After weeks trapped indoors we'd definitely consider trading coronavirus isolation for a 10x10 island.
The ongoing quarantine got us thinking about the psychology of being stuck in one place for weeks or months, which made us realize we'd seen numerous cartoons over the years touching upon that very theme. Desert island cartoons were—and still are—a standard gag for cartoonists. Guys on ledges, prisoners hanging in dungeons, and explorers in cannibals' cauldrons are other common motifs, and we may explore those later, but desert island cartoons are the grandaddy of recylable concepts. Their details vary, but usually there's ocean, a sand hump, a palm tree, a prop (like the sales kiosk in the above example), and one to several castaways.
Many cartoonists tried their hand at these, and the challenge was to be fresh and funny. We had a choice when putting this collection together—we could use confirmed funny examples others had posted online, or use cartoons that had been previously unseen. For the most part we chose the latter course. We did borrow a few to round out the collection, but forty-five of the fifty are from our own magazines. Frequently sexist, while infrequently funny, they prove that it's hard to get a laugh out of a cliché. But several managed it, at least for us, and we give all the cartoonists—Erich Sokol, Irv Hagglund, Cliff Roberts, et al—credit for trying.
What's a crime? Being unable to identify the artist.
Has the Mexican crime art revival passed? Maybe, but not on Pulp Intl. We've talked about this niche quite a bit, and today we're veering back in that direction to share this piece entitled “Crimen Perfecto,” painted during the early 1980s by someone who signed as Yuno. Yuno who? We dunno. Do you? You do? Let us know. Actually, we don't expect you to know, because these artists were rarely properly credited, nor properly compensated, we suspect.
For that reason they never could have expected interest in their work to rekindle, but it did, and for a while auctions in these were pretty active, both online and in brick-and-mortar. The technical execution on display isn't what you'd usually find in classic paperback art, but as critic Ken Johnson wrote in the New York Times in 2015, “The value of [Mexican crime] paintings isn’t to be found in their aesthetic sophistication or refinement. This is truly art for the masses, as kitschy as it is amusing.”
He forgot to mention horrifying and violent. A smart person once said that violent societies have violent amusements, and Mexico, like the U.S., has certain strains in its culture that persistently glorify mayhem. Art such as this gives you a glimpse of that, put to pasteboard via brush and paint. While the artists remain mostly unknown, what they produced resonates all these decades later. See more wild Mexican crime art here, here, here, and here.
Lamour lives up to her name by getting some hot island love.
We said we'd get back to Tijuana bibles soon, and true to our word here you see a blatant offense against all that is right and decent called Purple Passion in the South Seas. It stars cinema superstar Dorothy Lamour and a fella named Jon Hall. You may not know him, but he was an actor also, and co-starred with Lamour in a 1937 south seas adventure called The Hurricane. The dirty-minded folks who made this booklet would have wanted it available while the film was still on people's minds, so we're thinking it came out that year or in early 1938.
We're assuming you know the deal with these items. But if not you can visit our introductory post on the subject at this link. Because the column width on our website is somewhat narrow, the scans of this bible are small, which makes parts unreadable without practically putting your eyeball directly against the computer screen. Funny as that would look, it's not recommendable, so we've transcribed the text where needed. If you like this one, we have others. Just click the keywords “Tijuana bible” at the bottom of the post and start scrolling. More of these to come.
Dorothy: Say Jon, aren't you afraid that your cock will look white against your suntan?
Jon: Say! I never thought of that! Maybe I better take it out and get it to match the rest of me!*
*Transcribing the text only reinforces the fact that these things are absolutely moronic, but we love them anyway.
Vampires never get old, in legend or in publishing.
Above you see a cover from the long running Elvifrance bande dessinée Jacula, with uncredited art. We picked this up from a Paris bouquiniste a few weeks ago. The backstory here is that a woman named Jacula Velenska is bitten by a vampire and, once turned, roams far and wide quenching her thirst for blood. She's accompanied by her vampire husband Charles Verdier, and his dog servant Wolf. This is in French but the series originated in Italy as a fumetti, or adult comic book, and ran from 1969 to 1982 for a total of 327 issues, which strikes us as quite a lot.
Our French reprint is from 1971 and is 14 in the series. We were anticipating some foundational Jacula vamp action, but were surprised to discover that it deals almost entirely with a loup garou, or werewolf, named Charles, and how he ends up eating his own child and wife. At the end of the tale he encounters Jacula, who he captures and plans to kill before thinking better of it, for reasons that are unclear. It could be this is the same Charles that later becomes her companion. We'll figure it out. One of the reasons we bought this was to practice French, which comes in handy where we live.
We said the cover art was uncredited, but generally they were painted by three guys—Leandro Biffi, Fernando Tacconi, and Carlo Jacono. Thanks to the powers of the internet we were able to determine that this one is by Biffi. The interior art by Alberto Giolitti is a bit more basic, which is usually true of comic books, but you're buying these for the story, 112 pages of it in this case, written by Giuseppe Pederiali. We have a few scans below, and if you want to see more from Elvifrance, start here.
They're actually a little rude but the French don't seem to mind
Here you see the cover and few scans from Les femmes de Manara, which is a compendium from 1995 featuring published as well as previously unseen women created by the agile hand of Milo Manara, one of the great illustrators of graphic novels. He was born in Italy and was copiously published both there and in France, and remains extremely popular all over Europe. His niche is explicit erotica, and he's done it better than just about anyone, populating his books with lithe, beautiful women who manage to get into the weirdest scrapes. In Il Gioco, aka Click or Le Déclic, for example, the character Claudia Cristiani has an implant placed in her brain to help her with sexual arousal, which is all well and good until the remote control that operates it breaks and she's left in an ongoing nymphomaniacal state. It was made into a movie which we may discuss later, by the way. In Gulliveriana Manara's heroine survives a storm at sea only to find herself stranded naked on an island of tiny people. No movie of that, though we'd love to see one made. Anyway, these panels will certainly give you an idea why Manara became an icon in his field. He's still active, and maintains a nice website, frequently updated. So for more info on this master illustrator look there.
Mexican comic book artists left no wickedness unexplored.
In Mexican comic book art of the 1980s, which is a subset of modern pulp we've documented before, a motif that recurred was the looming head. Multiple artists used this idea, which can only mean it was encouraged or sought by the publishers of series such as Micro-Misterio, Frank Kein, and Sesacional de Maistros. We have a mini-collection today of art pieces with floating heads. The creators include Beton, Dagoberto Dinorin, Rafael Gallur, and others. Also, we've learned that Dinorin often worked as a colorist, filling in the pencil drawings of other artists, particularly Gallur. So it's possible Dinorin had a hand in the piece signed by Gallur. We'll get into that subject more at a later date. We have nine more scans below, and since the Mexican comic book market thrived on transgressive violence, a few of them are a bit disturbing. You've been warned.
A Gallur gallery of viciousness and vice.
A while back we began sharing pieces of 1980s comic art from Mexico and intended to make it a regular feature. In our heads we're still featuring Mexican art regularly, but today we realized we haven't posted a piece in two years. Which goes to show you how things work around here. So we're back to Mexican ’80s comic art today, with all its crazy violence and wild stylings.
Above you see a painting entitled Enlatadas, which in Spanish means “canned.” We're guessing that's Mexican slang for getting your ass handed to you in the most brutal possible way. Below you see three more pieces. The first is for a comic series called Frank Kevin, and is the cover art used for #366 in the series. Second you see a piece for the series Sensacionál de Maestros, or “teacher's sensation.” In this case, thief seems to be the answer. And third you see cover art for something called Posesión Demoníaca, no translation needed.
The artists on Mexican comic illustrations are often forgotten, except for a select few. All today's pieces are by the same person—Rafael Gallur—who has had a long and prolific career in newspapers and comics. You can see more from him here. We'll try to pump new life into our Mexican art series going forward, which means you should see the next post in about a year. Just kidding. We'll do better. In the meantime check out others in the category here, here, here, and here.
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