dream's relationships with his siblings of the
Endless -- Death, Desire, Despair, Delirium, Destruction and Destiny -- resemble a dysfunctional family more than anything
else.
But when we discover that Destruction has been a prodigal for over 300 years,
leaving his role but not allowing anyone to fill it, it raises questions about what the
Endless truly are. After all, things have continued to burn and collapse in his
absence. So exactly what role do the Endless fulfill?
Or take the example of Lucifer, the former Lord of Hell. In Season of Mists
Lucifer tires of his position and abdicates, leaving Dream the key to Hell. Gaiman
takes a risk in deviating from myth so strongly: If Lucifer chooses to abdicate,
what are we to make of the meaning of Hell, of damnation and of the devil as evil
personified?
This kind of playing with myth is not unique. But if Gaiman's version stands out, it's
because he understands the source of a myth's strength. It doesn't lie in legalistic
interpretation, nor in revision of that interpretation. It lies, instead, in the image
itself, in the vision that lingers not as a concept, but as a feeling.
In the wake of Lucifer's abdication, a throng of gods assemble in Dream's palace,
asking for the key to Hell. In a few short strokes, Gaiman fleshes out his gods with
a warmth and charm that a more theological treatment would miss. The Egyptian
goddess Bast is sultry, wise, and calculating. The Norse god Loki is an emaciated, greedy trickster, as sly as he is immoral.
But to say that Gaiman simply understands myths would be an understatement -- he obviously loves stories of all kinds. More
than anything else, Sandman is about the tale itself, about the power of imagining and the power of telling.
In the World's End arc, travelers take refuge from a mysterious storm at the World's End Inn to find themselves accompanied
by others from different times and different worlds. To pass the time, they spin yarns of faerie adventures, encounters with sea
serpents, and funereal apprenticeships in the cities of the dead.
By themselves, most of the stories are remarkable, but Gaiman links them together by focusing on the telling. In the World's
End Inn, there is a hearth, there is a table, and every traveler will leave enriched, enlightened in some modest way by the tales
of complete strangers.
It is the love of stories that drives Sandman's last issue, The Tempest, which depicts Shakespeare's efforts to write his last
play. Dream provided Shakespeare with his talent, asking for two plays in return. The first, A Midsummer Night's Dream was
a gift for the faeries. The second, The Tempest, in which the Duke Prospero manages to escape his island exile through a
mixture of fate and magic, is for Dream himself.
The creative, symbiotic relationship between Shakespeare and Dream is ambiguous, and underlying it
is the point that storytellers are magicians as well, a thought echoed in Shakespeare's The Tempest:
"These our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits, and are melted into air, into thin air ..."
"The Tempest" is one last look at Morpheus as the Dream King, driven by stories, composed of
stories, bounded by stories. Near the end, he tells Shakespeare, "I am Prince of Stories, Will, but I
have no story of my own. Nor shall I ever." Of course, he's wrong: He has Gaiman as a reverent and
perceptive scribe. Gaiman is reminding the reader, on the eve of the Dream Lord's death, that a good
tale never stops having relevance, never stops being worth the telling. Princes may die, but they will
always live on in their stories.
