The manga event of the year could very well be forty years in the making.  Simply put, Vertical's English translation of Osamu Tezuka's late '60s swords-and-goblins saga is a work of such genius that one must term it not only inspired but also inspiring--it's a reminder of why one reads manga in the first place.  Had anyone else but Tezuka created Dororo, the temptation would be to call it "so-and-so's masterpiece" but in this case, it's one just one more highwater mark in the medium by the artist who was arguably its greatest practitioner.  Long acclaimed in Japan and known to Western audiences through film and video games, this exquisitely rendered and mind-bogglingly creative series is now accessible in an English language version that the New York publisher will continue to roll out in June and August of this year.  (And if you'd like a free preview of Volume 1, check out Vertical's site.)

Thematically, Dororo strongly echoes Astro Boy with its put-together-boy premise, albeit with more of a horror than a sci-fi emphasis.  Through the protagonist Hyakki-maru, we're given a compelling samurai-period retelling of elements from Faust, Pinocchio, and Frankenstein, although Tezuka's story never strikes one as less than wholly original.  With forty-eight of his body parts traded to demons by his father prior to birth, Hyakki-maru must use prosthetics to defeat these otherworldly adversaries to regain his flesh piece by piece and so "become himself."  In this manner Tezuka brilliantly re-imagines the Blind Samurai archetype (and the American superhero Daredevil, for that matter) in a way that makes explicit its spiritual/supernatural subtext.  Accompanying our hero on his symbolic quest for rebirth is the title character, his self-described "sidekick."  An orphaned, quasi-Dickensian thief, Dororo interestingly supplies both comic relief and pathos to what otherwise might have been a more straightforward action epic.

Fans of Tezuka's art will quickly recognize many of its hallmarks:  the stirring evocation of the natural world, stunning page-length vertical panels, and the masterful use of silhouette.  Page after page we're treated to a display of the sublime contradiction that's evident in the work of any master "cartoonist"--a minimalism of apparent effort (and sometimes linework), and yet a maximalist sense of design, expression, and visual innovation.  Perhaps that's why stylistically Tezuka's work here recalls the best of Segar, Harriman, Eisner and Caniff.  There's that same uncanny ability to juxtapose powerfully the cute and humorous with the horrific and the violent that, for some reason, is extremely hard to pull off outside out of sequential art.  

Finally, it's a tricky proposition at best to critique a translation without being familiar with the original text, but for the most part Dawn Laabs has done a very solid job here.  The language is fresh and direct and does not draw attention to itself, instead serving the story's purposes every step of the way.  On rare occasions I took exception to colloquialisms that I feel pander too much to contemporary readers (e.g., "my bad," "knock yourself out") and that could make such passages seem dated down the road.  That would be a shame, especially considering the kind of timeless classic that Dororo so clearly represents.