The apocalyptic bells of hell

When one starts reading the last Magius (2021 National Award for satire Spring for Madrid), bells begin to ring. Perhaps the bells of hell, but counterpointed by the sound of toy bells placed on a baby's crib. Because, on the one hand, this tells a story we already know: that of the genesis and self-destruction of the Black Metal scene in Norway in the 1990s, which was captured in the celebrated essay Lords of Chaos (It's Pop) by Michael Moynihan and Didrik Søderlind and later brought to the cinema under the direction of Jonas ÅkerlundIn other words, the nihilistic escalation that led a generation of overprotected children of one of Europe's most placid countries to unleash a civil Ragnarock punctuated by church burnings, instinctual murders, and induced suicides.

But the bells – from hell or from the baby's cradle – also ring in another direction, which leads to the past of Magius's career as a comic artist. And they do so in two directions: the one that leads to his first fanzine attempts around the universe of Nordic Black Metal – his eponymous fanzine was published in 2001 – and the one that leads to the origins of his impressive mature production, where the first pages of the dazzling The Gemini Method (Autsaider, 2018) seemed to outline the key that determines the spirit of this latest work. There, in The Gemini Method, a mobster's monologue used the story of "a very bad boy" to illustrate the concept of disorganized crime, making that little story starring a ridiculous character cast an eloquent shadow over the rest of the work: deep down, the history of the mafia continues to reveal the internal mechanics of a child's game (a parallel conclusion to that which Takeshi Kitano would reach with his trilogy Outrage).

On the pages of Black Metal, Magius starts from the radical decision to maintain a certain fidelity to the facts, but turning the protagonists of the story –Euronymous, Dead, Kristian, etc.– into, literally, small children marked by loneliness, lack of communication with their parents and fear of others. gimmick plays in favor of comedy and turns the sensationalist chronicle into a grotesque farce, but also contributes to resolving the problems of point of view that conditioned so much the original book - which oscillated between journalistic coldness and a problematic sympathy for the devil– like the derivative film, unable to decide between being a comedy or a tragedy.

In a new stylistic reinvention, Magius (artistic name of the Murcian Diego Corbalán) recovers here the crudeness of the strokes of his original fanzines, making it dialogue with a recreation of the fantastic imagery of the illustrations and paintings of Theodor Kittelsen and with a register of naiveté cute, somewhat reminiscent of Pendleton Ward's universes when it comes to describing, respectively, the mythical universe of Norway and the character of the characters who have not chosen the path of darkness. The whole thing is an absolute marvel that confirms the consistency and intelligence of Magius's gaze when it comes to dissecting the functioning of closed groups - whether they are corrupt politicians, gangsters or Black Metal creatures – and diagnoses – with sarcasm, but also with precision – one of those symptoms of our times that so interested JG Ballard: an incomprehensible outbreak of impulsive violence in an environment marked by privilege and the control of passions.