A lot of people are comparing this book to other graphic memoirs about family entanglements with war and political turmoil, and I can understand these comparisons, but in a way Fatherland is a book that is tough to compare to either graphic histories or graphic memoirs because it is trying to be both at once, but in jarring, fragmentary ways. I agree with other reviewers that there isn't a graceful synthesis of the two, but I'm not sure if that necessarily makes the book less powerful. It certainly makes it more frustrating, but it also gives it a sense of authenticity. Memory is fragmented. We revise our narratives of people, places and things in order to create for ourselves a livable present. And to a degree, the narrator is showing that act of twisting a narrative.
In the opening sequence the narrator's (the author as she represents herself in the book) mother shows up unannounced. Bunjevac can tell it's her mother by the way that she knocks and is stressed out by the visit and deals with her failure to hide her discomfort by pretending her shoulder hurts. It's a little funny, but the book doesn't seem to allow for much humor. Or, I'm not always sure how to read the tone. One example of the many ways in which this book makes me a little uncomfortable.
Bunjevac offers information in this opening which is never explained. Her mother asks where Jacob is. Who is Jacob? I guess is her kid, or her spouse/partner? Bunjevac says Jacob is away for the weekend. Her mother says "Oh. I forgot...It's Friday." We never know why Jacob is gone, nor do we know who he is. But as the book is dedicated to Jacob, among other people, he must be someone of importance. WE are left to fill in the blanks.
Next Bunjevac shows her mother a photo of their old house in Welland (Ontario) and waits to see how her mother will handle this jolt from the past. It seems a bit harsh. She seems to know that her mother survives by, to some degree, willfully forgetting so much of their family history. On the other hand, maybe she believes that she can create some deeper sense of peacefulness in the family by bringing the skeletons out of the closet, as they say. Or maybe she just really wants to know about her past and is trying in different ways to try to get her mother to help her fill in the blanks. (So, maybe she is trying to tell us we all do our best to complete narratives with incomplete information?)
This photograph of the old house is the conceit that allows us to travel back in time. In this time-travel (back and forth), we are invited into a family narrative that is sometimes personal, and sometimes more broadly historical, but always with a feeing of distance and kind of jumpy movements. A lot of the story seems an attempt to try to make sense of the life and death of Bunjevac's father, whose representation varies throughout the book.
The art is neat, textured, architectural, photographic, a bit eerie in its coolness, It's not warm and inviting. This is not a "let's sit around the fire and tell stories" kind of story. There's a rawness to it, in that Bunjevac seems to be trying to make sense of the loss and violence in her family's history -- to understand it in layered familial contexts, national and international wars, and deep historical tensions. I get the feeling as I'm reading that she's trying to find a structure that can hold this painful history and that what she found was, at best, a way to hold all these different pieces in one artifact, this book, which is fairly big and weighty, though not terribly long.
I don't know quite how to rate this book because I think Bunjevac is doing something interesting and important, shifting away from the clearer structure and more consistently intimate (?) narratives in graphic memoirs that strive to address similar fractured relationships between place and time (narratives of families and family histories affected by war and fighting.) So, I'm giving it a four as a way of honoring a book about an important history of familial and regional conflict that is stylistically and narratively a bit off the beaten path.