The odyssey continues, with our heroes reaching the third zone of the sealed, changed USA-as-was. This time, it's the embodiment of America's creativity – or to use a more instrumental term, its soft power. Things get off to a slightly rocky start as one of the party finds herself trapped by curdled superheroes, stuck going through the motions of the same old plots to the extent that they've become a problem; I suspect this would have felt less played-out if I hadn't read it right after an issue of Zdarsky's similarly bite-the-hand Public Domain, but even then it would have read as a bit of a halfhearted Marshal Law retread. More interesting are the relics of abandoned genres, like the gangsters so old-school they're still in black & white, now taken to the high seas of a flooded culture. But all of this is somewhere between distraction and inspiration, because if the group are to continue walking the spiral to the next zone, they need to create a great American work of art.
"What do you want is to do? Paint a picture? You want Cheng to write a poem?
"Roses are red, violets are blue, America's awful, and fuck you too."
Certainly a sentiment with which most of us can agree at the moment, but alas, not enough. And of course, a dramatisation of what Undiscovered Country is itself trying to do, taking the entirely understandable epidemic of Whither America? narratives and trying to find it a newer, stranger form to suit newer, stranger times. An endeavour in which it is becoming more convincing as it goes along, with the tech utopianism of the second volume more interesting than the reheated Mad Max tendencies of the first, and this journey into the noosphere more fruitful than either. The problem being, for all that I am generally very pro-comics as a vehicle for stories beyond the genres with which they're traditionally associated, a heretical part of me can't help wondering if this might not have worked better as a Great American Novel. It's not like I don't enjoy Camuncoli's art – I've liked him since I eventually got the hang of his stuff on Hellblazer (RIP), and this is a much better fit for his talents than all those inexplicable years on Spidey. And certainly prose would never have been able to make the sudden onslaught of a gigantic Paul Bunyan as visceral as it feels here. But set against that, comics have generally needed to break their own form, or at least go in bold directions, to represent composition in a way that captures any of its real electricity – about the closest I can remember to a successful depiction in mainstream comics was the All-Star Superman issue about Siegel and Shuster's creation of Superman, and even that needed two universes and thousands of years, instead of just a pirate ship and a few advanced animatronics. Not to mention, in prose there might not be the same obligation for each visit to a zone to culminate in a big old ruck. Still, there are plenty of worse artistic crimes than ambition beyond what a medium can quite sustain.