Godchild, Vol. 3
By Kaori Yuki
Viz, 200 pp.
Rating: Mature

Back in the summer of 2002, Wall Street Journal critic Joe Morgenstern earned my undying loyalty as a reader with a review of xXx. His article opened with a catalog of the film’s most egregious capitulations to action movie formula, from the villains’ faux-Russian accents to Vin Diesel’s seemingly endless supply of snappy one-liners. Having enumerated the film’s most obvious faults, I fully expected Morgenstern to pronounce xXx a loud, dull bore undeserving of my $10. But his next sentence floored me: despite the car chases and absurd gadgetry, he loved xXx in all its lowbrow glory.
Well, I’m having a Morgenstern moment of my own, courtesy of Kaori Yuki’s Godchild. My inner historian—the person who read Eric Hobsbawm’s The Invention of Tradition and The Age of Empire—is cringing in shame as I type this review. After all, Godchild’s premise is both ahistoric and just plain silly—think CSI: Victorian England with an impossibly handsome bad boy protagonist.
Each volume features several murder mysteries with a baroque twist: a youth serum that in fact is a horrific experiment in entomology, a pair of poisoned gloves, a strangely life-like doll that turns out to be an embalmed person, a coffin maker who drums up business with a blow dart gun. These horrid whodunits are the bailiwick of dashing Lord Cain, a character straight out of Goth shojo fantasy. He’s equal parts Johnny Depp, Robert Smith, Orlando Bloom, and Quincy MD, as is suggested by his perfectly tousled hair, neatly chiseled chin, soulful eyes, and wardrobe of top hats, capes, and poofy shirts strategically unbuttoned to the waist. (In a sidebar, Kaori Yuki cheerfully cops to omitting undershirts from Cain’s wardrobe to suit “the mood of the comic.”) Early in the series, we learn that Cain’s family has cultivated an interest in exotic poisons, knowledge that proves unusually handy given the number of elaborately plotted crimes plaguing Victorian London. Cain solves these mysteries while attempting to unravel his family’s legacy of violence and secrets that has pitted him against his father, Alexis, and half-brother, Dr. Jizabel Disraeli. (I know, I know… Hobsbawm would wince at that name, too.)
Having noted Godchild’s more obvious shortcomings, I confess that reading it was pure pleasure. Sure, this is the manga equivalent of Twizzlers, a tasty little confection with little or no nutritive value and nary a “real” ingredient in sight. But even the most Tezuka-laden diet needs the occasional palette cleanser. Kaori Yuki’s distinctive artwork and macabre sensibility make this overripe setup entertaining, even if the occasionally slangy dialogue and CSI-style forensics seem implausible in a Victorian London setting. You can bet I’ll be lining up to buy the next volume when Viz releases it in 2007… though I’ll probably be wearing some Groucho Marx glasses to conceal my identity.