This weekend I dug into the script edit for the 20th volume of Fullmetal Alchemist. The series is noteworthy for me as:

1. It’s the highest number of volumes that I’ve been involved with editing/adapting a manga series
2. It’s the last translated manga series I’m still involved with
3. 20 volumes is quite an achievement for a monthly series that has long since passed its anime heydey
4. The series amazes by continuing to get better and tighter with every volume!

Any anime fan who’s followed the scene for the last five years is probably quite familiar with this ongoing tale of angst and alchemy, but if you’ve only experienced Fullmetal in its animated form, you’re really missing out. The manga, still going strong in Japan and the US (courtesy of Viz), diverged from the anime back in volume 9.

In the anime, characters opined on the horrors of war and unchecked primal sins, but in the end, the characters managed to remain firmly in the innocent realm of adolecense. Evil, in the anime, remains a very fantastical thing. Characters serve symbolic roles as shockingly adult themes are gracefully skirted around, but I never felt like Ed and Al’s world was really… real.

The manga take on the Elric brothers’ journey deals with many of the same themes, but instead of bringing the world down to the level of its teenage protagonists, it challenges the characters and the readers by keeping the world distinctly adult. It isn’t just the gritty take on war and genocide (volumes 16 and 19 are largely dedicated to flashbacks in which entire cultures are wiped out). Even though Fullmetal is a shonen manga from a teen magazine, characters like Roy Mustang, Scar, Izumi Curtis and, at long last, Van Hoenheim, are as richly drawn as the adults in a seinen manga mangazine. The series never panders — it’s just great drama.

The manga-ka, Hiromu Arakawa (a woman in a man’s world) coninues to amaze with art that continues to improve in detail, but remains grounded by its focus on character. Even as the scope of the series grows more epic, her art style becomes more intimate. Hers are the most soulful eyes I’ve seen in a shonen series

I’m credited as rewriter on this series, but mostly, I consider myself more of a copy editor and caretaker. The translator, Akira Watanabe, does an absolutely incredible job. It doesn’t really need a “rewrite” in the sense that some other translations I’ve worked on do. There’s an occassional stiff line, and sometimes he uses a combination of words that are a little too verbose to fit in small balloons, but really, my role is more like a chisel than a sledgehammer, which is how it should be.

Volume 17 of Fullmetal Alchemist is the latest volume to be published in English. This volume takes place almost entirely in the frozen base of Fort Briggs. We get our first showdown (or is should that be slowdown) with Sloth, the sixth of the Homunculi, as well as a first glimpse at a new foe (who if you do the math with the seven deadly sins, you can probably identify). Volume 18 is a solid installment, but it’s volume 19 that really answers questions that longtime readers have been wondering for years now. Van Hoenheim’s backstory is incredible and casts many events of the last few volumes in a whole new light. Volume 20 is shaping up to be even better, as we get to see the undoing of one of the remaining Homunculi, as well as a return to Prince Lin (aka Greed 2.0). When after a hard days work I find myself eager to find out what happens next, I know I’m a part of something great. Arakawa-sensei, my hat goes off to you.

There’s a new resident at the gobblin manor –Gatsby the bunny! Soak in his lupine lapine majesty! Imagine his satiny fur beneath your fingers! Hear his little huffs and grunts as he nibbles on raw veg!

So far, Gatsby’s favorite pastimes are snarfing and pooping. We’re giving him another day to get used to his new bunny abode before letting him hop around the house at large. Maybe then we’ll start balancing things on his head so as to jumpstart his career as an internet meme. Or maybe he can just live a quiet life of anonymity, munching on fresh cilantro and mustard greens with me.

It’s things like this that make me wish I was five years old again.

Much has been made over the past two years about the appeal of the Nintendo Wii to people who don’t traditionally play video games. Like many gamers who have had access to games pretty much since birth, I just don’t find the Wii philosophy and catalog of games that compelling. I understand why it’s such a brilliant machine and why it is successful–I really do!–and I believe that with more imagination, the catalog of games could interest me and other “traditional” gamers. For now, though, I’ll stick to my Xbox, Playstation and DS.

That should be it. I should let my grievances lie, as really, my gamer needs have been served pretty darn well for 25+ years, so it’s about time the grandmas, little sisters (no, not these little sisters) and the unfanatical masses got a turn at gaming. But I still can’t quite quash those niggling feelings that there’s more to this equation than different strokes for different folks. Are savvy branding, motion-sensing gadgets and familiar activities all that that the new-to-gaming Wii fans want from a console?
Since my mom’s spending the week with me, I decided to try a little experiment. I gave her a brief tour of the current gen systems, not asking her to play at first, but just to see what her reaction would be to the latest technology in all its HD splendor. First up was Far Cry 2, my current console favorite and hands down the most gorgeous gaming experience I’ve ever had. Seriously, this game is photo-real with amazing sound design and lush African vistas.

With coaxing, mom admits that it’s pretty, but clearly her interests are waning. Okay, on to Little Big Planet. Here’s another game that achieves unheard of graphical sophistication, only with realism replaced by a handcrafted fantasyland– it’s like sitting at the helm of Michel Gondry’s imagination. Again, mom is unmoved. Now I switch to the Wii and Wii Fit. From the moment the balance board hits the floor, mom is fascinated. Clearly she’s heard about the device, but this is her first time seeing it. The idea that a common bathroom scale can also detect shifts in weight – that is the mind-blowing leap. Nevermind that the gameplay consists of leaning left or right, or that the graphics are decidedly last gen. Mom was moved. And a thousand kotakuites screamed in pain.

I entered into this experiment knowing what the results would be. Again (he protests!), I really get why. And yet part of me still refuses to accept. It’s not that I want my mom (as a proxy for all nontraditional gamers) to play GTA 4 or Bioshock or Shadow of the Colossus—it’s that want to believe that mom can feel a sense of awe and wonder from exploring a virtual space. You know, the feeling you get the first time you ride your Kodo into Feralis and just gape at the size of those trees?

Back to my first demonstration, I realize that mercenary subject matter doesn’t appeal to mom, but what if Far Cry 2’s world was repurposed to make a photo safari game or an interactive National Geographic trip through tribal villages? Maybe then she could feel the awe and wonder? No. It’s a fool’s desire to wish my mom could get an emotional rise from Sony’s emotion engine technology. This is the same fanatic desire I used to have (and still do, at times) for more folks to give animation, comics and visually fantastic films a chance, and it’s still a battle not worth fighting.

We gamers, otakus, fangirls and fanboys, whatever the label and whatever our geek poison, are united by a common ability to have a profound emotional response to fantasy. (Will scientists locate this “geek gene,” or is it environmental?). Sometimes it’s associated with childlike innocence, sometimes it’s the mark of a misfit, sometimes it’s frowned on as antisocial. Increasingly, it’s just…normal. It’s ironic that as nerds increasingly rule the world, we still rally behind little tokens of acceptance (Obama doodles!) and unite in outrage when our needs aren’t met (Nintendo, why hath thou forsaken us?!). How much more mainstream do we want to be?

Despite having several cartoonist, friends, I’ve never been very good at keeping up with webcomics–the only ones I read with any regularity are Dinosaur Comics, Penny Arcade and Achewood. Thanks to the link from Ryan North of Dino Comics, I’ve got a new favorite comic to follow up with — MS Paint Adventures! It’s basicaly an old school King’s Quest 1 era adventure game in comics form where the artist, Andrew Hussie, sets up a scenario and page by page, readers suggest the actions for the character to do, and then the next day, there’s new pages based on the suggestions. It’s really quite brilliant. Considering how deep his archives are, I’m probably quite late to the party, but for those like me who have never read it, there’s plenty of content to keep you reading!

For more choose-your-own-adventure style comics, I highly recommend the works of Jason Shiga. Whereas MSPA is a community-driven game, filtered through an artist, Shiga’s works are the insanely clever creations of one man whose brain must be structured like a moebius strip of neurons. You can try out several of his interactive works online, but to really get a sense of how amazing they are, you have to see the hand-crafted printed copies. Such is his brilliance that the comics medium alone cannot contain him! He is also a blackbelt in LEGO technic wizardry, as demonstrated by a hand-cranked arm wrestling machine that he built out of the plastic bricks. Does his brilliance know no bounds? Recently he has (no joke) taken up performing raps about Tupac’s sexual orientation. Perhaps it does.

Do you have an author who, when you read their words, makes you feel as if you were the only one they were writing for all along? Someone who reminds you that books, no matter how big the print run, are an incredibly intimate medium? Haruki Murakami is such an author for me.

I was introduced to Murakami at a very formative time under very swoony circumstances. Even if the book didn’t connect with me directly, I’d still remember it for that reason. But while the passions that accompanied Norwegian Wood on first reading will forever be confined to a time and a place, my love of Murakami endures. In fact, I would credit Murakami with rekindling my actual love of reading when a film degree and career in comics distracted me from novels.

When I read Murakami, I relish the honesty. Murakami’s characters, and his voice as narrator, are disarmingly frank. The way his characters talk is definitely reminiscent of Raymonds Carver and Chandler, Fitzgerald and Salinger—as well it should as he translates the lot of them into Japanese—but for me, the author I’m reminded most of is Lewis Carrol. Murakami makes the real and the surreal equally mundane—and frightening—while keeping the “adult world” distant. His stories tend to take place in a vacuum within our reality—they are modern characters (in a very nostalgic way) but they behave according to fairy tale logic. Even though Murakami’s works can be quite erotic, it always has an aura of childlike innocence about it.

When I read Murakami, I savor the minutiae. Perhaps no other author has spent as much time describing the process of scrounging up meals from whatever’s in the fridge, consuming that meal, then washing the dishes. Murakami’s meals are never extravagant—they’re comfort food. Reading his descriptions of simple food stirs the same sense of contentment as eating a bowl of mac and cheese on a chilly fall evening.

When I read Murakami, I lose myself in the puzzle and couldn’t care less about the solution. Murakami is a master of the literary mystery. His books are filled with clues and red herrings, and joining the protagonists on literal or psychological goose chases makes for an amazing experience. My boyish brain often falls into the trap of trying to rationalize what defies explanation, but Murakami has helped me to accept that sometimes the unexplained is okay.

A couple weeks ago I read Murakami’s latest release—What I Talk About when I Talk About Running. At a slim 190 pages, it’s one of his breeziest works in both word count and substance. Murakami—who am I fooling, after reading this book I feel like we’re on a first name basis!—Haruki goes into great detail about his running regime, with his usual frank and conversational tone. I don’t know if it’s the translation, or the informalness of the essays collected here, but something about the style feels a little…off. It’s still 100% Haruki, but it’s almost as if he’s picked up some of the false-modesty that his characters are so refreshingly oblivious too. (Haruki’s blithe dismissal of global warming, in particular, really irks).

Still, even mediocre Murakami is top-shelf reading for me. The fact that the subject matter serendipitously coincided with my own renewed pursuit of running made it a much more engaging read than it would have been at any other time. Murakami writes about how he first took to running, when he was 32 years old and at the very start of his writing career. I try not to fall into the writer’s trap of comparing my own professional timeline with those of others (Fitzgerald had already written Gatsby by the time he was my age!), but I confess to feeling some hope when reading that Murakami didn’t even consider writing (or running!) until he was the age I was now. So what if I’ve only written licensed tie-ins so far – that’s more than Haruki had! It’s a stupid reaction to have, but I’m sure Haruki would understand.

Now when I go out to run I can’t help but think about Haruki. I might not run a marathon a year like he does, but we’ve got a little something in common, and should we ever run into each other in a Tokyo jazz bar, maybe we could talk about it over a cold beer.

Tinkering has kept me from applying my brain to using words, but that’s no reason why you shouldn’t enjoy something whimsical while you wait!

As Gobblin.net’s one year anniversary approaches, I’m doing a little revamping to the website. Bear with me as stuff moves around.

-Jake

Wired presents a great behind-the-scenes look at how Coraline is being adapted from Gaiman’s original story. To be honest,  Coraline the book didn’t make much of an impression on me, despite being a big fan of most anything Gaiman, but the more I see of Coraline the film, the more wonderful it looks!

On a related note, anyone read The Graveyard Book? I should probably put that on my library queue.

UPDATE: It must be animation day at Wired, as they just posted an interview with the makers of the new Batman: The Brave and the Bold animated series. As a huge fan of the 90s Animated Series, I’m excited by this new take. Campy, yes, but it’s nice to see some American action animation that’s not trying to be like anime. Plus, Batman vs. Gorilla Grodd!

Junior novelizations are an odd breed of book. I mean, does one really need to read a 200 page prose version of Adventures in Babysitting? (If you were me in 1987, then the answer is a resounding yes, but I pray that I’m in the minority). Over the years I’ve collected quite a few gems of dubious literary spin-offs—everything from a Where’s Waldo/Street Fighter mash up to the Star Wars Question and Answer Book About Space, which poses such questions as “Are there such things as Moon Creatures?” and “Can Lasers kill people?” (the answers are no and sometimes respectively–sorry, spoilers). One of my favorites is the novelization of Bram Stoker’s Dracula (hint, it’s not by Bram Stoker).

Today let’s look beneath the cover of a real head-scratcher: Blade Runner: a Story of the Future. Is this heavily illustrated 90 page chapter book meant to appeal to the 7-year-olds coming off of The Empire Strikes Back and itching for more Han Solo space adventures, or is it intended to be a low-cost art book for older fanboys? We’ll let the book speak for itself.

He sat alone, looking at the snakes decorating the bar walls, crawling upon the floor, and wrapped around women who were wearing little else. The snakes were replicas, of course – otherwise they would have cost a fortune. But the showgirls were clearly real, their flesh warm against the snakes’ cold scales. Except for one, thought Deckard. One who looked even more enticing than the others. She was billed as Salome, and when she finished her act and went backstage, Deckard couldn’t wait for Rachael any longer. He had a job to do. A skin job.

Actually, that sounds more like the start of a very naughty fan fic.

Skin jobs aside, the author takes a decidedly chipper approach to adaptation. For instance, take Roy Batty’s final lines, perhaps the most poignant point in the film. This:

I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the darkness at Tannhäuser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time like tears in rain. Time to die.

Becomes this:

“You have courage,” Batty said to him. “You are the only human I have met with as much courage as I. Perhaps you have even more. Even I was tempted to beg not to die.” Batty paused as his mind turned feelings into words. “I could not destroy courage like that. It would be like destroying what is best in me.”

Deckard sat beside Batty as Batty stared up at the star-filled sky.

“You know,” said Batty,” I have never spared a life before. I am glad I was able to do it now. I am glad I have been free not to kill at least once before I die.”

Okay, granted the author probably had to write this before the final script, and Batty’s final line was improved, but that sounds more like “Frog and Toad are Replicants” than Blade Runner.

Come to think of it, the book’s final words also have a Frog and Toad vibe:

Deckard had one hand on the controls, the other was around Rachael. “They’ve left it all behind for us,” he said. “We’re heirs to all the earth.”

“But for how long?” asked Rachael.

“How does that old-fashioned vow go?” said Deckard. “For as long as we both shall live.”