Tintin or Asterix? Two ways of seeing the world through comic-book genius

There are questions that should never be answered too quickly. Tea or coffee? Cats or dogs? And, for anyone who grew up with European comics, the most dangerous of all: Tintin or Asterix?

 

Certainly, they aren’t Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Tintin admirers speak of mystery, adventure, exotic locations, and Herge’s immaculate drawings. Asterix fans counter with puns, satire, Obelix, and the almost therapeutic pleasure of watching Roman soldiers being thrown through the air. The sensible answer is that neither is “better”. They are different kinds of genius.

 

August 14 marked the birth centenary of Rene Goscinny, the brilliant French writer who, with artist Albert Uderzo, created Asterix. Goscinny possessed the rare gift of making children laugh immediately, and laugh again years later as adults. Perhaps the simplest difference is this: Tintin makes the world larger; Asterix makes the powerful people in it smaller.

 

The young Belgian reporter travels from Europe to China, Egypt, and Tibet; from South America to imaginary West Asian kingdoms; and even to the Moon. Most journalists write articles. Tintin spends his professional life discovering secret societies, hunting criminals, finding treasure, and getting into situations where gunfire seems part of the job description. His great quality is curiosity.

 

A Tintin story begins with a puzzle; one clue leads to another until a small mystery becomes a full-scale adventure. In Tintin in Tibet, the adventure becomes something more: A moving story of friendship, loyalty, and determination. In Destination Moon, Herge turns scientific ambition and space exploration into a thrilling adventure, anticipating the fascination that the Moon would inspire in the real world. We turn the page because we want to know what happens next. Herge’s ligne claire, or clear-line style, gives these adventures their visual precision. And then there is the supporting cast: Captain Haddock, Professor Calculus, Thomson and Thompson, and Snowy. Haddock, in particular, gives Tintin’s orderly world a wonderfully human disorder.

 

Asterix begins somewhere else entirely. “The year is 50 BC. Gaul is entirely occupied by the Romans. Well, not entirely...” One tiny village refuses to surrender. It has Getafix’s magic potion and an almost supernatural ability to make imperial power look ridiculous. Then there is Obelix, who fell into the potion as a child and, therefore, doesn’t need any more. This may be the most unfair rule in comic-book history: Obelix can throw a Roman regiment around before breakfast. But the Romans are only the beginning of the joke. Goscinny and Uderzo use ancient Gaul to parody the modern world — bureaucracy, consumerism, politics, and the vanity of authority. In Asterix and the Chieftain’s Shield, history becomes a comic battle over food, politics, and dieting; in Asterix and the Roman Agent, propaganda itself becomes a weapon. Caesar may command an empire. He still cannot quite conquer one stubborn village. That’s the joke. It’s also a philosophy.

 

One travels. The other stays home. Tintin is always going somewhere. Asterix, although he travels occasionally, is remarkably happy to stay where he is. Tintin gives us the world. Asterix gives us a village. And what a village it is: Asterix, Obelix, Getafix, Vitalstatistix, Dogmatix, the fishmonger, the blacksmith, and the unfortunate bard. Tintin’s stories are essentially adventures of an individual; Asterix belongs to a community. Tintin is a journey. Asterix is a neighbourhood.

 

Perhaps that’s why the village feels so familiar when we return to it as adults. We recognise the argumentative neighbour, the pompous leader, the person who always has an opinion — and the person who believes he is perfectly reasonable while everyone else is clearly insane. In other words, we recognise ourselves.

 

If Tintin’s great strength is plotting, Asterix’s is language. Goscinny was a master of puns, names, and double meanings — a translator’s nightmare. At ten, Captain Haddock is simply funny. Later, we see the mixture of courage, helplessness, dignity, and absurdity beneath the shouting. At ten, Obelix’s Roman-bashing is hilarious. Later, we notice the larger joke: An empire becomes powerless when ordinary people refuse to be impressed by it. The books don’t change. We do.

 

The difference reflects their creators. Tintin was overwhelmingly the achievement of one artistic imagination: Hergé. Asterix was a remarkable partnership — Goscinny supplied the scripts, jokes, and satire; Uderzo supplied the expressive bodies and kinetic energy. One might put it this way: Goscinny wrote the laughter. Uderzo gave it a structure.

 

So, Tintin or Asterix? Perhaps the answer is simply both — but not for the same reason. Tintin makes us curious. Asterix makes us irreverent. Tintin tells us to discover the world. Asterix reminds us not to take its powerful people too seriously. A childhood with Tintin gives you wanderlust. A childhood with Asterix gives you a healthy suspicion of emperors. And a century after Goscinny’s birth, that seems like a rather good education.

 

The writer is professor of statistics, Indian Statistical Institute, Kolkata.

 

Eye Culture is a weekly column devoted to subjects such as art, dance, music, film, sport, and science