I was disappointed by this book. In length and in subject matter it promises greater things than it achieves.
If the author had stuck to a more mundane story-line, the book might have succeeded, but he introduced some mystical, fantastical, and philosophical elements which he was then unable to fully deliver on. The book deals with themes of the meaning of art and life and death, yet we never receive any remarkable insights into these themes. To the characters, life is basically meaningless, with no depth beyond what we can see and touch, and no real reason for anything that happens. The characters meander through life more-or-less blithely, unthinking. The author's problem seems to be that he truly is unable to think outside the box.
Art, similarly, is presented as a shallow wade into the tepid waters of celebrity and money and fast-fading fame, with no higher purpose apparent. The soul-deep connection with the creative well that all great artists draw from is absent.
The ending of this book, especially, is a let-down. The protagonist goes King Kong on us and performs a credulity-stretching superhero feat, which nevertheless is lacking in deeper meaning, despite the enormous physical size of the project.
The main character essentially comes off as a very stereotypical Marty Stu - a mediocre white man's fantasy of greatness that doesn't have any actual depth or admirable qualities. He is bland, but we are supposed to admire him.
That said, the book was well-crafted enough to draw me swiftly all the way to the end, so it wasn't a total failure. Just a bit of briefly satisfactory junk food on my quest for a real graphic novel feast.
If the author had stuck to a more mundane story-line, the book might have succeeded, but he introduced some mystical, fantastical, and philosophical elements which he was then unable to fully deliver on. The book deals with themes of the meaning of art and life and death, yet we never receive any remarkable insights into these themes. To the characters, life is basically meaningless, with no depth beyond what we can see and touch, and no real reason for anything that happens. The characters meander through life more-or-less blithely, unthinking. The author's problem seems to be that he truly is unable to think outside the box.
Art, similarly, is presented as a shallow wade into the tepid waters of celebrity and money and fast-fading fame, with no higher purpose apparent. The soul-deep connection with the creative well that all great artists draw from is absent.
The ending of this book, especially, is a let-down. The protagonist goes King Kong on us and performs a credulity-stretching superhero feat, which nevertheless is lacking in deeper meaning, despite the enormous physical size of the project.
The main character essentially comes off as a very stereotypical Marty Stu - a mediocre white man's fantasy of greatness that doesn't have any actual depth or admirable qualities. He is bland, but we are supposed to admire him.
That said, the book was well-crafted enough to draw me swiftly all the way to the end, so it wasn't a total failure. Just a bit of briefly satisfactory junk food on my quest for a real graphic novel feast.
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