One thing you can always count on with Scott Morse is his quirky sense of innovation. The story of Southpaw is a fairly standard take on the boxer paid to throw a fight who finds his integrity and winds up on the run. But Morse's boxer is a tiger, his opponents are robots, and the story includes a strange running theme about beans. Morse also does some innovative things with his storytelling, notably the use of single panel pages, which cuts off some arenas of storytelling and challenges him to tell the story. He rises to the challenge nicely. Southpaw is a fairly light read, especially when compared to Morse's recent Barefoot Serpent, but it's a good read, and I'm happy to add it to my growing collection of Morse books.
Morse is an artist and writer whose style is instantly recognizable, even though the range of subject matter and tone in his work is pretty varied. Southpaw has the same quirky premise that I've come to expect from Morse, and the same distinctive dialogue that is more affected than realistic. In particular, the bum on the train, with his affection for beans and unusual metaphors ("Got a brick on my conscience, big as a Studebaker"), comes across as likable and wise, and he's an example of the sort of magic reality that is to be found in most of Morse's work.
The lead character as a tiger who boxes is another big indicator of that sort of magical worldview, and it also pays off in terms of story. Southpaw doesn't talk, and while that might need explanation for a human character, it seems right for a tiger, even an anthropomorphic one. It gives him a personality, a sort of laconic dignity, that very few writers could manage with dialogue, and gives the character a sort of Zen quality as well. The tragic circumstances of the story are not quite as harsh as they might be, because there's a sense of acceptance of his fate that comes from Southpaw as a result.
There's a weird but likable feel to this book, as Morse combines the feel of Depression-era diners, trains and boxing rings with futuristic elements like robots. As always, Morse's artwork is a big selling point of any of his works, and I love his designs, from the seemingly simple addition of hat and coat that gives Southpaw so much personality to the 50's-style design of the clunky robots that just feels right. In addition, the storytelling here is really noteworthy, as Morse has to tell stories across single panel pages, risking a big disconnect in the reader's brain from page to page, but it flows really smoothly, using visual cues to indicate important developments. The robot who pulls a gun on Southpaw, only to get a thrashing for his effort, is the perfect example of the subtle but note-perfect storytelling at work here.
I'm a Scott Morse completist, but this is also noteworthy as another home run from AdHouse Books. The designs on their books have always been compelling and perfect for the material, whether it's the compact size of Pulpatoon Pilgrimage, the design of My Own Little Empire that matches perfectly Scott Mills's other work or the silver metallic ink on Project: Telstar. Southpaw is a small size, with a foldout cover that tells a story of its own, and it is done on orange paper with orange ink, a good choice given the color of the protagonist that also helps to reinforce the sort of Depression-era style of the whole thing.
Southpaw is a light snack compared most of Morse's work, to be sure. The story is a universal one that will seem familiar to most readers, and the single panel pages make for a quick read. However, there's enough beauty in the artwork, and enough nuances, that this is a story that merits re-reading, and while the dark ending might make it unsuitable for really young kids, it strikes me as the kind of story that older kids could enjoy as much as adults, if not more.
