Review: Superman: Earth One Volume Two

The Stupid Age of Superman: Heat vision incinerates hapless human victims. Note the skulls in the foreground.

A bit over a year and a half ago, I did a quick review of the first Superman: Earth One hardcover. It was bad. Really bad.

Many moons later, here I am, having read volume two by the same "creative" team of J. Michael Straczynski and Shane Davis. Whereas, as far as I can remember, the first volume was just really bad, book two is not only worse, but it's offensive. It's offensive to any discerning comics reader with halfway sensible taste. It's offensive to the very concept of Superman as an abstract idea. This is a Superman comic in name only. It certainly doesn't live up to anything Superman truly represents.

Let's start with the art. The art's just bad; compared to the writing and actual story, the art is the lesser of two evils. It's just your standard, somewhat innocuous homeless man's Jim Lee-style penciling with modern coloring. Things are colored a little dull and muted, except for things like explosions, heat vision, electricity, energy blasts - those just look fake and out of place, akin to flashy special effects in Hollywood blockbusters designed to "wow" the audience but are actually smokescreens to hide how mediocre the storytelling is.

But, man! Shane Davis' art has not improved at all. His work looks exactly the same as the first terrible Earth One book. Everything still looks the way they're supposed to look, but it's all so bland and uninspired, almost a little like Mark Bagley's work but with more detail, more muscles, more '90s Image-inspired "grittiness." His characters have very little, if any, sense of "acting" and their body language only meagerly conveys whatever the script calls for. Even a slightly better artist would have at least made the book worth looking at from a draftsmanship point of view. Panel to panel and page to page storytelling is indistinguishable from the vast majority of any middle of the road superhero comic you can find on the racks. It's rather disappointing to see that this art was given the original hardcover graphic novel treatment. For such a "special" comic, you'd expect a little nicer artwork. Taken as a whole, this is simply kids' stuff. Which is acceptable, I suppose, if that's what they're going for - if DC thinks this style of art can attract the Halo/Call of Duty generation, all right, fine, whatever. Good luck.

As a designer, Davis' work is still poor. Is there any good reason for Superman to have those extraneous seams stitched on his costume? Does he really need an eight pack molded right into his suit? I feel like little details like that are Davis' way of conveying how badass his version of Superman is, as though the more badass and unfriendly Superman looks, the more the audience of this book will relate with him. (Now that is a cynical thought... and an idea that simply isn't worthy of Superman, yet somehow - sadly - is probably in tune with our current culture.) About the nicest thing I can think to say of Davis' work is that at least he kept Superman's underwear on the outside of his pants. (Unlike whoever designed the New 52 Superman.)

His design for Parasite, the villain remixed for this story, is unimaginative, too. He looks like a generic purple humanoid monster with weird bulges all over his limbs who, when he finally sucks Superman's power, basically looks like a lavender Hulk (complete with torn up pants) with gross yellow spots. Sometimes, simple is more memorable, but in accentuating the supervillain's musculature and angry facial expressions, Davis makes the character appear one dimensional and run of the mill. (Of course, the writer's characterization doesn't help at all.)

It all adds up to a comic that, at its best, looks it's trying a little too hard to look flashy and exciting. At its worst, it genuinely looks utterly insipid and banal.

Now, terrible art is one thing - it could be argued that a powerful story and script can redeem bad art, or at least elevate it back to the level of passable mediocrity. Just look at Alan Moore's underrated run on Supreme (an homage to the Silver Age in general and Superman in specific), which was saddled with art by the likes of Ian Churchill and Rob Liefeld yet still reads leaps, bounds, and light years better than this turd called Superman: Earth One.

It kinda goes without saying, but JMS is no Alan Moore.

There are numerous problems with volume 2's story. The plot is basic and predictable. The supervillain, Parasite, goes on a rampage and it's up to Superman to stop him. Of course, in their first meeting, Parasite whips Superman's butt, so Superman has to regroup before he can win. Somewhere in the story, there's a subplot about Clark and his apartment neighbor Lisa Lasalle (because, you know, there aren't enough L.L.s in Superman's life) and how she keeps trying to seduce him. There's also a subplot about Clark trying to deal with how the world hates and fears him.

There are just things in here I don't think are necessary in a Superman comic, or at least don't do anything meaningful in this one. For example, during a scene when Lisa Lasalle and Clark go to the movies, she makes an allusion to giving him a handjob. I don't know if JMS thought that he was being cool or in tune with his audience, but I found this inappropriate, tasteless, and offensive. There could have many better ways to show Lisa trying to seduce Clark, or to show that she has a warped view of romantic relationships. The difference is that many of those other possibilities would have likely required a bit more subtlety, a quality that JMS does not tap into in his comics writing often enough.

In another scene, Superman intervenes in a foreign country to save some people from certain disaster. The country's military dictator confronts Superman, brazenly telling him off as you would expect. Superman actually then fantasizes about incinerating the dictator with his heat vision until the puny human is nothing but a pile of charred bones. He also fantasizes about laying waste to the dictator's military forces with extreme prejudice. (Just look at the book's cover image.) Superman doesn't really do this, of course, but he fantasizes about it and Davis draws a couple of pages showing us his fantasy in graphic detail.

Anyone who knows anything about Superman should know that this is wildly uncharacteristic of the essence of who Superman is and what he represents. It would have been fine if JMS and Davis simply showed us Superman's frustration and helplessness at the situation, but to hamfistedly force this scene upon us is simply gratuitous. I can think of two reasons for this: 1) They don't respect their readers' ability to perceive that the scenario could leave Superman, the most powerful being on the planet, powerless in the face of politics and rhetoric, or 2) JMS and Davis think that explicitly showing us Superman's revenge fantasy somehow makes him more relatable to the audience. (Because, hey, who hasn't dreamed of using heat vision to wreak havoc upon their enemies?) The first reason is insulting to the audience's intelligence and the second reason doesn't reflect well on the creators' understanding of the character.

Later, there's a scene when Superman saves Lisa from an abusive crazy ex who is about to assault her in her apartment. Using his superspeed, he grabs the guy and flies him to Alaska, or the North Pole or somewhere arctic. Superman tells the guy he'll have to hike his way back to civilization (miles and miles away) if he wants to survive, and then he flies off. Again, this cruelty is wholly unrepresentative of Superman. It's not that the guy doesn't deserve to suffer, but the problem is that Superman is unnecessarily sadistic. That's just not who Superman is.

It just makes me wonder if JMS really thinks that the reason people generally complain about how they don't like Superman is because he's a good person, too good. It's as though JMS feels that by making Superman more prone to wrathful outbursts of emotion, he's somehow more like us, more "realistic," and therefore more relatable, and therefore more people will enjoy the character. 

I get that this isn't the "real" Superman and that this is an imaginary story (aren't they all?), but even Elseworlds Superman tales have something to say about the character, even if it's in the form of something the "real" Superman would never do. The difference is, DC (and, by extension, the creators of this comic) are trying to sell us on the idea that this Superman is the embodiment of the iconic aspects of Superman. But it doesn't ring true at all.

Superman isn't cruel and he isn't petty. He's above all that. He's the ideal embodiment of the best humanity can hope to strive for. Maybe he's not the superhero Jesus, but he's got to be the superhero Moses. (Sent from Krypton on a rocketship is like Moses floating in a basket in the Nile, right?) I hate how people think you have to somehow make Superman dark or grim in order to make him relevant. Did we learn nothing from Joe Kelly's "Whatever Happened to Truth, Justice, and the American Way?" (Action Comics #775.) Superman hasn't lost touch with America. America has lost touch with him. (What's next? A comic where Superman walks across America to "find himself" again? Hmm...)

My little diatribe about the essence of Superman aside, the actual plot in Earth One volume 2 has other significant problems that are difficult to overlook.

In flashbacks, we see that the Parasite was always a sadistic individual, even as a child, and gaining his powers has only served to give him greater destructive power. It's your basic, run of the mill supervillain origin, and we also see that when he was a kid the one person he actually loved was his kid sister. Well, they're both adults now in the story and somehow, his sister sees the Parasite going on a rampage in Metropolis.

Incredibly, even though she is in another part of the country and watching the news as the Parasite ravages the city for hours, she is able to realize he's her brother, hop on a plane, land in Metropolis, and meet him in the middle of the streets of downtown Metropolis while he's still in the middle of his rampage.

The logistics of that are a real stretch.

First of all, it's a little hard to swallow that the sister could even learn the Parasite is her brother. And even if she did know, how feasible is it that she could watch him, live on the news, then hop on a plane, fly out there, and meet him while he's still on the same rampage he was on when she was watching TV in the first place? That would mean his rampage has gone on unabated for at least several hours and yet the authorities still haven't intervened to the point where they are still allowing commercial flights into what's essentially a warzone. Plus, she straight up wanders right up to him on the street while he's wrecking stuff.

It's overly convenient and cheesy.

To add to the corniness of the situation, the Parasite sees his sister, calms down a bit, and they hug because she knows he's actually a good person at heart, yadda yadda yadda. Predictably, his powers cause him to siphon her life force during their embrace, and she dies in his arms. This drives him into an even more furious rage, and that's when Superman finally is able to kick his butt. Lame.

The book ends with a scene of the government recruiting Lex Luthor (who, in this story, has a wife named Alexandra - get it? Lex Squared! I'm rolling my eyes.) in order to find ways to deal with these metahuman threats in the future. It's supposed to be a little ominous but by this point I was just happy to say I finished the book.

This comic really lit a fire under me. It set afire a blazing inferno of hate full of rage and spite so deep within my soul that no love could ever quench it. This scorching hellfire continues to consume me the more I think about this comic. Superman: Earth One volume 2 is a book whose sole purpose in the vale of tears known as human existence is to anger and offend me. The comic has absolutely no redeeming value and I would rather read a Safeway advertisement in the newspaper than this offensive drivel.

On top of all that, I borrowed my copy of the comic from the library and, because the book itself is cursed, I was late in returning it. The overdue fees are added insult to the ignominy of the experience of reading it, and just more kindling and fuel for my hatred.

Review: Batman: The Dark Knight Volume 1: Golden Dawn

David Finch writes and draws a Batman comic.

Unkindly, my first thought when I heard about this a couple years ago was, There's no way that can be good.

Perhaps even more unkindly, when I saw the hardcover at a library the other day, my first thought was, Wow! I can't wait to read this so I can feel justified in hating it!

This was a bad comic, even by DC standards. I get that Finch is popular artist, but I honestly don't think he's a good one. Or at least he doesn't have a style that appeals to my sensibilities. I can stomach his art if the story is interesting enough (see Moon Knight with Charlie Huston, or Ultimate X-Men with Bendis), but nothing about his drawing and storytelling has ever, ever indicated to me that he could possibly be a gifted writer. Golden Dawn is evidence enough; it's your standard, run of the mill Batman story, only with a lot more gritted teeth, furrowed brows, and veins pulsating through clothes.

Dawn Golden (Yes. Her name is Dawn Golden and the story is titled Golden Dawn. David Finch clearly learned from Jeph Loeb - that's their idea of subtlety and wit.) is a girl from Bruce Wayne's past. She's been kidnapped. It's up to Batman to save her. He encounters Killer Croc and the Penguin. There's also a side plot with Etrigan the Demon and Ragdoll that eventually crosses over into the main plot. Now, I've given you some of the general beats of the story. Use your imagination and create a story using those points.

Unless you're mentally retarded, you've just imagined a comic better than the hardcover open in front of me.

Finch crafts the most basic, generic superhero story full of all the tropes you've come to expect from a Jeph Loeb or Judd Winick comic. It kind of reminds me of Todd McFarlane's Spider-Man: Torment from the early nineties; that was one of the first really art-driven big name superhero titles, and it was a piss poor comic (unless you were simply satisfied with T-Mac's art). Finch relies on splash pages to punctuate his story beats, but without any genuine emotion and drama behind the story, it all ends up being a series of meaningless moments captured in panels. His art is detailed but the details rarely seem to serve any stylistic purpose. Unless they're fighting, his characters are poor actors and don't convey any real emotion.

Oh yeah, there's also a subplot involving a teenage girl (at least I think she's a teenage girl - with Finch's art, she could just be a really short adult) stealing some tech that ends the ordeal with a cliffhanger. I have to admit I'm not really interested in seeing how it all turns out. And there's a good chance that I'm going to forget everything in this comic by next week. 

The sad thing is, I really wanted to hate this comic a lot, but it was so bland and insipid that I don't have the strength to unleash my unbridled disdain. I thought it would move me to new heights of rage, but it was such an uninspired piece of work that I've got nothing...

I always wonder, whenever I read a bad comic, where do they get the pull quotes that they slap on the covers to try and sell people on the book? I mean, the front cover has a pull quote from IGN that says, "David Finch is a master of superhero comics; The Dark Knight is further proof of that." Did that reviewer actually think this was a masterfully executed superhero comic - that out of all the superhero comics ever made since the dawn of time, this is as sterling an example of the genre in all existence? Or was he just being sarcastic and his quote taken out of context? I have to believe it's the latter; the alternative is just too depressing a thought.

The best thing I can say about the Golden Dawn hardcover is that at least it collects a story from Batman #700 written by Grant Morrison (which has nothing to do with Finch's story). It's probably Finch's finest moment since his Moon Knight run.

Review: Batman: Earth One

Okay, so what is the point of this comic? Why does something like this even exist? What purpose does it serve beyond making some money? (I suppose those questions could apply to a lot superhero comics these days, but I'm really just pointing at this one.)

Over a year ago, I reviewed Superman: Earth One and asked myself similar questions. I want to say that the purpose of this line of Earth One graphic novels baffles me, but the truth is I know it's just a cash grab. Batman: Earth One is a little better than Superman: Earth One, but that's mainly because Gary Frank is a much, much better artist than Shane Davis.

Batman: Earth One takes the familiar origin of Batman and tries to... do something... with it. What exactly, I couldn't really tell you. It's got all the basics: We see the story of Bruce Wayne being orphaned and vowing to rid Gotham City of the evil that took his parents' lives; his first outing as the Batman ends up in failure; with renewed resolve, he's finally able to make right on his vow and triumph. Yadda yadda yadda.

Predictable.

I assume Geoff Johns wants to make Batman fresh and modern, so he makes Alfred a former military soldier with a prosthetic leg and a goatee, because, y'know, goatees are badass. It's just details like that which really grated on me as I read the comic. There was just something about it where I felt like Johns is just trying too hard to make us feel like we're seeing something fresh, when it's really all just the same old stuff just dressed up a bit. The violence, the spectacle, the Ultimate-ization of various familiar characters - it all just felt like a cry for attention.

For example, James Gordon has a character arc: He starts off as a morally compromised cop who, after having his daughter's life threatened, eventually turns it around to become the principled hero cop we all know he should be at the end of the story. Harvey Bullock actually plays a big role in Gordon's turnaround, although by the end of the ordeal, it's implied Bullock himself is about to begin a fall from grace, descending from good-looking TV cop show host to alcoholic detective. Oswald Cobblepot (the Penguin) is the corrupt mayor of Gotham City. Nothing about how these characters were handled impressed me, and I just couldn't buy into Bullock as a debonair former TV show host. Johns tries to lay the foundation for future stories by introducing the subplot of Martha Wayne (Bruce's mother) and her family's creepy past. Her maiden name? Arkham. DUN DUN DUN! I don't know, was that supposed to excite me for the next installment when we get to see how the entire Arkham family became insane? 

There's a scene in this book that I think is supposed to be the emotional climax of Batman's arc, when Alfred tests Bruce's emotional fortitude by picking a fight with him in Wayne Manor. Bruce gets his butt whooped, but ends up fighting a little dirty by sweeping the leg (displacing Alfred's prosthetic leg in the process). Of course, as Bruce walks away with new resolve in his heart, Alfred brushes away a tear and basically says, "He finally gets it." The whole sequence is painfully trite. Just flat out corny.

Really, if you're going to remix or reimagine a classic, you have to bring something new or clever to it. This comic treads the same hallowed ground as Batman: Year One and doesn't offer anything new in a creative or satisfying way. At this point in history, it's fair to say that Year One is one of the top two best Batman stories ever. Is there any reason for someone, for anyone, for a new reader perhaps, to read Earth One over Year One? No. Absolutely no reason at all.

It just makes me cynical - like DC Entertainment knows that the legions of existing Batman fans who already know the ins and outs of his story will eat this up, regardless of its quality, just because it's Batman. And I do believe fans did eat this up, according to the sales figures. I hate comics fans sometimes - even when they're given crap, they gorge themselves on it. That just makes these corporations feel like they can continue feeding us crap because the people will eat it.

Everything that Earth One aspires to be, Year One already accomplished... in 1987. Gary Frank is a fine artist, but I'm sure even he'd admit he's no David Mazzucchelli. Let's face it: If anyone were really hankering to read a Batman origin story, you'd point them to Year One. It's a timeless comic and one that's so definitive, so perfect, that it utterly negates the entire purpose of Earth One.

Review: Justice League Volume 1 Origin by Geoff Johns and Jim Lee (The New 52)

I don't know what there is to say about the New 52. Personally, I haven't been more disinterested an unmoved by current mainstream superhero comics since I was a kid and the combination of the Age of Apocalypse and the Spider-Man Clone Saga made me quit reading superhero comics entirely. Generally speaking, these past couple of years haven't been pretty for Marvel and DC, but DC in particular has really been hitting rock bottom.

Whereas I felt that the era from about 1999-2009 or 2010 was a modern Golden Age for comics, I now believe, with full conviction, that we are now in what I have termed the Stupid Age of Comics. We're at the stage where these corporations are basically just throwing crap at the walls to see if anything will stick. They don't seem to realize that even if something sticks to the wall, it's still crap. There are lots of ideas but so many of them are embarrassingly bad concepts that I honestly don't know how anyone could have thought these were good.

Here are a couple of quick examples of distressingly bad (or downright stupid) ideas just off the top of my head: Spider-Island, Minimum Carnage, Earth One original graphic novels, the Superior Spider-Man, JMS on Superman and Wonder Woman, the New 52, any Jeph Loeb comic, and Before Watchmen. To further hurt matters, DC killed WildStorm and is slowly but surely chopping the balls off Vertigo - both of which are decisions which I assume make tons of financial sense for their parent conglomerate Warner Bros., but absolutely do nothing to help improve the overall quality of the artistic merit of their products. And somehow, DC's still giving work to writers like Scott Lobdell, Fabian Niceza, Dan Jurgens, and Judd Winick. What a stunning lineup of commercially-oriented superhero writers. I don't doubt that there are a lot of people who are enjoying their comics, because somebody out there has to be buying them, or else why would they keep getting work?

But today, I do not come to praise DC, but to bury them, to bury them in an avalanche of hatred, a hate so deep and powerful that no love can ever vanquish it. Just because lots of people apparently like their comics doesn't mean I feel any obligation to feel the same. After reading a number of New 52 comics, I found a couple that were promising (mostly Jeff Lemire's comics, although longtime readers of this blog do know that I have an irrational appreciation and compulsion for everything Peter Milligan touches), a few that were super bland and absolutely the embodiment of middle of the road, and a bunch that were so bad that I put them down and wondered what was the point in living if comics had reached such a low point.

Justice League by Geoff Johns, Jim Lee, et al. is emblematic of the bottom of the barrel. Massively hyped upon release and produced by two of the biggest names in superhero comics, Justice League was supposed to be the flagship DC book. I guess it still is, because it represents everything that's terrible about their approach to comics over the past several years.

Having just read the first hardcover collection of the first 6 issues, I can say, again, with full conviction, that we are living in the Stupid Age of Comics.

Look, if this comic came out in 1993 and I had never read or watched a single Justice League story, ten-year old Dru would probably think this was pure awesome. But I'm not a kid any more and there have been so many amazing Justice League stories over the past 20 years, from Grant Morrison's definitive JLA run, which was worthily followed up by many more fine comics by Mark Waid and Joe Kelly, to a couple of J.M. DeMatteis/Keith Giffen/Kevin Maguire Justice League International throwback miniseries, to the Bruce Timm/Paul Dini Justice League and Justice League Unlimited cartoons. Somewhere in there, Warren Ellis even wrote an Authority-esque Justice League story, a six-issue blast of accessible, cinematic superheroism that still stands leagues above this travesty from Johns and Lee.

I haven't truly enjoyed a Johns comic since the Identity Crisis era. It could be a coincidence or it could be a conspiracy, but ever since he basically became DC's guiding creative force, I haven't liked his work. But I have a lot of fondness for his Avengers run at Marvel, as well as his Flash, JSA, and the early half of his Teen Titans. Those are really fun superhero comics.

However, this Justice League comic is an exercise in cliches. It's got everything from misunderstandings between the heroes (leading to the obligatory hero versus hero fight scenes) to the mysterious cosmic mastermind scheming and plotting behind the scenes (even though it's obvious from the get go that it's Darkseid). It's a story about the team first forming in this softly rebooted universe (is there any other medium where we so readily bandy about terms like "softly rebooted universe?) so Johns takes a "year one" approach to the Justice League's formation. Everything's predictable and you've seen it all before.

Problem is, these are all icons. I believe Morrison himself once stated that the JLA are the pantheon of gods. Everyone knows who these characters are. Go and reread Morrison's first JLA arc, New World Order, where the team gets together to fight the Hyperclan. That's how you do a team origin story. By boiling down each character to his or her essence, everyone gets a chance to shine in Morrison's classic.

Johns chooses to give each character a few "shining moments" by either making them jerks (see Superman and Green Lantern), overly earnest to the point of caricature [see Wonder Woman, Cyborg (yeah, I don't know what he's doing in the Justice League, either - unless this is just one of those equal opportunity race things), and the Flash], or having them basically punch some parademons hella hard (see Aquaman). It all feels very forced and trite.

The dialogue is peppered with predictability and awkward sentimentality (Cyborg's conversations with his father stand out as an egregious example of this) and even the humorous bits are weakened by Jim Lee's art style.

And Jim Lee's art just isn't good. I know he's one of the most popular artists of this generation, but I just don't think his work does any favors for the story. His character designs are terrible, with most characters sporting some sort of bizarre and unattractive collar and lots of weird plating (I assume it's plating - they could just be extraneous lines) on their costumes. I especially hate what he did to Superman - not only is the armor completely pointless for the character, but he took away one of the things that makes Superman look like Superman; Superman should always wear his underwear on the outside of his pants. Without his underwear on the outside, Superman just looks gay. Darkseid, with his bulky armor and constant gritted teeth, looks terrible, too, looking more like a generic He-Man villain than the cosmic despot and embodiment of evil that Jack Kirby surely envisioned.

Also, there's a scene where Lee illustrates a pre-Cyborg Victor Stone playing football. I get that football games must be difficult to draw, but his football scene wasn't convincing at all. It's enough to make you question the physics of his drawings even when he's drawing superhumans flying around punching the hell out of winged alien creatures.

I didn't see the point of this comic at all. Six issues to tell us how the Justice League got together? It's just a story that has no other purpose than the plot it purports to share with readers. How many times have we seen a superteam origin story? How many times have we seen a Justice League origin story? If you're not going to do anything fresh and new, then why even bother making these kinds of comics at all? There's no thematic depth, there's nothing particularly witty or clever in terms of dialogue or overall execution, the character development is shallow and superficial, and it all  focuses extensively on physical action and bombastic explosions. This must be the kind of comic book that Michael Bay reads at night before he decides that he could make a Justice League movie.

There's also an epilogue at the end that's supposed to set up some sort of ongoing plot thread or mystery, but it's so cryptic and relies on the reader having knowledge of other New 52 comics that I can't be bothered to care. I can only hate.

I hate the bland writing. I hate the tasteless character designs. I hate the style-over-substance of the art. I hate the very concept of rebooting the universe and telling yet another tired origin story. I hate that this comic exists and I hate how there are so many people out there who will continue to read, buy, and support comics just like this, thereby ensuring a never-ending production of similar dreck.

The Punisher MAX X-Mas Special (2008) by Jason Aaron and Roland Boschi

The Punisher MAX Christmas Special: And on Earth Peace, Good Will Toward Men

This cover really has no bearing on the actual contents of the story within. However, I love Chris Bachalo's artwork nonetheless.

I’m not a fan of holiday-themed stories, but Jason Aaron’s Punisher MAX one-shot is outstanding. It’s my favorite Christmas-themed comic book and probably one of my favorite single stand-alone issues in general.

A whole lot of holiday-themed stories just feel gimmicky to me. They tend to be hard to read out of season. Even the ones that aren’t downright bad tend to feel a bit disposable to me.

To some extent, this Punisher special is a bit gimmicky due to the Christmas theme, but Aaron and Roland Boschi, the artist, make the best of the opportunity to tell a single issue, done-in-one story about one of Marvel’s top characters. As a result, even though it’s a holiday special, the story doesn’t rely on the holiday to make its point; on the contrary, the story takes advantage of its Christmas gimmick, using the holiday theme to make a lasting statement about Frank Castle, the Punisher.

It’s a simple premise: There are two warring mobs. The wife of Johnny Castellano, the boss of Chicago, is getting ready to deliver a baby. Don Maranzano wants to kill the newborn infant. Obviously, Frank Castle is out to destroy all the mobsters. And the story takes place on Christmas Eve.

Basically, it’s a Punisher-style Nativity.

The comic begins with a priest in a bar. He gets a little wrecked and complains to the bartender and to a Santa at the bar, nursing a drink of his own, about how Christmas doesn’t belong to Jesus anymore, how people have placed Jesus in the same tier as Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman, and basically just don’t believe in the Bible. He knows this because he’s listened to a ton of confessions.

Eventually, the priest ends up mouthing off to some of Don Maranzano’s men, who are sitting in a corner of the bar, and he calls them out for being dirty mobsters. They kick him outta there, of course, and then Santa reaches into his bag of gifts, yanks out an assault rifle, and blows away all the mobster scumbags.

What a great introduction to Frank Castle.

Across town, more of Don Maranzano’s men go to the hospital where Castellano and his wife will have their baby. Just like Herod, Maranzano orders the execution of all the infants. Brutally, a mob gunman just mows down all the newborns in the infant ward. It’s even more twisted when we learn that Castellano’s wife hasn’t even had the baby yet, that she and her husband are trying to escape the hospital.

Frank, who’s arrived on the scene, sees the Castellanos, with the pregnant wife struggling not to give in to her contractions. He tells them to go with him, because he wants to save the baby. They end up in a race horse track to hide out from Maranzano’s men; the Don has three hired hitmen (from the East!) to assassinate the Castellanos. Meanwhile, a group of thugs (led by a guy named Shepherd!) wants in on the bounty on the baby, too.

Everything comes to a head in the horse stables, of course. Being a Punisher comic, it should go without saying that Frank manages to ice all the killers heading his way. It’s all done very creatively, though. I think that’s one of the hallmarks of any good Punisher story. You know Frank is going to kill people, but is he going to do it in a way we haven’t seen before? Violence is good, but it can also be very lazy. Even I could write a scene where the Punisher stands across the street and shoots a buncha guys in the chest. Now, clever violence? That takes some imagination, and Jason Aaron doesn’t disappoint.

In the end, Frank successfully delivers the child. It’s a boy! Born in a manger, indeed.

The boy’s parents are elated, of course. Johnny experiences a few panels of joy before Frank shoots him in the face. The mother, still exhausted, lies on the floor and begs for a chance to at least hold her baby. Frank kills her, too. What, did you think he’d have mercy for a killer?

The story ends on Christmas morning. Frank places the newborn (and a buttload of cash) inside an empty ammo container and leaves him at the footsteps of a church. The priest from the bar finds the infant, the money, and a note that reads, “Give this child something to believe in.” Across the street, Frank Castle grimly walks away.

Wow. A Punisher story that touches on faith and perseverance, universal themes that work no matter what holiday gimmick surrounds them. In 34 pages, Aaron and Boschi deliver a truly satisfying tale that other creators might not be able to accomplish in six entire issues. This comic has just the right amount of action, gallows humor, and thematic depth to stand out as something eminently re-readable. Boschi’s artwork is grounded in realistic details and very expressive. Dan Brown’s colors also do an excellent job in setting the mood of various scenes; just check out the opening sequence in the bar and contrast that to the lighter tone in the final panel.

Is there a better a Christmas-themed (or any holiday, really) comic book issue out there? I sure can’t think of one. This Punisher comic book is my favorite comic book Christmas story. It sure brings me cheer whenever I read it.

Merry Christmas, True Believers!

I have nothin' but love for Chris Bachalo.

Fantastic Four: Unthinkable and 5th Wheel by Mark Waid, Mike Wieringo, and Casey Jones - A Comic Book Review

Rereading Empire made me dig out my Unthinkable trade paperback. I only reread Empire because I had recently read some Incorruptible/Irredeemable, and therefore Mark Waid and his supervillains were on my mind… Funny how that works out.

I’ve got love for the Stan Lee/Jack Kirby stuff, of course, but Waid’s and Mike Wieringo’s modern take on the Fantastic Four is my favorite run of FF stories.  Waid did an excellent job building up the team as a family of adventurers (or, more accurately, “imaginauts”) and most of his storyarcs organically link to each other. Instead of a series of different, unconnected adventures, Waid’s FF felt like he’d actually mapped out all the major character beats and plots. Even though his stories had clear endings, it was easy to see how one story flowed into the next.

The Unthinkable trade, which is the second book collecting Waid and Wieringo’s run together, is probably the pinnacle of their work.  It actually collects two stories: “Unthinkable,” which is their grand Dr. Doom epic; and “5^th Wheel,” a two-part, character-driven epilogue.

Unthinkable begins with an entire issue devoted to Doom. After years of being unable to definitively conquer his enemies through his scientific knowledge and technology, he decides that sorcery is the way. Thus, he makes a pact with a cabal of netherdemons. Obviously, there’s a catch to the bargain, and he ends up sacrificing the one true love of his life to gain magical power and knowledge. The twist is that the he doesn’t just sacrifice her love, he sacrifices her life, and his new mystical armor is made from his dead lover’s skin. That sounds pleasant.

Doom’s vengeance strikes deeply in this story. To kick things off, he uses Valeria, Reed and Sue Richards’ toddler daughter, as a conduit for his threats. Then, using his newfound sorceries, he sends Franklin, Valeria’s prepubescent older brother, straight to hell. (Or at least the Marvel universe interpretation of hell.) Needless to say, the Fantastic Four go all out and storm Latveria to beat up Doom and force him to remove Franklin from hell.

It’s a grand adventure against exceptional villainy. Although every member of the team takes their lumps and suffers quite a bit, ultimately the story boils down to Mr. Fantastic versus Dr. Doom in a battle of intellects, egos, and wills. I don’t think it’s much of a spoiler to tell you right now that the Fantastic Four manage to defeat Doom (and Mark Waid comes up with a very clever way for all that to happen, I assure you) and save Franklin from being trapped in hell; the catch is that they do so, but not without cost to themselves.

You have to love how Waid writes Dr. Doom, probably one of the most iconic villains of 20^th century American popular fiction, as completely egotistical and unrepentant.

For a while, starting in the eighties or so, there was a minor trend to sort of humanize supervillains in comics. Characters like Magneto and Dr. Doom moved away from their diabolical roots and took on more noble traits. Magneto, in particular, was painted as misunderstood and even reformed and led the X-Men for a time. (Clearly, The Uncanny X-Men is a soap opera on paper. Personally, though, I never really cared for making Magneto a victim of misunderstanding.) While I do think there’s merit in the notion that everyone thinks he’s a hero in his own mind, it’s a bit tiresome to always seek to portray supervillains (especially one named “Dr. Doom”) as sympathetic characters. (This is actually one of the reasons I so enjoy Joe Casey’s superhero comics: Casey doesn’t shy away from writing supervillains who are so reprehensible that they outright revel in their own evil.  Some people are just born to be bad.)

And honestly, I don’t think Waid really deviates from who Doom is. Waid still manages to capture the aristocratic nobility in Doom’s persona, and the way he carries himself, even if, essentially, he is driven by hate.

The “Unthinkable” arc could have been a much darker story, but it’s tempered by Wieringo’s magnificent art, which just happens to evoke enough wonder and imagination that all the really dark stuff (like Doom wearing his dead lover’s skin, or the scenes of Franklin in hell) just comes across as unsettling. Wieringo’s style isn’t necessarily one that you’d expect for a dark story, but it works well enough and I think it’s fair to say Wieringo and Waid have a particular synergy when they work together. I think it actually takes more talent to be able to successfully illustrate a dark script in a cartoony style without actually disrespecting the script. “Unthinkable” is all the better for Wieringo’s contributions. (And Paul Mounts’ lively colors, too, make Wieringo’s art sing.)

“5^th Wheel” is the epilogue to “Unthinkable” and these are actually my two favorite issues of the entire Waid run, and they’re certainly among my all-time two favorite issues of Fantastic Four in general.

A lot of superhero stories would typically work with the standard formula. They start off by giving the reader a taste of the characters’ personalities (usually by showing you their relationships or private, nonsuperheroic lives). Then the big bad gets a little build up before launching his plan or attack. The supervillain puts the heroes through the wringer, pushing them to the brink, and testing everything they stand for and believe in. After they get a chance to regroup, the heroes make their big comeback, they just lay down a fat whoopin’ on their antagonist, and all is well. Anyone they rescue ends up being grateful to be saved, and then by the next issue, everyone moves on to the next big adventure.

I mentioned earlier that during the course of “Unthinkable,” each member of the FF took their lumps, even though they won the battle. This includes Franklin, who just suffered an excruciatingly traumatic experience. Can you imagine a little kid being thrown into the netherworld and being mucked around with by demons?

“5^th Wheel” is the story that deals with the consequences of such a harrowing ordeal. Instead of just letting the heroes have their comeback victory and moving on, Waid chooses to spend some time examining the ramifications an ordeal like this would have on the characters. Sure, they’re superheroes, imaginauts, even, and they’ve been through a whole lot of crazy sci-fi stuff in their lives. But at the end of the day, if you’re trying to portray these characters as people, you need to give them human reactions.

Casey Jones, not Mike Wieringo, illustrates this two-parter. I’m actually not too familiar with Jones’ work. I remember he did some issues for Warren Ellis’ Excalibur back in the late ‘90s. Did he draw the Jubilee miniseries for Robert Kirkman back in the early 2000s? I’m sure I’ve seen him do some other work here and there, but nothing much comes to mind as I write this.

Jones has a cartoony style, with thick lines, that isn’t too far off from Wieringo, so the transition between the artists isn’t jarring at all. Like Wieringo, Jones excels at conveying his characters’ emotions. His characters’ eyes, in particular, are especially expressive. Very impressive how he’s able to have the Thing express emotions through his eyes and facial expressions.

One thing I think Jones does even better than Wieringo is to illustrate the quiet scenes. Scenes with people just having a conversation are often difficult to pull off, but Jones uses facial expressions and body language to add an extra layer of depth to Waid’s script.

It would have been easy to gloss over the fallout of their previous adventure, but Waid writes the FF as an actual family of people who love and care for each other. They each find their own ways to deal with the aftermath, and it isn’t necessarily easy to just move on.

As “5^th Wheel” kicks off, we see that the biggest problem the team have to deal with is Franklin. Being trapped in hell and getting tormented by demons has really messed him up. You can’t help but feel sorry for the kid. His parents have been taking him to see a therapist, but he’s unresponsive and completely withdrawn. Franklin won’t talk. He won’t respond to people’s gestures of affection or anything. He just sits around looking shell-shocked and depressed.

What he does do is draw pictures of the vile things he saw while in hell. It’s at the point where his mom takes one horrified look at his journal, sees the images he’s been drawing, and all she can do is cry and use her powers to turn the journal invisible. (Of course, the therapist tells her, “You can make the pictures invisible if you like, Mrs. Richards, but he’ll probably just draw more.”) It’s one of the most genuinely motherly scenes you’re likely to ever find in a superhero comic.

One thing I really like about how this story begins is that, in the first panel, we see words being written sloppily in a journal: “things are bad” in childlike, inky handwriting. Then, a panel of Sue looking anguished while Franklin loses himself in something. (We later see that Franklin is journaling.) The third panel: “really bad,” again in the childlike handwriting. But we then learn that Franklin has just been drawing those messed up pictures.

A couple pages later, some narration, clearly from the journal, kicks in: “They all need me to do something. But what? It’s not like I’m staying quiet on purpose. I’d give anything to say something that’d make it all better. I wish that a lot actually. But I can never find the words.” Then we see that it’s actually been Ben Grimm who’s been writing in his journal. With his chunky rock hands, he holds a marker like a joystick and awkwardly writes down his thoughts.

The whole fake out between Franklin’s and Ben’s respective journals is an example of some clever execution of the craft of comics. It also positions Ben as the heart and soul of the Fantastic Four. I guess we can say that Reed is the leader, the voice of reason, and the intellect of the team. Sue is the mother, the guiding light, and moral compass. Youthful and emotional Johnny represents the passion. Ben, despite his powers being all about being rock-hard on the outside, is the heart and soul of the team, the rock that everyone else can rely on through the storm.

Anyway, the therapist tells Reed and Sue that the best thing they can do for Franklin is to surround him with love and the things he enjoys, and hope and pray that he’ll come around eventually. Later, Sue decides to take him to Coney Island. Ben insists on tagging along but, of course, as The Thing he’s sure to attract a bunch of attention. Sue makes him invisible so he can accompany them, but he’s lovably grouchy about the whole situation. Waid’s characterization for all these characters’ personalities just feels absolutely spot-on.

[Here's a link to some of Casey Jones' original and unlettered artwork from the story: http://www.mightynib.com/cjff.html]

In another scene, while Sue, Ben, and Franklin are at Coney Island, a recovering Johnny (who had the most severe physical injuries from their battle with Doom) asks Reed why he didn’t go with his son. Reed, who was physically scarred after his final encounter with Doom (he basically has Doom’s handprint etched across half his face) can only say that the sight of his face disturbs his son. It’s a sobering statement and Johnny’s wordless reaction to it is so real and so human that I have to emphasize again how great Casey Jones’ artwork is.

Johnny and Reed have their own subplot in the epilogue as they recover from the trauma. Their subplot involves time travel and has plot ramifications for the next storyarc. As far as time travel stories go, it’s thought out cleverly and definitely works in context of what Waid’s trying to accomplish in his overall Fantastic Four run. However, I’ll leave it at that for now because what I really want to focus on is Franklin’s character arc and how Sue and Ben help him.

Sue, Franklin, and Ben spend the better part of the day at Coney Island. They check out all the rides and stuff, but it’s clear that Franklin is still withdrawn and his favorite amusements just aren’t having much of an effect.  (There’s also a funny scene where Ben, still invisible, wants to ride the Ferris wheel with them. Bad idea, naturally.)

Later on that day, some dude tries to hit on Sue, so she makes Ben visible again. They end up attracting a large crowd of autograph seekers, but then Franklin just flips out and starts acting violent. He just starts whaling on people and screaming at them to get away! After Sue and Ben disperse the crowd and calm Franklin down, they realize that the reason he’s been acting the way he has is because he still thinks he’s trapped in hell.

Sue gives him a long, motherly talk and explains how they would never leave him trapped anywhere, and that she’d do anything to protect her son. She goes so far as to make everything around them, everything(!), invisible to demonstrate to him that she can make his fears disappear, that she will always make sure he is safe no matter what.

Still, even after all that, he’s withdrawn again and doesn’t seem to be affected by his mother’s words.

“It’s crap,” Ben says, because Franklin knows that his mom is just using her powers – just because something’s invisible doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Ben takes Franklin and props him on top of his shoulders as they go for a little walk. This then leads to one of my all-time favorite scenes ever:

Ben goes on to say:

“Yeah, I got sandbagged by fate. But that wuz one day. I lived another. And another. Safest bet wuz t’ stay in my room, but sometimes I found th’ courage t’ live like I wanted t’ live. And those’re the days I saw alien planets ‘n’ancient pirates ‘n’ goblins ‘n’ underwater cities ‘n’ … ‘n’ for all my crabbin’ and complainin’, I wouldn’t trade my life for all the safety there is. … Sure, I coulda wallowed over one lousy break instead o’ facin’ the world. An’ some days, I still do. I backslide. And yer gonna do that, too. It’s hard not ta. Yer gonna get lost in th’ bad. But so long as ya got folks around who love ya, ya gotta remember tomorrow c’n always be better.”

As Ben finishes his speech, we see from Franklin’s perspective that the images of hell are fading from his sight. Eventually, he doesn’t see himself still trapped in hell any longer.

“You understand?” Sue asks him.

“Yeah,” Franklin replies. They hug.

I have to say, I really like how Waid resolves this little arc. Internal, psychological conflicts are challenging to pull of successfully but Waid does it. Ben’s long monologue to Franklin at the end there is one of those chunks of writing that just resonate with me.

And the thing is, it’s totally earnest stuff that Ben says there. He’s just pouring himself out to Franklin. He’s baring his vulnerabilities to the kid, even though the Thing is one of the physically toughest characters on the planet. I love that. It’s a rare thing to find in superhero comics. Usually, superheroes solve their conflicts by punching them in the face or dropping them into the heart of the sun. Not so here, where Ben basically solves the conflict with sheer honesty and a loving heart.

What Ben says to Franklin is pretty much the only thing that anyone could possibly say to get through to him. Helping Franklin make a breakthrough is basically a job that only the Thing could have accomplished. No one else has his depth of experience, his understanding of what it’s like to suffer and feel trapped. Only he can explain what it truly means to change one’s mindset and keep on living.

Ultimately, Ben’s testimony is enough for Franklin to start living his life again. It’s a somewhat quiet moment but, nonetheless, an impactful one when Franklin lets the Thing’s words pierce his soul. Suddenly, the scales are lifted from his eyes.

With skillfully heartfelt writing and equally emotive artwork, “5^th Wheel” genuinely stirs me.

I also like that this is a Fantastic Four story that really cuts to the core of what the team, and the series, is all about. On one hand, Fantastic Four is about adventures in imagination. “Unthinkable” certainly covered that aspect of the series. But it’s also about family, and “5^th Wheel” is one of the clearest examples you’ll find of the familial themes in the Fantastic Four series, and probably superhero comics in general.

I’m kind of hard-pressed to think of many superhero comics that so overtly deal with familial love in such an honest, real, and affecting manner. Even simply taking two whole issues to basically tell the story of the aftermath after a big storyline, just to examine how the characters deal with the crazy crap they’ve had to endure still feels fairly uncommon in superhero comics. (I’m reminded of Ed Brubaker’s run on Catwoman when he and Javier Pulido did a three-parter called “No Easy Way Down,” which was an epilogue examining the cast of that title after they just endured some harsh business of their own. Those three issues are probably the most “indie” superhero comics I’ve ever read. One of these days, I’d like to do a proper write-up of those issues.)

At the end of “5^th Wheel,” Ben and Franklin relax in the Baxter Building somewhere. We see a pensive Franklin sitting by a window, reflecting on what he’s been through. Ben reclines in a seat, journal in hand, as he stares tenderly at Franklin.

“I don’t know that we’ll ever be the same,” states the narrative caption from Ben’s journal. “But maybe that’s okay.”

After their battle with Doom, the Fantastic Four, including their kids, have been deeply affected by their tribulation. There aren’t any easy answers to get through it. We change or we die. Sometimes that’s all you can do: Change. Sometimes that’s good enough.

Empire by Mark Waid and Barry Kitson - A Comic Book Review

Having read the first issue of Irredeemable and the first couple trades of Incorruptible over the past couple of months, I recently dug out my Empire trade paperback for a reread.

The first two issues of Empire were originally released under the short-lived Gorilla Comics imprint via Image Comics back in 2000. I guess Gorilla Comics didn’t do too well (most of their books were eventually published by other companies), and eventually the rest of Empire was published by DC Comics in 2003.

In the introduction to the trade paperback, writer Mark Waid talks about the genesis of the story. Basically, he woke up on the morning of his twenty-ninth birthday and realized that he had accomplished everything he had ever dreamed of doing before he was even thirty. It was a sobering and frightening moment for him. Faced with an unknown tomorrow, he could only ask himself, “Now what?”

That really encapsulates at least half of what Empire is all about. It’s a man known as Golgoth, a technologically-savvy dictator in a suit of armor he never takes off (think Dr. Doom), who manages to defeat or kill every superhero in his path and subjugate virtually every civilized nation on the planet.

In most superhero comics, villains rarely triumph; usually, even when they do win, it tends to be either temporary (where you know the heroes will regroup and the villains will get their due comeuppance), or a Pyrrhic victory. Even in a hero’s defeat, you know he usually at least gets the moral victory. At best, supervillains can win a battle but lose the war.

So if half of what Empire is about is the question, “Now what?” then the other half is the bleak idea that evil very well can ultimately triumph. Golgoth’s rule is absolute. He’s killed all of the enemies who were powerful enough to be a threat to him. Moral victories don’t matter to him because he’s accomplished the goals he set out to accomplish. There are only one or two significant pockets of human resistance on the entire planet, and they know it’s all futile. Every other vestige of humanity is under Golgoth’s dominion. His weapons are might and fear. With his technological prowess, his weaponry is unstoppable. He even has technology that allows him to teleport. There really is no escape from Golgoth, and Empire establishes a dreadful sense of hopelessness amongst the common man.

Through a minimal amount of dialogue from Golgoth himself, Waid establishes that this despot is fearsome and authoritative, and, to some degree, he even has the right to be somewhat arrogant. Even though he has armies who destroy his enemies, he’s not above entering a fray and sullying his own armored gauntlets with the blood of his opposition. He seems to revel in butchering the soldiers of freedom, and he slaughters people left and right with a sort of mechanical precision. Though he doesn’t gloat like a traditional comic book supervillain madman, and he isn’t prone to bombastic monologues, it’s clear that Golgoth is capable of extreme cruelty and callousness.

Perhaps the only shred of humanity left in him is displayed through the care and attention he pays his teenage daughter, whom he basically treats like a princess locked in a high tower. (Her mother, Golgoth’s wife, died under mysterious conditions years ago.)

Golgoth is a menace, but there’s no one left who has a chance against him. Although he has no real enemies, there’s still a great deal of tension and conflict in the plot. The story of Empire focuses not only Golgoth and his work in conquering the remaining pockets of resistance on Earth, but also on his political and military cabinet. His cabinet consists of a variety of perverse, twisted, and sadistic individuals, though they’re all highly talented at their tasks. Some of them are loyal, but some of them have their own motivations and intentions. Golgoth keeps his cabinet subject to his will by controlling their addiction to the Eucharist, which is a drug that triples one’s strength and speed. (In the middle of the book, there’s a great story about the origin of the drug, which I’ll get to in a bit.)

Waid takes Golgoth, his daughter, and these disparate cabinet members. Waid uses these characters to tell a story about what sort of world it’d be if evil had its ultimate triumph and good men were powerless to resist. Even Golgoth’s antagonists, whether it’s the last few remaining leaders of the resistance or his own scheming and conniving cabinet members, come off as rather impotent. No matter how hard they try or how well they think they’ve planned ahead, Golgoth always seems to be one step ahead.

One of the chapters of the book, “This Time,” is a microcosm of Empire as a whole. This particular chapter takes a break from the overall plot, and focuses on a superhero named Endymion, who seems like your basic Superman analogue. Years ago, after pretty much killing all the other superheroes, Golgoth defeated Endymion, the last superhuman who could stand against him. Though Endymion was thought to be killed, the truth is that he’s been imprisoned in a room, connected to machinery that constantly weakens him and drains his blood to be converted into the Eucharist.

It’s a tale of despair, as Golgoth has a conversation with Endymion, and Endymion recounts the story of Golgoth’s rise to power. What makes this particular chapter stand out is how powerless and impotent the superhero is. In just about any other superhero comic, the hero would somehow find a way. He’d gather the strength to break free. He’d use mind games to mess with the villain’s head. He’d have friends who would bust him out.

Not here. Here, Endymion does his best to use psychological warfare on Golgoth (he tries to sell Golgoth on the idea that Golgoth’s wife didn’t commit suicide, but was murdered), all to no avail. He has no hope of breaking free of his prison. All of his friends and allies are dead; even if they weren’t, the entire planet already thinks he’s dead. In the end, Endymion can’t get free and it’s all he can do to retreat into his own mind to futilely try and escape the pain of the machinery. Golgoth has crushed the spirit of the superheroic ideal.

And that, right there, really sums up Empire to me. It’s a superhero comic where the superheroes have utterly failed. It’s about being so consumed and obsessed with one’s own goals that perception of reality itself is diminished. This is evident in Endymion’s hope to be set free one day so he can avenge himself, his comrades, and the world. Yet it’s a despairing shred of hope because in his dreams he can’t imagine a better tomorrow; all he can do is revisit the past over and over in his own mind, and think about how things could have been different. In his own way, Golgoth himself is so consumed with conquering everything in his way that he isn’t willing to believe Endymion’s theory that Golgoth’s wife was actually murdered all those years ago.

After Endymion lays out his credibly logical theory on why Golgoth’s wife was murdered, he offers to find her killer if Golgoth will set him free. There’s this great sequence of panel-to-panel storytelling where Golgoth just kinda sits there for a while, glaring at Endymion, pondering his words. It sounds plausible that Endymion is absolutely correct. But after thinking it over a bit, Golgoth just says, “You would say anything to be free.” He then gets up, turns away, and teleports out of the room, leaving Endymion trapped and alone. He can’t do anything except hate his enemy so fiercely that he cries.

I love how “This Time” ends on such a downbeat note. It’s weirdly poetic.

The rest of Empire has some good stuff with Golgoth finishing off the rest of the human resistance, the machinations of his cabinet members, and a plot twist involving how his wife really died. I don’t think I’ll spoil the ending too much by stating that the whole thing ends with a little bit more despair than hope. There’s a tragedy in the proceedings, but Golgoth only seems colder than ever. If the typical superhero comic ends with the hero walking into the sunset with more hope in the human condition, or life in general, than ever before, maybe the typical supervillain comic is meant to end with the villain walking into the sunset with more bitterness in his heart than he did at the beginning of the story.

Mark Waid writes some excellent supervillains. There’s been a lot of buzz around Irredeemable and Incorruptible and those comics just reminded me that, in Empire, he’s already written one superb story about a Dr. Doom-like supervillain who stomps all over the world.

I know I haven’t said a whole lot about Barry Kitson’s art. He’s a well-respected artist, and rightly so, especially by Waid himself. I like Kitson’s work for the most part. I think his style can be a bit bland at points, but in terms of craft, it’s hard to really fault him. His panel-to-panel storytelling is clear and conveys all the information you need to know. His facial expressions and his characters’ body language are both well-done. He’s excellent at illustrating action, but he’s also more than capable of depicting the quieter moments and simple conversations.

The design for Golgoth himself is really inspired, capturing the cruelty and the regality of the despot of the world. Some of the designs for the other characters don’t really stand out, and I think some of the uniforms for Golgoth’s new world order are kinda fruity, especially the colors people wear. (Could just be a trope of the superhero genre in general, but I still don’t think the colors look good.) Kitson’s a reliably good artist. He’s nowhere near my list of favorites, but he’s certainly above average and you could do a whole lot worse than him. I’m glad he and Waid have a great rapport, because Empire is better because of his contributions.

Kitson’s overall style is sort of your typical superhero fare, which I think is an interesting choice. Empire is such a dark book that it sort of feels like something is amiss because the art looks like a standard superhero comic. A part of me does wonder how Empire would read if the art were suitably grim, but I do appreciate how Kitson’s art gives the comic a subversive sense of style. It certainly isn’t what it looks like at first glance.

Probably the only thing that really threw me off was how a couple of the later issues contain some uncensored swear words. Some earlier issues had some dialogue where you could tell that a swear word was heavily implied, only to get cut off. It makes me wonder if Waid had more freedom to write once DC picked up the book. Still, it’s a minor tonal shift in the latter half of the book that is noticeable, though it’s not really anything that hinders my enjoyment of the comic as a whole.

I think I’ve read interviews with Waid where he’s stated that he and Kitson, at some point in the future, would like to continue with a sequel to Empire. I’d definitely be interested in seeing how he can take this supervillain tale further. He and Kitson left themselves a few loose ends that I could see leading into a second big story. Still, on its own, Empire does have a satisfying ending, one that feels inevitable but is surprising nonetheless.