There are moments in Grant Morrison’s Klaus, the Nordic retelling of the myth of Santa Claus, that push me to the edge of rolling my eyes. The melodramatic villain who constantly seems one breath away from losing his mind is the thing that comes closest. He seems less a character and more a series of tics and twitches from archetypes that have come before him. He worries one second, screams in anger the next. He works at a 10 on all occasions. He’s hell bent on keeping the people of the town he oversees working in the coal mines over Yuletide to save himself from the punishment of death from those higher up the food chain than he. No joy, no gifts for the children – work until you die. It seems something is buried there that will keep him alive.
In wandered Klaus, and he wasn’t going to have it. Klaus in this version is connected to the magic of the woods. He has a white wolf that is at his side. He’s pretty awesome, and Dan Mora’s imagining of him and the world he inhabits is cinematic in all the right ways, and this is where the series wins.
I so easily get swept away in the Errol Flynn-style adventure of it all. Klaus jumps from rooftop to rooftop, soldiers giving chase, firing volleys of flaming arrows. Mora’s work pulls you from one panel to the next like a silent reel shimmering on the screen. This is Morrison inhabiting The Three Musketeers, The Count of Monte Cristo, and, yes, Errol Flynn’s Robin Hood, and I imagine any young child who loves such things will get a kick out of this series. It’s never too violent or inappropriate (Yes, Morrison has written something that is almost good for all ages.) and has a thematic heart of gold.