| |
|
This post will consist of randomized dramatic thoughts and may not work as a whole. Like 'Preacher'.
While Dillon tends to show a range of four faces, total, he draws those faces and their iterations and emotions really fucking well.
Nobody's supposed to totally agree with Jesse all the time. Even he realizes when he's fucked up or being a dick.
It's a cowboy story. The end. No more, no less. It's a western, it's boiled down through an odd stew of Irishness, but it's a western. Beginning, middle, and shoot-em-up end.
Jesse's dad gets a baby a little drunk, kills people for a living, then comes back from the dead wearing John Wayne's skin, to talk with his son who's underwater in a coffin, lying in his own filth, with an inbred corpse on top of it.
Jody and TC are action heroes lamentably portrayed as villains because we're following the always-right and sympathetic shitkicker preacherman of holy righteousness, despite the fact they never do anything morally reprehensible and brought up the boy right, teaching him what to do with a gun, a fish, or a friend... et cetera, et cetera.
I still don't see much in-text where you can place Cassidy's cocksucking as form of homophobic commentary. The man needed a fix, and he got one, through the means presented him. The addiction, re-addiction, and addictive nature to which the man let himself continually fall was offensive to Jesse... so Jesse went off to beat seven shades out of him and call him an animal.
Jesse Custer likes sitting in judgment on folks. Because, otherwise, he'd have to work at improving himself.
Tulip should've run off with her girlfriend for the last eight or ten issues of the series, leaving the rest of the characters, their traumas and dramas, and the entire genre-cage to a long-gone past. This could include boobs and dick-jokes as necessary, and maybe a sulky Custer finding redemption in the arms of his junkie vampire buddy on some rainslicked curb outside a bar in San Francisco.
While the series had varying degrees of intensity and success, I did like, and can reread, the whole entire thing without it seeming to lag or get lost anywhere. And the end was just fine. Just fine, indeed.
Oh, and Glen Fabry did alright on all but, what, three covers? He screwed up on Starr, once, and also on Jesse getting ready to throw down with some horrible little chickens in the background, but he also put out some marvelously excellent covers, like the kneeling in the field cover, the big coat and hat-wearing deathdealer at sunrise/set cover, and um, Arseworld. |
|
|
