An absolute cornucopia of different things captured my interest in this year. It was always going to be a comic in the top spot, but with so many excellent and innovative titles published, which one to choose?...
1985:
The trivia:
- The Third Punic War had ended rather decisively. Rome besieged Carthage, burned it to the ground, enslaved the survivors, and - if later writers are to be believed - sowed the fields with salt for good measure. But in the chaos of destroying an entire civilisation, the Romans apparently forgot one small administrative detail - they never signed the paperwork. And so, on a technicality, the war just… continued. For over 2,000 years. While a historian in the 1960s noticed the omission, the war wasn’t formerly concluded until 5th February 1985, when the Mayor of Rome, Ugo Vetere, travelled to Tunisia to meet Chedli Klibi, the Mayor of Carthage, and the two signed a treaty of peace and friendship.
- Toy manufacturer Matell introduced a new character to the “Masters of the Universe” line with an unusual power. “Stinkor” was essentially a humanoid skunk with the ability to release a toxic odour from his body that immobilised his foes. What makes the toy legendary, though, isn’t the concept - it’s the execution. Mattel didn’t just *say* he smelled bad. They made sure he actually did. They mixed patchouli oil directly into the plastic mould, so the figure would have a permanent, unmistakable aroma. And it worked. Once smelt, it was never forgotten - the kind of smell that lingered in a toy box for years, long after the figure itself had been lost behind the sofa.
- Deep in a mine near Pretoria, South Africa, miners unearthed something extraordinary - a rough brown diamond weighing 755.5 carats. Even in a mine famous for producing giants - including the original ‘Cullinan’ diamond - this one stood out. It was massive, misshapen, and, according to early reports, not especially beautiful. But in the hands of master cutter Gabriel Tolkowsky, it became something remarkable. After more than two years of painstaking work in Antwerp, the stone emerged as the ‘Golden Jubilee Diamond’, a 545.67‑carat fancy yellow‑brown cushion‑cut gem. Today it belongs to the King of Thailand, where it was presented as a symbol of national celebration. Despite its size and history, its estimated value is only around US$12 million - a reminder that in the world of diamonds, rarity, colour, and cultural significance often matter more than sheer weight.
The memory:
Moonshadow
Hippie Sheila Greenbaum, known as “Sunflower”, is kidnapped by a bunch of grinning omnipotent balls of light - the G’L Doses. One of these aliens manages to impregnate her, and Sunflower gives birth to a son, who she names Moonshadow. Growing up in the alien’s menagerie, at age 15 he finds himself unceremoniously thrust out into the big bad universe with only his mother, his cat, and a faceless, hairy, sex-obsessed creature called Ira for company. Moonshadow wanders through the cosmos, encountering love, death, lust, horror and adventure, all while trying to figure out who he is, where he belongs, and, basically, what any of this means.
For writer J.M. DeMatteis, the main idea was something he’d been carrying around for years. He wanted to write a story that would explore all the big questions - identity, purpose, love, death, the search for meaning - but outside the constraints of a superhero universe. A personal story, written almost like an illustrated novel, where satire, mysticism, humour, and emotional vulnerability could all sit side by side.
But when I opened the first issue, what struck me most - even before I understood any of the themes - was how gorgeous the book looked. Jon J. Muth’s paintings were a revelation. I genuinely didn’t know what I was looking at. As far as I was aware, comics weren’t supposed to be like this - they were meant to have crisp lines, bright colours - not soft, drifting watercolours that looked like they’d been painted on the inside of a dream. Half the time I felt like the pictures might smudge if I breathed on them.
There were pages where nothing “big” happened, but it was still mesmerising. A look on someone’s face. A bit of light falling across a room. Moonshadow just standing there, thinking. And then I’d turn the page and suddenly be in some bizarre alien world that felt both ridiculous and beautiful at the same time. Even Ira - who should have been a complete grotesque - came across as weirdly endearing because of the way Muth painted him.
Sure, the book was termed “a fairy tale for adults” - and it’s certainly true there were elements of that. But what really got me was how emotional the art felt. When Moonshadow was scared, the whole page seemed to darken. When he was overwhelmed, things blurred. When he was amazed, the colours opened up like someone had cracked a window in space. I didn’t have the language for any of that at the time. I just knew the book made me feel things I didn’t expect. It was the first time I realised comics could be quiet and strange and sad and funny and beautiful all at once. And that blew my mind.
And I’ll be honest, I didn’t understand it all on first read. Some of the literary allusions passed me by. But what did hit me hard at eighteen was that it felt like someone had taken all the big, embarrassing, impossible questions I was carrying around - Who am I? What am I supposed to be? Why is everything so strange and unfair ? - and turned them into a story about a kid drifting through the cosmos with a cat and a hairy lunatic for company. Is “Moonshadow” a coming‑of‑age story disguised as a space opera, or the other way round? Does it really matter? What did matter was that this strange little series was speaking directly to the part of me that was still trying to figure out how to be a person.
The last few issues of the 12 part series took forever to come out, and Muth worked alongside Kent Williams and George Pratt to complete the story. Neither were poor artists, but they didn’t have quite the same ethereal brushstrokes. There were also some obvious use of photo references, particularly of the singer David Sylvian - which had to be changed in later editions.
The ending was somewhat confusing (at the time anyway), but I loved every minute of the journey and it made me into a life-long fan of both men's work. It was also the first comic where I bought the individual issues *and* the collected edition, just so I could have three new pages to enjoy.
DC Vertigo reprinted the series in 1995, followed by a one-off epilogue "Farewell, Moonshadow" with the same team. It was structured with typewritten prose on the left pages and painted splash pages on the right. Again it’s older Moonshadow looking back on his life, but it leans heavily into the idea that he may have invented or embellished parts of the original tale, reframing it as a story shaped by memory, emotion, and nostalgia. I bought it of course, but it didn’t have the same effect on me - maybe because I was that much older myself.
After “Moonshadow”, DeMatteis produced some of the biggest and most beloved superhero comics of the late ’80s and ’90s - things like “Justice League International” and “Doctor Fate” - while also still ploughing his spiritual/philosophical furrow. He continues to write quality, heartfelt comics even to this day. Meanwhile, Muth did a handful of excellent graphic novels (“Dracula: A Symphony in Moonlight and Nightmares” stands out), but he then shifted into children’s books, where he became hugely successful, winning a number of major awards.
In the end, this fairy tale about a boy’s search for meaning has stayed with me, and I’ve read it many times. It's been reprinted several times, most recently in a "Definitive" edition by Dark Horse. Some stories entertain you. Some stories shape you. “Moonshadow” did both.
- No Surrender - a comedy drama by "Boys From The Blackstuff" author Alan Bleasdale, starring Michael Angelis as the weary manager of a run-down social club in Liverpool. He realises, far too late, that the previous owner has booked the worst New Year’s Eve lineup ever. Not only two opposing groups of Irish Catholic and Protestant pensioners, but also a gay comedian, a hopeless punk rock band, and a magician with stage fright on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Oh, and a fancy dress competition with no prize. Naturally. It’s classic Bleasdale - darkly comic and politically sharp, but with a heart of gold and a twist of surreal anarchy. The whole thing teeters on the edge of farce, but never loses sight of the people at the centre of it. I had it recorded on VHS tape from the TV, and kept it for years, since it was never repeated - until eventually I found the DVD release in 2011. It may be a one-off, but it deserves to sit up there alongside Bleasdale’s other celebrated works.
- Real Genius - One of a wave of teen science fiction comedies in the mid-80s, "Real Genius" never quite lodged itself in the cultural memory in the way "Weird Science" did - but honestly, I’ve always thought it was the funnier of the two. It helps to have a barnstorming performance from a young Val Kilmer as Chris Knight, the genius-level university slacker tasked with creating the power source for a CIA laser super-weapon. Not that he knows that of course - his professor is quite happy to let the kids do the work while he pockets the funding to renovate his house. The supporting cast is the familiar group of oddballs - the 15-year-old prodigy, the kooky but sweet girl, the bullying arse-licking toady, and so on. But what sets the film apart from the usual college comedies that followed in the wake of "Animal House" is that these "nerds" are not defined by their opposition to the "jocks". They’re not social outcasts yearning for acceptance. They’re just… themselves. Comfortable, chaotic, occasionally unlucky in love, but fundamentally enjoying life. Whether that is turning the dorm corridors into an ice rink or holding "mutant" hamster races or running a Madame Curie lookalike contest. And then there’s the dialogue. This might be one of the most quotable films ever made, with about 90% of the best lines coming straight from Kilmer. Even now, decades later, I still catch myself referring to something as a “moral imperative” in exactly his cadence. It’s that kind of film - sharp, silly, endlessly rewatchable, and far cleverer than its genre label suggests.
- Scout - I was already a fan of Tim Truman's art on First Comics "Grimjack" and his separate graphic novel "Time Beavers", but this Eclipse series allowed him to write an ongoing comic for the first time. Set in a dystopian 1999 where the United States has collapsed both economically (crippled by international embargoes) and ecologically (most of the country is a barren wasteland) it’s a world that feels both exaggerated and uncomfortably plausible. Enter Apache Army Ranger Emmanuel Santana (codename “Scout”). He’s driven, haunted, and absolutely convinced that no one else will acknowledge the truth - that the President of the United States is an evil presence aided by four monsters straight from Apache legend. Scout’s spirit guide tasks him with killing them all. But are they real, or is he just a traumatised terrorist hallucinating his way across a broken America ? "Scout" draws on Truman's love for Native American culture and the western genre, and is full of gritty action, mysticism and subtle commentary on the geopolitical fears of the day. It also featured a lot of blues music, so much so that issue nineteen came with a free flexi-disc (remember those?) with a two song "soundtrack". Truman even produced a full LP alongside his band "The Dixie Pistols" which contained a "Scout" mini-comic detailing some of the events after the end of the first 24-issue series. I still have both. Over time the storyline continued through two bridging mini-series and a second volume, "Scout:War Shaman", which pushed the mythology and the character even further. Truman had plans for further stories titled “Marauder” and “Blue Leader” but the collapse of Eclipse Comics put paid to that for many, many years. A 2019 Kickstarter campaign raised funds for “Marauder” and some pages were released, but as of right now, nothing has been released, possibly due to Truman’s health issues. Even if it never continues, there has still been nothing quite like “Scout”. I really must get the issues out of storage and re-read them sometime soon…
- Crisis On Infinite Earths - Every character in the DC pantheon in one multiverse-shattering epic! What's not to love? This was personally the culmination of the first phase of my love for DC Comics and their characters, which I had been exposed to gradually over the previous few years, and succeeded in getting me to pick even more titles than before. It's career-defining work from Marv Wolfman and George Perez and the impact it has had down the decades is incredible. I loved it at the time, even though I never had a problem with the multiple Earth's idea anyway. Looking back now I have a slightly different opinion. Whatever DC may have gained from "Crisis" and despite their multiple revisionist attempts over subsequent decades, I think they lost more than they gained, particularly in terms of the great legacy of the DC Universe. I am of the opinion that having a proper “Earth-2” line with an older Superman, a dead Batman, the All-Star Squadron fighting in WWII and the JSA growing old and giving way to Infinity Inc would still work. To be honest I wish they would stop trying to "fix" things - they have just made their long history even more complicated than the perceived problem that created the need for a "crisis" in the first place. Still a great comic book event though, that set the template for others to come.
- Back To The Future - Just perfect in almost every conceivable way. There are films I admire, films I revisit, films I quote… and then there’s “Back to the Future”, which sits in that tiny category of movies that is all of the above. Every scene, every gag, evey time travel twist, every setup and payoff lands with such effortless precision that you almost forget how hard it is to make something this clever, and this joyful. It’s easily one of my favourite films of all time, and the sequels are just as good (yes the second one is far better than it ever gets credit for). A huge part of that is the stewardship of Bob Gale and Robert Zemeckis. In an era where every beloved property is dragged out for a reboot, reimagining, “legacy sequel,” or whatever the current euphemism is, “Back to the Future” remains untouched. Gale and Zemeckis have been very clear - not on their watch (okay there’s the musical, but that’s a different medium and they had their hands all over it). It’s rare to see a franchise allowed to remain whole, unspoiled, and exactly as it was intended - lightning in a bottle, preserved by the very people who created it.
- Longshot - These days he’s mostly remembered as one of the many, many mutants who’ve passed through the revolving doors of the X‑Men, but Longshot actually began life in his own six‑issue mini‑series - and what a debut it was. Writer Ann Nocenti wasn’t interested in doing a standard superhero. She wanted to explore ideas about free will, exploitation, media manipulation, and rebellion - all wrapped in the story of an artificially created humanoid who can alter probability, but has no memory, no past, and no sense of who he’s supposed to be. The series was far stranger and more philosophical than anything else mainstream Marvel was publishing at the time. But the real revelation was the artist. This was the world’s introduction to Arthur Adams, and it hit like a thunderclap. I’d never seen anything like his work at the time. The detail was astonishing - every panel packed with texture, expression, and life. His women were gorgeous, his aliens genuinely alien, and his linework practically glowed. It’s one of those rare cases where an artist arrives fully formed. Instantly recognisable. From that moment on, Adams’ name on a project became an automatic must‑buy for me. Even now, decades later, I can flip through those original “Longshot” issues and feel that same jolt of excitement. A brilliant mini‑series with a wonderfully odd character - and just maybe it should have stayed that way, outside of continuity, as I don’t think Marvel has ever recaptured that original magic.
- Starquake / Nodes of Yesod - Two ZX Spectrum games with a similar feel, but both so compulsively playable that I lost entire afternoons to them without noticing. Each features a protagonist dropped into a sprawling network of caves and tunnels - hundreds of screens stitched together into a single labyrinth. Your task is to search for various objects to either combine together, or complete a quest. Certain items (access cards or a rock-chewing mole) unlock other parts of the map. Meanwhile, a vast array of alien lifeforms drift, hop or slither across the screen, all of them determined to drain your health or bounce you around like a pinball. It’s chaotic, frustrating, and utterly addictive. In concept, both games owe a debt to “Underwurlde” from the legendary Ultimate Play The Game. But “Starquake” leans into colourful sci‑fi weirdness and hover platforms, while “Nodes” has moody lunar‑caverns and a protagonist in a spacesuit. And like so many Spectrum classics, they have that magical quality: once you started playing, you look up and realise an hour had vanished. Or two. Or three.
Starquake
Nodes of Yesod
- Tales of the Beanworld - Billed, quite accurately, as “a most peculiar comic book experience,” there is truly nothing else like Larry Marder’s mythological, ecological fantasy adventure. It’s one of those rare works - a singular vision that obeys its own internal logic, its own rhythms, its own cosmology. I can’t pretend I fully understood it when I first encountered the issues from Eclipse Comics back in the 80s, but that was part of the magic. Reading “Beanworld” felt like stumbling onto something utterly unique - and because of that, it’s lingered in my memory far longer than many of the more conventional titles of the period. After Eclipse went bankrupt, there were no new Tales for many years and Marder moved onto executive roles for Image Comics and Mcfarlane Toys. Thankfully, Dark Horse eventually stepped in to give the series the treatment it deserved, collecting the original material in beautiful hardcover editions. Even better, they went on to publish new “Beanworld” stories in 2009 and again in 2017, proving that Marder was not done with his creation. A peculiar comic book experience? Yes. But also absolutely unforgettable.
- Brazil – Terry Gilliam’s masterpiece, and a film that somehow feels more relevant with every passing year. Back in 1985 it played like a fever‑dream satire of bureaucracy and authoritarianism - now it feels uncomfortably close to a documentary. Long before “steampunk” became a thing, Gilliam was already there - building a world of sputtering ducts, clattering typewriters, pneumatic tubes, and retro‑futurist machinery. But what makes "Brazil" endure is the pitch‑black tone Gilliam wields like a scalpel. The film is hilarious in the way nightmares sometimes are - absurd, grotesque, and just plausible enough to unsettle you. And then there’s the ending - one of the bleakest, boldest conclusions any studio film has ever dared to deliver. A final, devastating punchline, where the satire collapses into tragedy. Yet for all its darkness, "Brazil" is a film I return to again and again. There’s something hypnotic about its contradictions. About how it seems to say that life is awful and we all need escapism - but sometimes that can be worse. I don't pretend to understand it all. It’s a film that shouldn’t work - and yet... it’s perfect. A brilliant singular vision.
- Miracleman - First things first - I'm not going to explain the history of this now infamous character. It's far too convoluted and has you need a PHD in comics history. Also I'm not going to cover the original comeback in "Warrior" magazine. It was amazing and ground-breaking and yadda, yadda, yadda... But after the demise of "Warrior", Eclipse Comics picked up the rights to publish "Marvelman", now renamed to avoid any lawsuits from that... other publisher. For a while, the big thrill was simply the promise that the story would continue past the reprints - that we’d finally see where Alan Moore was taking this unusual superhero resurrection. But I’ll be honest - the moment Alan Davis finished his run and Chuck Beckum stepped in, the magic wobbled. Davis had given the book a clean, precision, and Beckum… didn’t. It was frankly amateurish and to my mind hurt the story considerably Thankfully, his tenure was brief and the book snapped back into visual coherence almost immediately. Rick Veitch and especially John Totleben weren’t just “better artists” - they were more aligned with what Moore was trying to do. The book became an opera - full of horrific battles and the consequences of a world dealing with real-life gods. As good as those issues were - and trust me they are *very* good (despite the sometimes purple prose), I kind of wish that the series had ended at issue 16, and been just another excellent entry in Moore's body of work. It's not that the Neil Gaiman follow up was bad - it was thoughtful, ambitious, and full of interesting ideas - but Moore’s ending is so final, so terminal, that anything after it feels like an appendix. The decades long wait for a conclusion also just lent the whole thing a historical weight that it could never live up to. It became its own myth. I'm really not that bothered if we never see the planned ending. Heretical I know.
