Captain America By Ed Brubaker Omnibus Vol. 1
Written by Ed Brubaker
Art by Steve Epting, Michael Lark, John Paul Leon, Tom Palmer, Mike Perkins, Javier Pulido, Marcos Martin, Lee Weeks, Stefano Gaudiano, Rick Hoberg, Jesse Delperdang, Frank D'Armata & Javier Rodriguez
Originally published in magazine form as Captain America #1-25, Captain America 65th Anniversary Special & Winter Soldier: Winter Kills
Published by Marvel Comics, 2007
There's no real good reason for purchasing this. All of the stories in this book exist in a cheaper format, and that cheaper format is also far easier to carry around and read. Even propped up on a comfortable chair doesn't work. You either read the Captain America Omnibus at a desk or you don't read it. In other words, it's the Acme Novelty Shareholders Report of spandex comics, and no, you don't need to know what that means. Fortunately, this is Ed Brubaker's Captain America, the only super-hero comic that seems to have had long-range 
planning in mind when it came to writing a story. Excepting an inane crossover issue about mutants, Ed Brubaker is focused on telling one very long story, one that started in the days of World War II and has yet to finish as it enters the present day, a story that will, at one point, kill off it's title character and then proceed to continue on even better for his absence. Whether Ed Brubaker ever says it or not, his Captain America series, to steal a quote about Alan Moore's Watchmen, is a death threat nailed to every spandex book, and it's a slap in the face to every long time superhero fan. With these 25 issues, Brubaker has done his best to prove that, in the world of super-hero comics, the heroes and the villains are all the same--and that it doesn't matter who gets the lead role. It doesn't matter, or mean anything, to kill Captain America. Without him, the lead falls to the Falcon, or the Winter Soldier, or the Red Skull--and yet the books still enjoyable. Brubaker succeeded in making a Cap' that was relevant and interesting--and then he showed what a cipher, what a complete empty suit Cap was anyway. Without him, the book is still about it's story, first and foremost, and at some point, Brubaker had 
known that the story wasn't about the importance of the individual character, but about the importance of the idea of the character. A constant criticism of comics writers is that they don't write super-heroes "in character," an argument that assumes that there's some overall agreement to who thes echaracters are: as if Batman has always been fully developed, and to write him as a ladies man, or an insufferable jerk, is to somehow ignore his long-standing traits. Yet any super-hero that's been around for awhile has, basically, done everything already, whether editors feel the need to incorporate it into the fictional history or not. Pretending that Captain America, or Iron Man, or any of them, has some sort of explainable behavior that lasts throughout their history isn't just silly, it's an arrogance bred out of the idea of some kind of public ownership over a fictional corporate property. Brubaker's solution to this, whether he acknowledges or agrees with the problem or not, is to ignore complaints and requests from fans, even fellow creators, and to tell a story that fully embraces the 
transitory nature of it's main character. Captain America was created as a figurehead, an archetype: Brubaker's version of this is the comic book equivalent of diving right in and using that as it's greatest strength. Here, Cap is a tired, lonely man who knows that his actions have consequences; not just in a fight, but in who's orders he takes, and how far he believes those who call him their superior. That's all--he's a walking emotional response. From the
blatant introduction of a dead character "never to be resurrected" if one believes Marvel, Brubaker's story doesn't veer, even in the slightest, from where it plans to end: with Captain America dead under a sheet. It's a story about a man who acknowledges he may, and probably will, die because of some antiquated beliefs, and yet is willing to follow those beliefs until the end.
It's still a bit of a mystery why so many comics readers seem to think Captain America is truly dead, but it's a silly notion. He'll return to these pages eventually, whether by Brubaker's hands or someone else, and then the current complaint will reverse itself. If there's anything to look forward, it's the hope that Brubaker has already prepared for that as well. If these 25 issues are any indication, the hope is well-founded.
Cages
By Dave McKean
Collection Published by NBM Comics Lit, 2002
Originally Serialized in Periodical form 1990-1996
Cages is one of those graphic novel/comic books/cartoon odysseys that gets name-checked now and then, but it's been so rarely kept in print that it rarely gets brought up except in places like The Comics Journal or one of those effusive "Some comic books aren't about Batman" articles. It is, after all, Difficult To Process. It's narrative is, well, somewhat fluid, and it's exact meaning is certainly up to the reader. The characters are a diverse bunch, some artists, a novelist, a legendary trumpet player, a botanist and a man who juggles the heavenly bodies. Besides that, it's just plain LONG. It follows, for the most part, the inhabitants of a building as introduced by the latest tenant, 
a creatively-blocked painter hoping to jump start his ambitions, and a black cat who observes the goings
on of everyone else. Less welcomed than assaulted by the landlord, the painter proceeds to meet most of the characters who will keep him occupied throughout the book. Although the book takes multiple breaks and tangents away from the painter, he remains the most openly normal of all of McKean's characters, and his normality makes him the de facto protagonist for the book's duration. 
The style of art is varied, to put it mildly. Although the majority of its 500 pages are pen and ink, of the variety seen most often in art comics, there's multiple portions in other mediums--fully painted pages, raw pencils, photo-detailed works. All are made exceptionally well, although the amount with which they add to the narrative can be debatable: whereas the paintings of a raving mob are brilliantly expressive, the campfire tale told in photographs of a mother and daughter seem lazy and forced. That's not to say the work compares as something less than the majority of graphic novels: it's a singular artists work, completely devoid of pandering or condescension, and it shouldn't be classed as anything less than a triumphant work.
Cages ends with a gorgeously painted scene of lovemaking, watched upon by a powerless God who claims himself capable of only making his creation think of "stray thoughts...like chocolate cake, and the red wine [she] had at 22." It's a fitting end to the piece, juxtaposing well with one of the books stronger portions, where the two (soon-to-be) lovers meet, and the notes from a trumpet intersect with their conversation, as Mckean slowly begins to combine the scrawled linework until the two are dancing through words--terrible 
description, but there's a reason why this work is a comic, and not a novel. It's not that it's a story that works best in this medium, it's a story that would ONLY work in this medium. Cages is, quite certainly, one of the few comics that deserves a far better treatment of it than this reader feels confident he has given. It's a work to be immersed in, and it's one that doesn't disclose it's secrets and glories immediately upon a first read. That being said, it's one that comes with the heartiest recommendation available.
-Tucker Stone, 2007
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