Clubbing, the third offering in DC’s Minx line, is a sneakily ambitious mash-up that almost works. Writer Andi Watson has taken bits from Agatha Christie, Jane Austen, and even Rider Haggard and put them into the hands of a very contemporary young protagonist. It’s not really the heroine’s fault that it ends up being a bit too much and too little at the same time.

Lottie Brooks is a goth fashionista party girl (if such a creature can exist) who’s gone a tiny bit too far. An ill-conceived fake ID has led her to be shipped off to her country bumpkin grandparents for the summer. It could be a ghastly homage to The Simple Life or something equally vapid and distasteful, or Watson could guide her to Learn a Valuable Lesson About Simplicity and its Wisdom, but Lottie, for all of her affectations, isn’t a hopeless brat or snob, and Watson isn’t given to preach. Instead of trying to remake the village in her image, she decides to go along for the ride for the duration of her exile from London.

Lottie’s a surprisingly appealing character in spite of her egregious fashion choices and occasional tendency to pout. She gets in the spirit of things, and she’s reasonably gracious to her new neighbors. That’s a good thing, because Watson hasn’t resorted to portraying them as cookie-cutter yokels. They’re pleasant folks, and city-girl condescension would be lethal. She’s better than that, reserving her tarter remarks for private narration.

Then a body turns up on her grandparents’ golf course. What better distraction could there be for a stranded city girl than a provincial murder? And if she finds romance with the groundskeeper’s hunky, nerdy, golf-loving son, all the better, right?

Not really, unfortunately. The plot is a hash, when you get right down to it. As social satire goes, it’s pleasant enough, but anyone expecting something along the lines of Cold Comfort Farm will be disappointed. The murder mystery consists of Lottie making a string of incorrect assumptions until the climax, which no sane person could have predicted. (Well, no sane fictional person. It struck me as fairly obvious, if not at all reasonable.)

Part of the problem might be illustrations by Josh Howard, which are competent but not soaring. Some sequences, particularly those that hinge on the promise of romance or adventure, never really come across. The conclusion begs for a bravura approach if it’s going to come across at all, and it’s not there. Howard does provide some interesting compositions, and I like his character design for the most part.

Watson certainly gets points for effort here. The whole idea of this kind of mixture of story types seems so right that it gives off a pleasant buzz, and I have a pronounced fondness for this kind of thing. (Have I mentioned lately how much I love the Amelia Peabody Emerson novels by Elizabeth Peters? Probably.) Clubbing doesn’t live up to its potential, though I’d like to see more of Lottie’s adventures.

A lot of Re-Gifters (Minx) feels like dominoes being set up to fall in an elegant and dramatic fashion. You can see what’s coming without too much difficulty, but the character work is persuasive enough and the art so appealing that it doesn’t really detract. Incredibly charming art helps too.

Mike Carey’s script follows Dik Seong Jen, nicknamed Dixie, as she manages the competing distractions of an upcoming hapkido tournament (she has a black belt in the martial art) and her first serious crush. The object of her affections is WASP-y classmate and fellow hapkido student Adam, who can best be described as Chad Michael Murray as rendered by artists Sonny Liew and Marc Hempel.

Dixie doesn’t do anything by halves, and she decides that the best way to get Adam’s attention is with an extravagant gift that she thinks will speak to their shared interest. It isn’t as meaningful to Andy as it is to Dixie, and she blows her savings and her entry fee to the tournament in the process. She’s got to fix the jam she’s created, getting into the competition and resolving her unrequited feelings in the process.

That she’ll do so is never really in doubt, though Carey throws some additional complications in the mix. Some of them feel like they’re too much. Dixie’s gift to Adam changes hands in an amusingly screwball fashion, but her efforts to get into the tournament take on a deus ex machine quality. And competing isn’t just a matter of personal pride; it could make a big difference for her middle-class family. They’re an appealing group, but the subplot feels superfluous.

What sells Re-Gifters ultimately are the characters and their world. Dixie is an appealing protagonist – impulsive but likable and formidable in her own way. Carey also creates a rich, largely believable world for her, reflecting the challenging mix of race and class of urban Los Angeles and peopling it with engaging characters. It doesn’t even matter so much that the least involving is Adam, who never really rises above the level of an objective.

I’m also crazy about Liew and Hempel’s visuals. The pages are faultlessly lively and expressive, and they stage all of the action with precision and imagination. They keep things moving at a happy clip, glossing over the narrative stumbles that arise.

I don’t doubt that there’s a great graphic novel to be made about the healing power of civil disobedience in paranoid times. I don’t think that The Plain Janes (Minx) is that graphic novel, though. It’s too crowded and shapeless.

(Spoilers after the cut.)

It’s not without its strengths, though, and I’ll concentrate on those first. Protagonist Jane has a very believable kind of selfishness. She’s been through a significant trauma, followed by an unsettling relocation from a big city to a small town, so a certain level of narcissism beyond the world-exists-for-me kind that gets pinned on teens can be excused.

She wants to remake herself, and the move presents the perfect opportunity. She doesn’t even have to ditch her old friends, as they’re hundreds of miles away. And while she could easily replace them with a shallow, popular matching set, she opts instead for a more unconventional group – a jock (though not a successful one), a brain, and a drama geek. (I didn’t buy the third for a minute. Anyone that pretentious would rule the drama club with an iron fist, not pout around its fringes.)

It’s not even that Jane likes them as individuals; it’s more that she likes the idea of being part of what she perceives as a group of funky outsiders. They’re like accessories for the new Jane she’s trying on, and they fit with the new life she’s trying to construct. When she’s struck with the idea of remaking the world around her, too, her interest in the other Janes only intensifies. They can help her with her self-prescribed therapy.

That she does end up liking them and drawing them into a group of friends instead of conveniently co-located misfits mitigates Jane’s mercenary intent. Jane’s need to heal is primary, but she’s figured out a way to do it without hurting anyone else. It’s a fairly fine line, but writer Cecil Castellucci stays on the right side of it.

Then there’s Jane’s notion of guerilla art. It would have been problematic if the Janes’ activities had been too sophisticated, but they’re generally a good fit for the “art girl gang.” That results in public art roughly the environmental equivalent of kitten posters, but their hearts are in the right place.

Jim Rugg’s illustrations serve the story well. Character design is particularly solid; the cast look like real people. Settings are solidly evoked as well.

On the down side, there are simply too many elements in play here, and the book is far too short to satisfyingly execute even a third of them. This results in a daunting number of dangling plot threads by book’s end. Life doesn’t lend itself to tidy resolutions, but one or two might have been nice. The jam-packed quality of the book also generates some implausibility, and several things seem to happen simply because there’d have been less story if they hadn’t.

Then there’s the moral simplicity of it all. Classmates aside, community reaction to the girls’ guerilla art is represented by precisely two people. The first is a ridiculous caricature of law enforcement that sweats and snarls and barks out howlers like, “Art is in a museum. Not on the streets.” Issues like vandalism and public safety are singularly unconvincing when argued by this source. The second is Jane’s anxious, over-protective mother. For her, guerilla art is an uncomfortable reminder of actual terrorism, and while she gets a fairer shake than Officer Fascist, her concerns barely make a dent. It’s too bad, because the story could have used more of that kind of nuance.

And while Jane’s selfishness is generally modulated, it can be kind of jarring at points, even verging on cruelty. One sequence demands that she roundly abuse the people who care about her most, and it leaves a bad aftertaste. She also has a tendency to underestimate people who don’t fit into her life-remodel vision, like a gutsy gay classmate or the head cheerleader. (Castellucci makes both more winning and vital than the generically likable Janes, actually, even if the cheerleader is a near-direct lift of Buffy’s Cordelia Chase.)

It may sound odd after some of the preceding paragraphs, but I think The Plain Janes almost demands a sequel. There’s so much unfinished business that it seems designed to launch additional installments (or at least 30 more pages to this one). But it’s not that I’m so intrigued that I need to read more; it’s more a case of being left unsatisfied by the cramped proceedings and subsequent lack of closure.