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There were multiple times throughout “Welcome to Me” where I saw a glimmer of potential. It’s a film about Alice (Kristen Wiig), a woman with borderline personality disorder, and due to stigmatization, accurate portrayals of mental illness (especially for women) are few and far between in Hollywood. These are stories that should be told, not just as melodrama, not just as horror, not just as comedy, but as all of those genres and more. So the attempted comedy-drama blending of the movie is admirable in its intentions.

The idea could be great if it was executed by a great screenwriter and a great director with a unified, purposeful vision. The movie is going for a kind of tragicomic vibe that allows the audience to laugh at Alice while still leaving room to take her illness and her challenges seriously. I can think of multiple movies that have done this pretty well: “Silver Linings Playbook,” “The Skeleton Twins,” “Frank,” “Lars and the Real Girl,” hell, even “American Psycho.” I’m sure all of those have gotten flack for simplifying mental illness and for fitting it into a neat Hollywood-friendly bundle, and I’m sure some people would even say that “Welcome to Me” is a more daring movie than those because it’s willing to be weird as hell, to go to dark and unexpected places.

So yes, I commend director Shira Piven and writer Eliot Laurence’s willingness to just take risks and be weird. That said, for a comedy to work about mental illness, it has to be funny. This is where I’ll probably differ with lots of people who have seen the movie, because humor is subjective, but I wasn’t laughing much while watching. I did giggle a little at the sheer outrageousness of some parts, like when I realized that Alice was legitimately going to neuter dogs during her talk show. Unfortunately, though, most of Alice’s characterization makes her seem just like one of Kristen Wiig’s SNL characters with weird quirks. I admittedly don’t know much about BPD, but I kind of doubt it’s like this, and besides, most of these quirks aren’t as funny as Wiig’s usual quirks.

Back to my original point, though: “Welcome to Me” really struggles to figure out this strange tone. We’re supposed to gently laugh at Alice despite deeply caring for her, but many of the scenes seem to beg us just to tease her. How much of the movie is supposed to be genuine and how much ironic? For example, are we supposed to be deeply invested in her romance with Gabe (Wes Bentley)? Is her having sex with Gabe supposed to be sweet, or is it some sort of joke? Is the romance in general genuine, or a punchline? The movie tries to have it both ways, and I think people who like it would simply say “it is what it is.” We can laugh at it while still being invested in it. My answer to that is the same as the question of the film’s sense of humor in general, though: we can’t have it both ways, because the romance works as neither a funny punchline nor a heartfelt emotional connection. For me, anyway.

I saw another big glimmer of potential during the climax, when Alice’s family and best friend Gina (Linda Cardellini) show up for the final broadcast of her show. I can imagine a movie where this was a genuinely touching ending, especially because I was wrapped up in the sheer lunacy of it all, with all the characters gathered at the final live taping of this weird sensory assault of a talk show. But the emotional crux of the climax involves Alice apologizing to Gina for ignoring her when she really needed it, for being so selfish and worrying about her own problems and her own show.

Tell me, Eliot Laurence and Shira Piven, WHY WASN’T THIS THE MAIN ARC OF THE STORY? This movie could’ve been so good if it explored the potential for selfishness on the part of victims of mental illness—obviously Alice’s egotism is a result of her disorder and Gina should cut her some more slack than she would most friends, but Gina’s still right to be angry at Alice, and if this had been emphasized throughout the movie, it could’ve had such a powerful impact. In fact, this movie could’ve been fascinating if it focused on Gina instead, following her as she struggles with life and can’t reach out to her own best friend because her best friend is obsessed with her newfound wealth and trying to use it to fix herself. One of the opening scenes, with Gina telling someone on the phone that Alice needs her, even raises this possibility. But no, the wonderful Linda Cardellini is in only a few scenes, and her character (and friendship with Alice) is woefully underdeveloped as a result.

“Welcome to Me” is a movie that I admire for what it’s trying to do. But what “Frank” has that this movie doesn’t have is 1. a lot of good jokes, 2. a genuinely moving conclusion, 3. a serious critique of society’s perceptions of mental illness, and, generally, 4. a lot better writing. It’s interesting to see these filmmakers grapple with these ideas and try to produce something strange and new, but I’m more intrigued to see what Piven and Laurence do next.

Will Eisner famously used the term sequential art to describe comics. But isn’t film also sequential? Scott McCloud talks about how film is similar if you look at the film itself, and not when it is projected and played. Film is just a series of images, a comic in slow motion if you will. McCloud notes that the difference between comics and film is the way in which individual images are juxtaposed. The comic is far more voluntary than film is. You are forced to see frame after frame while watching film but with a comic, your eyes can wander. But more importantly, with film, the way in which the images are juxtaposed with one another is through time, the chronology of the images as they get projected onto the screen, one after the other. However, with comics, it is space that juxtaposes one panel with the next.

Did you ever wonder if there was a term for the tiny margin of empty space between panels? No? Well I am going to tell you anyways. It is called the gutter. Not the most appealing name for such an important aspect of comics.

But why am I telling you all this? Why am I stressing the importance of space in comics? Well that is because I ran into one this summer that utilized it in a way that I had never seen before.

Asterios Polyp is a comic written and drawn by David Mazzucchelli. Basically it is a coming of age story about a famed fifty-year-old architect named Asterios Polyp as he seeks self-discovery. To me, it is so very important that he is an architect. Now there are many things to talk about when considering this comic. It’s dense, both in its written content and its visuals. But I want to focus on one mechanic the comic uses over and over again.

At the beginning of each “chapter”, if you will, is not the name of a chapter, but a single  panel that is directly in the center of the page. What is so special about this panel is that, first of all, it is not sequential, and second, the content within the panel is itself isolated elements. Let me provide an example of when this is used.

The very first page, we see inside the lone panel, raindrops – individual raindrops. From this we can assume that it is either raining, or we are possibly looking at drops of water on a window. In a way, the specificity of the image itself is defeated by the fact that it resides in a panel that is isolated from any other visuals. But that is not entirely true, for you can never forget about the white space that surrounds the panel. May I remind you, when you only have one panel on a page, there is a lot of white space. But all that space is directionless and aimless. But Mazzucchelli provides direction in the next page.

We then turn the page over and we see two panels now. One shows the raincloud that is precipitating, then the next one shows that it is raining on a city. We get even more context on the next page where we see a lightning bolt crash to the city below from the rainclouds perspective. Basically, Mazzucchelli keeps zeroing in on the subject at hand, page by page, till we realize that the lightning bolt hit Asterios’ apartment causing it to catch on fire. In the span of six pages, we go from the isolated specificity of the raindrops to the contextual specificity stating that this is where Asterios Polyp lives.

What I think is so genius about the use of that very first panel is that it shows how space can operate at a fundamental level. An element can occupy one space in a vacuum but the next page expands our understanding of that very space by showing how even the most isolated of elements are a part of a greater picture, a greater space.

In the next chapter, Mazzucchelli uses this to show a well-groomed Asterios with a cigarette then proceeds to show the sad, unshaven, and wet face of Asterios right after his apartment caught fire. He uses this over and over again. How fitting for a story about an architect. One that can design all these empty buildings while he himself has nobody to share his space with.
Mazzucchelli uses it once to show a grid of apples that are all drawn differently, only to go to the next page to show various people that are drawn differently, with the narration saying, “What if reality (as perceived) were simply an extension of the self?” This is one of my favorites.

We are all a part of a shared space and whenever we consider something as an exception to this, it becomes inscrutable or more importantly, not what it actually is – completely mutable based upon our own interpretive means. Which, in itself, also alters what the image is talking about, over and over again. For as much as we may convince ourselves of one meaning, we recognize that an isolated image invites countless interpretations. We get lost within our own mind. But when we recognize that there are others within the space with us, we find direction and a sense that our solutions are taking us somewhere, not leaving us stuck in the cyclical nature of an isolated mind.

The manga starts with Edward questioning what went wrong, calling out for his seemingly missing little brother, yelling that it wasn’t supposed to be like this, and we see that he is missing his left leg. A disembodied text says, “Teachings that do not speak of pain have no meaning…because humankind cannot gain anything without first giving something in return.”

This scene is the consequence of an action that we have yet to find out. But it is nonetheless gruesome and shocking and raises many questions. First time readers may be wondering about the part of a circle they see Edward’s hands resting on. What is going on?

Hiromu Arakawa, the creator of the manga series does not answer this right away. Instead, the very next panel you see is an objective view of an alleyway in a city, with again, a disembodied voice, but this time, it is preaching about the Sun God Leto and how through prayer and faith, salvation can be achieved. But how does worship compare to what was said on the very first page? It is puzzling to think about, when I have faith in a religion; I gain comfort, an existential shoulder to lean on. So by giving trust, I am allowed to…trust? Arakawa’s refusal to answer the questions raised by the first page right away also suggest that after the consequences depicted in the first page, everything has moved on, presumably, even Edward.
All actions have consequences – action and reaction. While reading Fullmetal Alchemist, it is hard to ignore this fundamental balance that exists in all universes, whether our own or one that is created through fiction. But can we relinquish said consequences? And if we can, how do we do so?

This is where the first volume, no, the first arc of Fullmetal Alchemist really shines. It is brilliantly efficient at creating the characters through which Arakawa will try to answer these questions.

Let’s look at Edward. After the first page, through the duration of the first arc, we get his motivations, history, ideology, his pride, his humor, everything. We find out that his brother, Alphonse, is indeed alive, but exists in an empty suit of armor, we see how much he hates being called short, and we see his skepticism for religion. Yet he states that he and his brother have paid the price for stepping on God’s domain. Edward is undoubtedly full of pride, which is further demonstrated in simple moments like when he introduces himself and Alphonse as being the famous Elric brothers while Alphonse just says that they are alchemists. Alphonse, being an empty suit of armor, is literally a disembodied voice but his is one that is slowly learning, and one that is not professing a self-declared truth.

The state of their bodies is revealed at such a genius moment – when they are fighting for the first time. Edward doesn’t go around showing everyone his prosthetic limbs. Nor does Alphonse take off his helmet and show everyone that there is nobody inside. Instead, only when a chimera lunges at Edward and tries to eat him, does he actually use the metal limb to defend himself.

At the end of the arc, Rose, a girl who was faithful to the Sun God, now finds herself directionless as Edward has revealed to people that the priest was a sham. Edward tells her, coldly, that she needs to move on, that she has a fine pair of legs so she should use them. These two brothers understand the consequences of their past actions. But more importantly, they have moved on.

Let me talk briefly about the next arc, which focuses on a mining town that is under the corrupt rule of a military officer. In the first arc, Edward and Alphonse dismantled a corrupt religious regime but now they must handle a different type of organization. But this is different, whereas the dismantling of the church of Leto caused many people to now exist in a directionless limbo, here, when the Elric brothers save the town, the power is returned back to the miners. It shows, that the Elric brothers truly do stand for justice but it also presents a situation where the results of their actions are perhaps more favorable. As we find out later in the series, the loss of the church of Leto causes that country to fall into war. Every action has consequences, even if you think your actions are just.

The second arc also reveals that the very military that Edward plans to join is corrupt as well. A plot point that is further explored in the last arc in the volume which showcases a train heist that is led by military deserters who have now resorted to terrorism in order to dismantle what they believe is a corrupt military body. It is also by the end of this arc that we are finally introduce to Roy Mustang, who ends the volume by literally creating an explosion out of thin air on the train platform, sending the charging terrorist leader flying away. He also introduces himself as the Flame Alchemist, telling the terrorist to never forget it. You can already tell that there may already be one too many huge egos in this story – cough cough, Edward.

This is only the first volume, so I say with confidence that Fullmetal Alchemist is easily one of the most efficient and complete stories that I have ever read. And when I say that, I am including all storytelling mediums.
I would like to draw more parallels to elements that appear later on in the manga, but I will bow out here so as not to spoil anything. Granted, this series and anime series (I am talking about Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood because that is much more faithful to the original manga series) has been out long enough for the whole spoiler warning rule to be null and void, I will still digress.

This is a manga that is smart, expertly told, filled with compelling characters, while being fun, and never forgetting that it is a manga. I cannot recommend this series enough to those who are still ignorant to the genius of Hiromu Arakawa.