Posted by: Graeme McMillan on June 1, 2007
There are some books that I literally don’t understand.
I mean, I read them and understand the plot. That’s not what I’m getting at. What I mean is that I read them, and I can see that technically they’re fine (everything goes in and comes out in the way that it’s supposed to and all the parts move in the directions you’d expect them to), but still can’t see any excitement or reason for others to relate to it or even like it, really, in any way. Such is the case with me and THE BOYS, which relaunches with #7 this week from Dynamite Entertainment.
It’s not that there’s anything wrong with the book, because there’s not, not really – Garth Ennis’s script follows its themes closely and the dialogue is that convincing kind of unrealistic dialogue that nonetheless reads very well. Similarly, Darick Robertson’s art is a fun mix of Dave Gibbons and Richard Corben, clear to read but not clean. It’s just that I don’t particularly want to read about an Iron Man analog who wants to fuck everything in therapy, or about how comics are the santized version of reality for the public in a world with superheroes… They’re ideas that I’m either not interested in, have read variations on before, or just don’t get why they’re that worth reading in the first place (I have the same reaction, interestingly enough, to a lot of Mark Millar’s work; maybe I’m just immune to the charms of non-insane writers from Britain. Which would, perhaps, explain my lack of reaction to the careers of Dan Abnett and Andy Lanning. Also interesting is the way that I don’t have the same problem with superhero comics that are equally as unoriginal and uninspired – Perhaps I’m happy with familiarity and getting what I expect, and it’s only when stepping outside of the norm doesn’t step far enough outside that I get disappointed?). To be honest, it’s kind of depressing; I’m sure that I’m missing something by not being seeing how transgressive and/or funny this book seems to be to other people, and I almost feel as if it’s my fault as a reader that I find this book a perfectly respectable, but perfectly dull, Eh.
Maybe I’m just a prude.