The "OTHER" COMPLEX CITY

by the "Other" Steve Bissette

Before I get into the meat of this intro, I have the unpleasant task of

taking this book’s author to task.

It’s not a job I take on willingly or lightly, but it must be done.

There’s simply no getting around it.

I regret to inform you all that Jeff Smith has taken to signing his letters

“the ‘Other’ Jeff Smith” over the past few years, a moniker with which I beg

to differ.

(Jeff is, of course, deferring to the international fame of the Other Other

Jeff Smith, he who resides in Ohio, and has carved out a respectable and

beguiling niche in comics, fantasy, and history with the misadventures of

Bone. That Other Other Jeff Smith is a charmer in person, too, and his

pen-and-ink creations have indeed — and quite justifiably — elevated their

humble creator into the stellar ranks of the finest cartoonists, alive or

dead.

OUR Jeff Smith isn’t quite there, yet. But give him some time.

Ack! Enough about the Other Other Jeff Smith. I have great affection for

both men, but –

We’re here to savor the creative labors of the One and Only Genuine Original

Jeff Smith, or “the ‘Other’ Jeff Smith,” hereafter Jeff, or Just Jeff.)

This isn’t right, ‘cuz Jeff, or Just Jeff, was on the map before the Other

Other Jeff Smith.

This means that Jeff — Just Jeff, OUR Jeff — hasn’t a thing to apologize

for, and has a certain rank and seniority and privilege that can’t be so

easily nudged aside, much less with his own elbows doing the nudging.

True, the Other Other Jeff Smith redefined the map, reconfigured the voting

districts, and generally changed the geography in such a way that one can

understand Jeff, or Just Jeff, signing his correspondences “the ‘Other’ Jeff

Smith.”

It’s awfully nice of Our Jeff in one way, an expression of his inherent

Texan modesty and genuinely respectful nature, a token of his enormous

regard for the Other Other Jeff Smith’s work and stature.

But I can’t abide by that much longer, and I’m here to tell you why.

Jeff — Our Jeff, Just Jeff — tossed his hat in the ring early on. He wrote

and drew and self-published from his hacienda in Mesquite (later Irving),

laying the foundations for the book you now hold in your hands.

It was slow, steady work, page by page, brick by brick, mortar layer by

mortar layer, his eye ever on a higher goal.

Much of his writing was dedicated to the arts and humanities. This was and

is a high calling that would, in other circles, make Jeff a man of means and

papers, worthy-of-wall-hanging degrees and distinguished academic renown.

But that’s not how they do things in Texas, or in Complex City.

Well, truth to tell, Jeff’s work was dedicated to the POP arts and

INhumanities. His reviews and articles on horror, fantasy, and

science-fiction films past and (then) present blistered the pages of his

self-published zine Wet Paint (hereafter “WP”), in which Jeff rhapsodized

eloquently about everything from the career of Hugh Beaumont (what, you

never saw 1951’s The Lost Continent or The Mole People?) to The Flesh

Eaters. Among the most generous of horror fanzine editors, Jeff also opened

the WP roster to a sterling lineup of contributors and endlessly promoted

the efforts of other zine creators/editors/self-publishers; Jeff, clearly,

was on the side of good in every sense of the word.

Thankfully, each and every issue of WP was graced with one of Jeff’s artful

renditions of a movie scene or monster of note. Portraits of Catwomen and

Crows, Ape General Ursus and David Peel peeling, Mugwumps and Metropolis

offered regular evidence of Jeff’s evolving mastery of the inky trade, with

occasional splashes of color amid the more-affordable black-and-white covers

(the realities of self-publishing will forever favor black-and-white,

however much the artist wishes otherwise).

He would also occasionally gift WP readers with one of his comics creations,

usually in collaboration with another WP contributor. These were rather

ragtag confections, but Jeff’s heart was clearly into it and he demonstrated

increasing skills as a cartoonist and storyteller with every impromptu

offering, prompting more than one reader (yours truly among them) to urge

Jeff to create more comics — or, as I later urged him, to create and

self-publish his own comic book.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

It is here, in the Wet Paint comic strips, that “the ‘Other’ Jeff Smith”

began to manifest it/himself as a surrogate persona that threatened to

subsume the real Jeff Smith. You had to pay close attention, but the warning

signs were evident.

God, if we’d only known. Maybe things would have gone... differently.

See, for instance, how in WP #16 a photo of “The Man” (Herk Harvey) from the

celebrated Herk Harvey film Carnival of Souls (1962) appears, out of

context, alongside the byline of one of Jeff’s own articles, “Baggy Pants

Horror: Phantasmagoric Delights of C.H.U.D” (I told you the man could and

did rhapsodize over the most downtrodden of horror flicks). This bizarre

placement and juxtaposition of image and text, icon and byline, however

unconscious the deed or late the layout hour, implies that Jeff is somehow

related to this low-budget horror movie deity, and yet less than “The Man”;

or, to take the positioning of said still and byline literally, Jeff is an

(or “The”) “Other Man.”

The confirmation of this reading appeared in the previous issue of WP, had I

only had eyes to see: “42nd Street Funnies: When Bub Meets Tubs” (reprinted

in The Best of Wet Paint, for those of you eager to sample Just Jeff’s

earliest comics creations), in which the credits blurb informs us that the

two-pager was written by “Kris (The Man) Gilpin” and drawn by “Jeff (The

Other Man) Smith.”

(Note, too, that all this began before the Other Other Jeff Smith had reaped

worldwide fame. But enough, again, about the Other Other Jeff.)

As I say, if only we’d been paying close enough attention.

But enough about “the ‘Other’ Jeff Smith.”

Really, truly, enough.

Jeff, aka “Just Jeff,” was also was a frequent contributor to other horror

film zines of the 1980s and 1990s. In fact, Jeff was among the original

stable of contributors to the now-venerable and high-profile Video Watchdog

magazine, with a prominent credit and article in the debut issue to prove

it.

But where to go from there?

Having already begun at the top of the horror film fanzine niche by

self-publishing, rather than merely contributing to, such a zine, Just Jeff

was beginning to feel the nascent rumble of a higher calling. Higher even

than insightful dissections of C.H.U.D. and Godzilla vs. King Ghidorah, or

pen-and-ink frontispiece renditions of baggy-skinned Roy Scheider smoking a

cigar from inside a split-asunder woman’s skin.

And I’m happy to say I was among the cheerleaders years ago, urging him to

heed that higher call.

(Jeff, I’m sorry the comic book direct sales market imploded in the

meantime, and that taking my advice may eventually precipitate

seemingly-inevitable financial ruin and possible suicide, but I meant well.

Really, I did. Ah, but I’m once again getting ahead of myself.)

By the end of the 1990s, Jeff had also self-published a handful of other

efforts like Secret Identity, a digest zine dedicated to the artform he

loves above all — comics — which again prompted some of his faithful readers

to push him to do the deed: create his own comics.

Thankfully, with the publication of his superhero parody Bulletproof Comics

in 1999, Just Jeff indeed began creating his own sequential narratives.

Which finally brings us to Complex City, after which I will indeed shut the

hell up and urge you to get on with reading this entertaining confection.

The universe of Complex City was introduced in Jeff’s aforementioned debut

comic series Bulletproof (1999, three issues). Like all early efforts, the

cartooning in Bulletproof was sometimes amorphous, with backgrounds and mise

en scene suffering most often. But Complex City had an identity of its own,

oddly enough. For me, the locale evoked not only the traditional

metropolitan landscapes of almost all generic superhero comics — the milieu

of the genre Jeff was affectionately taking on in the series — but in

particular Dallas, Texas.

In its zipatone-enhanced linear look and feel (however tentative Jeff’s

initial renderings, which improved by leaps and bounds issue by issue),

Complex City brought me back to my experiences of Dallas, grounded for the

most part in the sadly-defunct, once-celebrated Dallas Fantasy Fair of yore.

The opening paragraphs of Complex City #1 (the first story which follows)

only reinforce that impression anew:

“It is a crossroad for the fantastic, a swap-meet for the bizarre and

un-usual.... In this town, everyone has a sense of wonder. But along with

the wonder, there is inevitably fear...”

Front and center in this Complex City saga is Bulldog Malone, “Complex

City’s only anthropomorphic police detective.” Jeff gives his account of the

genesis of Bulldog in Complex City #1’s text pages (which I hope he’ll

reprint herein), but I prefer to associate the character with The Planet of

the Apes, Jack Kirby’s Kamandi, and Jeff’s own disturbing portrait of Roy

Scheider in Naked Lunch munching a stogie while popping up from a

split-and-splayed woman’s skin, which I referred to earlier. But, hey, Jeff

is the wellspring here; I’m just the rude invited guest. If Jeff says

Bulldog owes his birth to Tawny Tiger from Captain Marvel and the logo for a

high school art club, that’s all there is to it. Choose your allegiance, and

stick with it.

Bulldog has, and he’s on the side of the law, though Jeff’s canny enough to

pepper his character with some bemusing asides (including a profitable

side-profession, if we’re to believe Max of Two Minds’ own detective work)

to spice the expected hardboiled genre first-person narration and tough cop

persona. Like the Terrible Turpin in Jack Kirby’s New Gods comics, Bulldog

has street smarts, ingenuity, and tenacity to spare, and that was enough to

hook me from the time Jeff introduced the canine humanoid back in

Bulletproof #2.

I’ll leave it to you to discover the character on your own in the following

pages, along with Jeff’s supporting cast, from one-time headliner

Bulletproof (Complex City’s only superhero, until — ah, but that would be

telling; see Complex City #3 as a back issue, not reprinted herein, or wait

for the Bulletproof collected down the road) to the dueling egos of the

City’s first-and-second-best scientists, Ira and Fidge. There’s also the

previously-mentioned Max of Two Minds, Jeff’s nifty spin on the old “brain

in a jar” characters of yore (from venerable sf archetype Donovan himself to

Detroit cartoonist Don Simpson’s spin in Megaton Man and Bizarre Heroes, a

personal favorite), the inhuman race of beings known as the Shadowling, and

City’s bogeyman Crazy Quilt, whose true nature is one of those revelations

that demonstrates the scope and depth of Jeff’s imagination.

And it’s his imagination, and writing skills, that keep me coming back to

Complex City, and hoping these adventures will continue as long as I have

eyes to read with.

That, and Jeff’s tenacity.

Which brings me to one final issue.

Wait, let me reword that.

“One final matter.”

Like Bulldog Malone, Jeff just ain’t gonna give up.

As I noted from the get-go, Jeff’s been around the block with

self-publishing, and he’s hung with it when others (yours truly included)

had to hang it up. His fanzine heritage acquainted him with the ups and

downs of self-publishing, and now that Jeff’s got his teeth into the flank

of this comic book thang, the pit-bull in him has the bloodlust, and his

jaws are locked.

The constricting market has taken a toll —Bulletproof’s fourth issue never

saw print, and Complex City is threatening to tumble after its fifth due to

the same — but Jeff is hanging tough, and this first Complex City collected

is proof he’s in for the long haul.

And as Bulldog himself says in the opening adventure, “You’re gonna like it

in Complex City, kid!”

‘Cuz you see, the title of this intro lies. There IS no “Other” Complex

City, just like Jeff ain’t the “Other” Jeff Smith.

In fact, I’m willing to bet there will be another. Complex City, that is.

Another issue — in whatever format the market will support — and another

collected volume down the road, which I look forward to.

Here’s hoping you stick around, come thick or thin.

I intend to.

And more importantly, so does Jeff.

See you on the next block.

— Stephen R. Bissette

Mountains of Madness, Vermont (1/03)