Today on the site, Naomi Fry returns with a review of Sylvie Rancourt's Melody, an autobiographical comic about Rancourt's time as a young stripper in Montreal. Here's an excerpt:
It’s not that Melody isn’t introspective, exactly, or that her feelings and opinions aren’t strong; it’s that they are often in flux, and reversible. In his introduction to the book, Chris Ware suggests that Melody’s protagonist is childlike, but I’d argue, rather, that her sensibility is much more that of a very young woman—mostly powerless, occasionally powerful, with the work of stripping not necessarily situated at one definitive end of that spectrum. The sensations of the body before, after, and during its ritualistic unveiling consistently fluctuate, with Rancourt’s bare-bones drawings surprisingly capacious in their ability to convey those sensations. Melody writhing on stage, her face screwed up in enjoyment or disgust at her less agreeable clients (“Come back! We’re not done smelling your wonderful scent!”); with her mouth twisted into a grimace (“I’m yelling because I’ve had enough! I don't like this bullshit and I want to go home right now, got it?”); or sighing in delight as Nick sucks on her nipple (“Oh sweetie”).
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