I have never understood the appeal of comic books (or "graphic novels", hoity toity!) While stylish, I find their layouts to be unwieldy and incredibly difficult to follow. Do I scan left to right, up or down? Both? Neither? There is no universal standard. I am at the mercy of the artist and however many cups of coffee he had that day. On the topic of art: static images in service of a narrative just doesn't mesh for me. When I read a novel, I get to draw on my imagination to conjure scenery in my mind's eye based on the cue the author provides. When I read a comic novel, I am robbed of that freedom; the images are laid out in front of me, a certain way and that way only, there is no room for creativity, personal interpretation, mental projection of any kind. "Here," the artist says, "Why don't you take a break from all that boring dialogue and swoon at my fancy illustrations? Aren't I just MARVELOUS?"
Now that I've alienated half the planet: The Martian Chronicles is probably my favorite Bradbury book, and one of my favorite books in general. It's a collection of short stories set in a future where men from Earth have begun the process of colonizing Mars, completely ignorant of its pre-existing civilization and culture, a clear allusion to American Manifest Destiny, and like the post-colonial expansion westward, mankind's first encounter with the Martians is one of culture shock, murder through miscommunication and, ultimately, genocide by micro-organism.
While set in the early 21st century, the novel was written in the early 1950s, so the setting feels more like a fusion of pulp sci-fi and American Gothic. Pointy rocket ships, phallic ray guns and swashbuckling xenophobic spacemen are contrasted sharply against alien anthropology and mysticism, often with disastrous results. Similarly, all-t00-familiar American prejudices sluice around old science-fiction tropes like a rock in a stream. In one chapter, a group of plainclothes Klansmen are catcalled by a group of black men en route to the next rocket off Earth. In another chapter, a man is traveling home across the Martian plains in an old automobile, and nearly collides head on with a Martian piloting a clockwork spider. Both believe the other is a ghost, or a hallucination, and the outcome of their interaction is both touching and melancholy. This is a surreal, ethereal book, often switching between sappy Victorian romance and brutal macabre horror from one chapter to the next. While a small cast of recurring characters forms a through-line from beginning to end, the journey is sprinkled with self-contained stories with a unique supporting cast that appears once and never again-- some of stories lack characters entirely, and simply describe a scene in great detail. (Another of my favorite books, The Descent by Jeff Long, uses a similar narrative structure, also to great affect.)
I first read the thing in high school (in remedial English, if you can believe it-- now I have a degree in the damn subject) and while subsequent readings have proven underwhelming, perhaps because my perception of the world has "matured" (for better or worse), nothing can ever take the sensation of that initial read-through away from me. It was exactly what I needed at that time in my life. The artwork in this graphic book rendition is fine enough, and my favorite story in the anthology ("The Green Morning") is preserved, but you already know how I feel about this medium, and can therefore surmise how I feel about one of my favorite books projected onto the template of graphic novelization. That said, if it has the potential to expose a new generation of comic book fans to Bradbury's lovely epic, it's worth it, and I can't help but give it a generous two stars.