A good heist buries an intricate and complex plan under a cloak of simplicity. A good heist STORY often has a deceptive veneer of simplicity as well. The trio of French creators of “The Grande Odalisque” (Fantagraphics) include the celebrated duo of Ruppert and Mulot (“The Perineum Technique”) joining forces with Angouleme winner Vivès. They bring to life a trio of thieves, two longtime partners joining forces with a new teammate, to pull off this satisfyingly breezy heist story with an engrossing motor. “The Grande Odalisque” is quick-witted and technically polished without feeling the least bit insubstantial or disposable, anchored by the three riveting women at its center and their misadventures.
Created by Bastien Vivès, Florent Ruppert, and Jérôme Mulot. Translated by Montana Kane.Alex and Carole, friends since childhood, are now (literal) partners in crime. But the heist – to steal the Ingres painting The Grande Odalisque from the Louvre in Paris – is too much for the duo to handle, so they bring in Clarence, a bureaucrat’s son with a price on his head by a Mexican drug cartel and, more importantly, an arms dealer. Next is Sam, a stunt motorcyclist and boxer by trade, who proves trigger happy with tranquilizer darts. Using soda can smoke bombs, rocket launchers, and hang gliders, Alex, Carole, and Sam set off a set of circumstances that results in a battle with the French Special Forces – and their partnership, which was on the rocks, will never be the same again.
I didn’t think I’d be saying this back when Oceans 11 seemed like the most fun that movies could offer, but I’d grown a little worn out on the heist story. Tales of that Last Big Score that falls and rises on the slick, sympathetic burglars (or bunglers) used to tickle that Robin Hood nerve. The mischievous getting comeuppance on the powerful. But the recent French Netflix series Lupin aside, rare is the entry to this genre that isn’t predictable or trope laden to me, a fatal flaw for a formula so reliant on the delight of surprise.
What I do find compelling about Lupin (minor spoilers) is that the well-worn elements of the gentleman thief are revived to new meaning with a Senegalese-origin lead in its French environs. Through repeated usage, that Brat Pack masculinity or that Redford and Newman rebelliousness have aged into their own stinky hegemony. But the indulgent subversiveness of the heist seems to get a recharge it underscores different politics.
Something like this feels like the impact of “The Grande Odalisque,” in which the three central women, Carole, Alex, and Sam, may not alter the typical heist job story beats, but they bend the tone in effective ways. I suspect that the impact would be simultaneously more dramatic and yet less staged if Vivès, Ruppert, and Mulot were women. (From what I can tell, they are not.) But at least this (male) reader perceives that Alex, Carole, and Sam operate on intellectual, relational, and emotional ranges that typical gruff, cool, and ultimately boring heist-meisters don’t muster.
As a result, there’s tension and savor in this museum heist comic that other rote rehearsals of the genre lack.
In the story’s slightest feint toward profundity, Carole asks Alex about their next target, that “Grande Odalisque” painting from the title. Alex, the one with the plans, informs Carole, the long-haired free spirit, that it is “that painting of the chick with the three extra vertebrae.” She adds an interpretive note: “the whole disregarding-realism-to-accentuate-beauty thing.”
Indeed, 19th century painter Ingres conjured “The Grande Odalisque” as an Orientalist vision of a harem of the mysterious East, her impossibly long spine and sensual angled nudity embodying the unattainable object of gross imperialist desire. The painting very much represents beauty that discards realism, and maybe also the real costs and risks of its lure.
Earlier I called this book “technically polished,” but I don’t know if most would apply those words to the quality of the creators’ drawing style, which superficially doesn’t have the solidity of line of Hergé or the contoured construction of a Moebius. (And yes, I’m aware that comparing every European artist to Hergé and Moebius probably sounds to a real BD aficionado like comparing every superhero artist to Jack Kirby or Bruce Timm. Be patient with me here.)
Continued belowBut although the style’s broken lines and under-detailed faces might suggest looseness, look at the cinematic compositions, the evocative palettes, the distinctiveness of each character’s posture. Nothing’s accidental or flip in this art.
We first meet Carole and Alex mid-theft. Carole skillfully sneaks a painting past museum watchmen and beats off a guard dog, while Alex, who’s supposed to be ready with the getaway car, is preoccupied on her cell phone breaking up with a boyfriend. Talk about inopportune timing.
The odd couple pairing could just be played for laughs and intrigue. But there’s much more there under the surface. A careful chemistry, combustible on the job, but more intermingled than either one would admit out loud. When Sam is thrown into the mix… well, I won’t give away what brews. But it hits the mark for me.
Within the opening eleven pages of spare dialogue, snapshot-perfect action, and plenty of scene-setting for the Musèe D’Orsay’s artistic treasures, we see that deceptive simplicity. All three creatords, Ruppert, Mulot, and Vivès, are all credited with both scripting and illustration, which is impressive for how seamless the work appears.
To me it feels like the panels, the pacing, the placement of the camera eye, are all obtained from careful consideration, a group process, three fine artists’ deliberations, to achieve what looks like effortless harmony. It’s a great sleight of hand.
