From The Comics Journal #219, January 2000 By Bill Randall 2000 Tom Hart's latest graphic novel tells the story of Barney Banks, a bedraggled low-income worker not unlike the protagonist of many Gen-X (and Y) ‘zine rant. In this case, though, Banks is middle-aged, and it's getting the best of him; as he tells his dog, "this job is wasting me." He works for a nondescript poster company, and we're never treated to the job's specifics, besides computers and boxes. But we more than understand the routine; the book's first page shows a clock, and Hart subtly recreates the rhythms of daily life. His understated storytelling methods emphasize repetition and space. In his work for Japanese publisher Kodansha, he's picked up on the atmospherics of manga, which echo older, larger traditions of Japanese art from Ukiyo-E to Yasujiro Ozu. In the second half of the book, Hart grounds more fantastic events, like a near-hurricanie and jail time, in the same quotidian rhythm of the book's first half, making them seem wholly natural. It is in this manga-influenced storytelling that Hart's work becomes most compelling, and most interesting in comparison to his contemporaries. Paul Pope has appropriated manga's rhythms and its cinematic storytelling, but he suffers from its excess of hollow genre and what he calls "cutie-pie", a quaint term for what the Japanese know as "Lolicon" or "Lolita-Complex." One hopes that Pope can transform his considerable talents of both draftsmanship and imagination into something beyond manga's industrial blandness. Other artists emerging from the fan-art tradition, like the Antarctic and Radio Comics crowds, only only ape the big eyes and speed lines of mainstream manga. Hart, however, has more fully made manga's storytelling strategies his own without being overwhelmed by the cliches of that industry. While the themes of Banks/Eubanks echo Hutch Owen, the pacing and visual rhythm echo manga's "aspect-to-aspect" panel transitions rather than the denser, rigid tiers of Herge and Kirby. In eschewing a strict grid, Hart surrounds individual panels with white space, creating asymmetrical compositions which float on the page. besides Chester Brown, few North American comics artists have chosen this strategy. Perhaps part of the reason is because they don't really understand why one would use it. Hart does. These floating panels create a sense of timelessness, elevating the individual moment to a sort of transcendence. For instance, when Banks sees a girl whom he has a rather significant crush, Hart shows the scene in only two regular-sized panels on a two-page spread. The layout brings the reader to linger, to consider the moment both for its own sake and as the climax of the story. To communicate with the same emotional heft, a lesser artist would have used overblown full-page panels.Hart, however, gives the scene an uninflected significance. Thanks to this understated style, the details with which Hart fills his panels take on greater significance, both literally and metaphorically. Early in the book, when Banks furiously tries to kill the flies that plague his lunches, it seems nothing more than slapstick; later, though, a fly becomes an index of Banks' maturation when a third-world filmmaker has cruelly captured one. When Banks reads about a shipwreck survivor and envisions himself with a mouthful of life-sustaining worms, the image carries a horrific literal significance for his dog, but also resonates as a metaphor of Banks' relationships with women, especially his dying sister. The book is full of these small details. Hart's methods are not without their tradeoffs. By distilling character development into mere brushstrokes, the supporting cast suffers: no one save Banks is fully developed. In particular, the preacher, who speaks only in evangelical catch phrases seems cut from cardboard. However, he's only in the story to serve as a foil for Banks' self-actualiztion. Every character in the book so reflects an element of Banks - his desire, his relationships with the world. But even without Hart's continued growth as a storyteller, this book is still worthwhile even if just to see his take on Colonel Sanders and the posters for hollow Hollywood movies. - "John Travolta is a Lawyer," indeed.