Not me, that’s for sure.
***
A few years ago, DC made a big deal about announcing new creative teams for all of its Superman books, talking about how distinct each title would be and claiming that each would focus on a different aspect of the Man of Steel’s life. Since I liked some of the creators involved, I gave a couple of the titles a try. Almost immediately, the books started indulging in crossovers among all four Superman books, and I decided that it just wasn’t worth the aggravation to cherry pick the issues that stood alone.
Three issues into Gail Simone and John Byrne’s promising run on Action Comics, I find myself reading the second part of a crossover with other Superman books (none of which I read or am inclined to read) that also ties into The Omac Project (which I’m not reading either). There’s no indication as to where the story (“Sacrifice”) started, which seems sloppy. And the comic itself is very much the second chapter of a story where you need to have read the first for it to make much sense. Irritation with this sort of thing prevents me from caring how it started or being curious about how it will end.
***
Hi, I’m Vicki Vale. You, lucky readers of All-Star Batman and Robin 1, get a peek-a-boo into the working life of the professional journalist, watching me wander around my glamorous apartment in my underwear and high heels as I dictate my next column. God, do I hope it’s just a draft, because I make Candace Bushnell sound like Pauline Kael. Those poor bastards who read it in the paper won’t even be able to see my ass.
But you can all see my ass, can’t you? And my tits? Oopsie, I got some booze on my finger. I’d better lick it off. Is that a quarter on the floor? I’d better bend over and check. Buzzers are loud! But sometimes they mean that there are men waiting for me. Cool.
She gets slapped around by cops later. Puke, puke, puke, puke, puke.
I know it doesn’t matter that I think this comic is awful, and it’s probably already made a ton of money by the time I write this. But I do think it’s awful. Jim Lee’s art and Frank Miller’s script go together about as well as cotton candy and motor oil, and it isn’t like either is that great to start. The disconnect between the visual and the verbal is about the only thing the book’s got going for it, because it’s weird enough to distract readers from the clunky, two-fisted, noir-by-numbers dialogue.