Let me start by saying that Tokyo Is My Garden (Fanfare/Ponent Mon) has clearly been created with talent and professionalism. It’s attractive to look at, thanks to Frédéric Boilet, and it’s got a readable script by Boilet and Benoît Peeters. It paints a vivid picture of urban life in Tokyo. It’s even got “gray tones” by Jiro Taniguchi, whatever that means.
On the down side, it’s got one of those male protagonists I find grating: the lazy schlub who dates way out of his league. This isn’t always an implausible proposition, but you have to work a lot harder than Boilet and Peeters have to sell it. Maybe that’s my problem rather than a serious flaw in the comic, but we can’t help how we engage a work, and as I’ve tried to draft this review in my head, I keep constructing, not an assessment of the work’s value, but a conversation with a theoretical straight woman friend (TSWF).
So here we go:
TSWF: Who’s that?
ME: (Looking. Grimacing.) Oh, that’s David. He’s from France.
TSWF: Really? That’s kind of… interesting.
ME: (After a moment.) Oh, honey, no.
TSWF: What? It’s just an observation.
ME: It’s a fraught observation.
TSWF: Well, what’s wrong with him?
ME: He’s one of those types that assume things will work out without any effort on his part.
TSWF: What, romantically? Professionally?
ME: In every way. And the worst part is that things do work out for him.
TSWF: Is he dating anyone?
ME: Of course he is. He’s dating this hot fashion publicist named Kimie, who he started dating about five minutes after he got dumped by a hot model.
TSWF: What’s next? Techno enka cabaret singer?
ME: Probably.
TSWF: What does he do for a living?
ME: He claims he’s really a novelist.
TSWF: Has he written anything?
ME: Probably title pages and future reviews of his works.
TSWF: (Snorts.) Ow. Gin burns when it comes out through your nose. What does he really do?
ME: A cognac company is paying him to open up the Japanese market for their brand.
TSWF: That sounds fabulous.
ME: Doesn’t it? But he doesn’t do anything related to that. He dates, and he works at a fish market.
TSWF: Seriously? Like a shop, or one of those warehouse things?
ME: Warehouse things. I’m sure it’s all part of some literary scheme to inform his future prose with the working person’s perspective.
TSWF: So he could be hanging out in clubs and giving people free booze for a living, but he’d rather haul dead fish?
ME: Isn’t that deep?
TSWF: Until you think about it for eight seconds. Can I have his real job?
ME: Me first. Apparently, his boss is coming to Tokyo, and he’s all worried that his Bérnaise train is about to go off the rails.
TSWF: All because he’s never done a lick of the work he’s supposed to be doing. That’s so unfair.
ME: I know! And then he’ll have to go back to France. Can you imagine?
TSWF: God. This economy is cruel.
ME: Don’t worry too much. He got dumped by a beautiful woman only to wind up with a beautiful, smart woman. I’m sure he’ll end up accidentally getting a promotion before his boss goes back to France.
TSWF: Okay, so the down side is he’s a big pile of slack, but at least he’s an extremely lucky pile of slack. A woman could do worse.
ME: Or better. Much, much better.
The end.