Lost Horizons (Horizontes Perdidos, 1993) is not a child of the 1970s, but it is unmistakably their echo. Zanotto created the series at a moment when the comics world had already undergone a transformation: narratives had become more psychological, eroticism more self‑aware, and fantasy had begun to flirt with philosophy rather than merely adventure. Yet Zanotto returns to a language that, by the 1990s, was already an anachronism.
That is why this comic reads today like an artifact from an era in which fantasy seemed driven more by instinct. Zanotto worked mainly in a time when pulp aesthetics didn’t need justification and eroticism could function as decoration rather than a problem. In the 1970s and 80s, such a mixture was the norm. Today, in many places, it is kitsch—not in a pejorative sense, but a historical one. It is also an album in which the echoes of earlier decades can be felt in every panel, every gesture of the characters, every glance the artist casts at the female body.
You don’t need to be a comics historian to quickly realize that stories are told differently today, and that we enter narratives differently—especially those involving corporeality (that’s what struck me most). Yes, the popularity of this comic (and I believe it may still be popular today) stems from readers seeking works perceived as politically incorrect.
I have many comics in my collection that readers, critics, and casual pop‑culture consumers have labeled as “old‑fashioned relics.” I myself have avoided that word so far, while fully aware that it doesn’t have to carry exclusively negative connotations. What is a “ramotka”? The definition is clear: according to the PWN dictionary, it is “an outdated literary work devoid of value.” Do Lost Horizons fit that definition? In many places, I thought of Zanotto’s album exactly that way—I won’t deny it.
For me, however, such a relic can still be interesting, intriguing, though at times undeniably exhausting. Lost Horizons is not a masterpiece, but it is an important work. It is a comic that shows how South American fantasy of the 70s and 80s could merge European illustrative tradition with local sensibilities.
In the broader landscape of the medium, Lost Horizons is an example of fantasy unafraid of strangeness. Unafraid of melodrama, and created by an author unafraid of risk. It is an uneven comic—sometimes chaotic, sometimes too pulp‑driven. The narrative somersault—a device that places the entire perspective in such a bizarre position—is original enough to define the comic’s character (and it cannot be spoiled). It is enough to say that the foundation of the story is the mission of Dan Darnell, a Confederate lieutenant who travels from a cosmic base straight to the planet Alphard IV. It is a search mission, and along the way he explores a dangerous world. There his fate intertwines with the story of Falka, a beautiful Amazon who will inscribe legends and prophecies into a new chapter.
The paradox is that all the flaws one can list make the comic primarily a historical artifact of the medium. That is how I feel it and how I will treat it. From today’s perspective, some scenes may be perceived as problematic—especially those in which women are rescued, kidnapped, transformed, or “destined” for specific roles. Zanotto does not do this intentionally, but the effect is clear: this is fantasy that does not speak the language of equality. Nor the language of diversity.
It follows that Zanotto created a comic meant to be total—visually, emotionally, generically. He wants to be like Serpieri (though he falls short), in brutality like Juan Ortiz, and in the depiction of sci‑fi and technical details he reminded me of Bogusław Polch.
But the totality of the 1970s is not the totality of today. I read this comic as a record of fantasy from before the era of any self‑reflection. A world that did not yet know discussions about representation, sexualization, or violence against women.
For me, Lost Horizons is a comic about a world that has aged—not only in its plot, but in its storytelling. A tale of fantasy that did not yet know its own limitations. Of a creator who drew with passion, but not with reflection.
Is it a relic? Yes—in the best sense of the word. A relic that reveals the history of the medium. A relic that shows how readers’ sensibilities have changed and reminds us that fantasy was not always self‑aware, but it was always sincere. Did Zanotto deliberately ignore modernity? He draws as if he had completely skipped the 1980s, as if he had never seen Blade Runner or many other monumental works that redefined the genre after the 70s.
A final word: why, despite its many relic‑like qualities, will I keep Lost Horizons in my collection? It is one of the most peculiar comics I own. And if someone visited me asking to borrow an album and said: “I need something weird, peculiar, a true oddity—let the women be scantily clad, let there be sci‑fi, fantasy, some post‑apocalypse, blood, monsters, erotica,” I would immediately reach for Lost Horizons.
