150 Wilson by Daniel Clowes

“I love people!”

That’s the first line of dialogue in Daniel Clowes’ Wilson, and a curious one at that. From that moment on Clowes spends his time proving just how much the opposite is true.

On first read Wilson comes off as a look at the worst part of ourselves. Wilson the character seems to be yet another Clowes stand in, and his daily routine consists of insulting, berating, or generally just giving his unwanted opinion to passers-by on the street. Clowes does this via one page “gag” strips, each drawn in a completely different style than the last. (Sometimes the “gags” aren’t really funny: in a scene that takes place at his father’s death-bed Wilson hopes to hear something honest from the sick old man, screaming “Come on, fucker!”) These strips serve to show off his incredible range as a cartoonist and each style — ranging from Schultz and Brunetti “cartoony” drawings to his more recognizable style used in Ghost World to any number of stops in between — gives off a distinct mood or impression that the artist wants you to feel. Of course, sometimes he wants you to feel that way just so he can pull out the rug from underneath: some of the more deliberately “depressing” parts of the book are the least “realistic,” and vice versa.

The trouble with using this approach in pursuit of a narrative, though, comes across pretty early on. While we’re shown many different “styles” of Wilson that provoke a visceral response none of that registers once he’s opened his mouth: he’s an unlikable jerk no matter how he’s drawn. Stylistically it looks beautiful but it doesn’t have the effect that I think Clowes was going for. Clowes’ characters are often times dicks, to be sure — not just here, but also in Ice Haven and Ghost World. They don’t grow, at least not really, and as a reader it’s frustrating and a little annoying. The difference is that in his other works the fact that we want them to become better people feels like more of the point. There’s a pathos there with some of his other characters that doesn’t quite come across here, and a lot of that might have to do with the choices Clowes made to tell the story. Maybe we can never relate to Wilson on any level because we never get the impression that what we’re seeing is truly “him” (though it’s worth noting that Ice Haven succeeded with a similar approach.)

One storytelling approach I was quite fond of is his use of panel space. The entire book is practically one giant pregnant moment. Throughout there are hints of what’s happened or is about to happen, and Clowes seems to treat these moments of action more as vessels to the next bit of mundanity than as legitimate plot devices. “The loneliness of the human condition,” as Wilson himself puts it.

The trouble with portraying the human condition in Wilson is that it’s through the lens of one seriously flawed human. By the time we get used to all of the stylistic flare that Clowes uses, the reader is already so turned off by the main character that it’s hard to develop any kind of empathy. We’re supposed to like Wilson in the same way we like Larry David on Curb Your Enthusiasm but David’s curmudgeonly attitude comes with some pre-established logic behind it. Wilson, on the other hand, is rude for the sake of rudeness. His view of the world doesn’t match up with the view of anyone else he comes into contact with, and it doesn’t make you think– it makes you repulsed. If the message is “sometimes dicks can be funny” then Clowes certainly hit that mark, but there isn’t much here to prove they’re also likable or misunderstood. There’s some evidence that Wilson really was an okay guy deep down who just couldn’t help but speak his mind– just not very much evidence: in the final scene Wilson may or may not have had a profound breakthrough, but it’s too late anyway, both for him and for the reader. It doesn’t matter anymore; anyone who has ever “loved” him (“acknowledged” him seems more accurate) is gone, and any chance we’ve ever had of relating to him was destroyed many pages ago.

Wilson is a formalist work, through and through, and to that end it’s a rousing success. Furthermore, it’s terribly funny. I found myself laughing out loud at the last panel of almost every page. (My favorite joke: a man named Will asks Wilson’s daughter if she’d like to go to church with him, to which she responds “I fucking hate all religion.” Wilson: “‘From the mouths of babes…,’eh, Will?”) And strictly speaking, a new Daniel Clowes comic is worth reading regardless of whether it succeeds on every level. But on strength of story and character alone, Wilson misses its mark.

Drawn and Quarterly

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