Welcome to another edition of Last Call Comics. Here, as we continually bolster AIPT’s weekly comics coverage, we catch any titles that might’ve fallen through the cracks. Or those books that we might not cover but still deserve a little spotlight. Either way, it’s a chance to explore more comics, generate some novel insights, and maybe add to everyone’s to-be-read pile.
Once more, happy New Comic Book Day to everyone.
Subgenre #3
Courtesy of Dark Horse Comics.
Sometimes storytelling comes down to the math. Take, for instance, Subgenre, in which the creative team of Matt Kindt, Wilfredo Torres, and Bill Crabtree explore metafictional narratives through a man bounding between two realities/lives (a cyberpunk PI and a brutal fantasy warrior).
Issue #1, which focused mostly on the PI, proved to be an uneven but nonetheless intriguing start. Issue #2, then, was a marked improvement as the lens shifted to the warrior — but even then things still felt somewhat tenuous.
Now, thanks to the law of averages (or whatever, I’m no math guy), arriving at a third “chapter” means we should have more data to discern this book’s value. So, does it all add up to success, or has this book lost the plot entirely?
And I’ve got to say, it’s lucky #3 where we finally get a maximum dose of meta magic from Subgenre.
I say this often, but I really don’t want to spoil a lot of this issue given that it’s so powerful in terms of how it finally aligns some key threads and elements. What I can say is that our “hero,” V, seems to be in a place where he understands the jumping between worlds/realities, and that opens up Kindt and company to turn up the meta bits all the way to 11. And, sure, there’s lots of important parts and elements I’m basically skipping right past, but the end result is what matters here: Subgenre has finally clicked and given us the experience we’ve wanted all along.
Which is to say, a massive self-referential storytelling experience that raises some rather important questions and ideas about the nature of storytelling, the role of both the teller and the listener, and why and how we use stories in our day-to-day lives. Again, without spoiling too much, I love that this project’s specific interests in meta storytelling feel really pointed and super relevant. There’s lots of mention/innuendo about IP and artificial intelligence, and those sentiments really bring this story home in a way that might not have been accessible if there were more “abstract” goals here. Kindt, especially, feels like he’s reached a new place in his continued interest in all things meta. He doesn’t necessarily try to make this about himself, but he does bring in and/or springboard from his own works to, among other things, ground this super-heady process in an important way and use meta tidbits to evaluate his own work, its interests, and even its long-term value.
Through that kind of “personalization,” all of that self-referencing and endless layers feel wholly organic — it’s not done for the sake of shocking and/or confusing listeners but showing us the hugely complicated, deeply personal nature of storytelling and how we share in this tradition as a means of building connections and community. The end result is pretty great, but the process and machinations here are just as vital, which is a big deal given that this book did sort of struggle in getting to a place where it could soar. There’s definitely still questions and whatnot left to tackle, but the issue shines with a sense of accomplishment.
And so much of that accomplishment isn’t just that Kindt himself was so open and transparent (which helped him bring all these intellectual exploits home). It was the work of Torres and Crabtree that helped fully execute these broad, sometimes nebulous concepts and ideas in a way that landed as cleanly and crisply as possible.
It’s no easy feat having to make a story like this both exciting and decidedly cohesive, but I think there’s a few key tricks to their achievements. For one, there’s a subtle build to this kind of meta explosion; there were tiny hints across the first half of the issue before it all exploded in our face, and that helped a ton with our immersion. From there, I believe the art team were really thoughtful and strategic in what they tried to execute on.
Again, still trying to avoid overt spoilers, but they made sure to reference certain characters in a way to draw out their importance and their development as well as the role they play in the story’s thematic interests (i.e., how characters develop between stories, and the values and tropes that define these shared constructs). From there, they applied the same kind of nuance and care to remix and rework some of Kindt’s own works, using these past titles in such a way that they never overwhelmed but rather tickled our sense of familiarity.
The storyline seemed interested across this issue in giving us much-needed insight and perspective. The visuals, then, totally supported these efforts but done so in a way that both streamline our immersion and understanding while hinting at so many extra layers and other tidbits. In that sense, I think the art made this whole process easier and in a way that never felt like it was hand-holding —if anything, we felt properly emerged even as the world around us felt bright with curiosity and questions galore.
This is also the first time I paid attention to the backing materials in which the team outline their process. It’s not only hella interesting, but shows us the commitment and attention that informs this process, and how tiny decisions make all the difference in a moment either landing or flopping. And that feels as essential to this book as all the cool sci-fi gadgets and sword fights.
It dawned on me across this issue that perhaps Kindt is writing a love letter — to himself, fans, his collaborators, and anyone who has a story to tell. I wouldn’t dare try to assume what his final message might be (especially since issue #4 could further complicate the plot in the best way).
Still, if I had to hazard a guess, it’s not just a letter celebrating comics and stories, but a kind of invitation. A welcoming nod to anyone to add to the massive web of stories that define our lives and experiences and give us something to build toward. Even reading this book is a way to add to that grand “tradition,” and engage in the sacred art of sharing and communing. And after this issue, it seems like this book’s value is only going to multiply.
Final Thought: This issue brings it all together for a massive surge forward.
Score: 8.5/10
Bloodrik #2
Courtesy of Image Comics.
Despite feeling mostly meh on the show itself, I happily compared Bloodrik #1 to Seinfeld. Because writer-artist Andrew Krahnke came up with something novel for the fantasy realm: give us a kind of bloody and barbaric slice of life, and showing us another side of these exaggerated heroes.
But like the show, this “formula” does have some downsides in that it can get old and/or repetitive quite fast. Midway into #1, I was genuinely worried how much I could take of Bloodrik’s extra violent day-to-day.
Turns out, I could eat this stuff up like so much warm soup.
That’s because I think Krahnke is really thoughtful, almost strategic in how he approaches this title. For one, just as with the debut, we get two stories across #2, the main narrative that ends on a cliffhanger and a smaller backup piece with a firm ending. It’s not exactly a novel decision, but these two stories offer decidedly different experiences.
The main story continues in #2 as Bloodrik tracks a bear through the snow-bound Wasteland. The structure of the story itself is pretty lax — it’s just enough to give a shape and form and keep the focus where it ought to be (seeing just how far Bloodrik can survive in this wintery hellscape). Even with a lot of the world being endless white, Krahnke keeps out interest by emphasizing the sheer physicality of Bloodrik’s movements, and how his burning humanity is a contrast to a world of mostly cold, grey death.
And it’s through that physicality that we really get to know Bloodrik — he’s more than just a tank searching for blood and meat, and the way he stomps through a snow bank or addresses his wounds speaks volumes about the man behind the loincloth (but in a way that invites our interests as opposed to bashing us over the head). All of that together helps tale a deeply humanized story, and one that doesn’t just give us what we want but does so in a way that feels like an earnest conversation between creator and readers/audience.
The second story, meanwhile, sees Bloodrik on something of a bad trip after consuming gnarly rotten fruit. It’s weird to think of this one as the “joke” story, especially since it does get very dark and intense almost immediately. But then that kind of levity/brevity is exactly what this story represents — it’s about creating a novel space that feels connected to the main story (aesthetically, emotionally, etc.) while having this tale stand firmly on its own.
And in that process, Krahnke gets an opportunity to flex some different creative muscles. This story’s all over-sized body horror and psychedelic madness, and that kind of over-the-top, uber freaky imagery is able to 1) grow the world and lore in an understated way and 2) offer a bit of contrast and comparison to the first story. I certainly don’t think the second tale is any less important (even as it’s meant to feel like a treat on top of the main storyline); rather, it’s about showing different sides of this world and the sheer potential attached to the Bloodrik “universe.” In that way, everything has a proper value and purpose even as we’re given more of a say where to place our energies and interests.
That bit right there really encapsulates the reasons for Bloodrik’s “sustainability” — it feels like a novel story. Not just one that’s getting us to rethink fantasy as a whole, but also ideas of chronology, character development, genre influences, and even what’s real and what’s not (and why that might matter). Bloodrik swings a giant sword and ends up hacking away at our sensibilities and long-held beliefs, doing so to fully energize old stories and their tropes.
Maybe Seinfeld had to end, but I could watch our barbarian bud for ages sort through his bloody world.
Final Thought: Give me even more barbarian journal entries penned in gore!
Score: 8.5/10
Blade #7
Courtesy of Marvel Comics.
Whereas The Beatles have a sunnier outlook on friendship, Blade’s recent collabos haven’t exactly left him singing. But they have been an important way to further the core mission statement of his ongoing series: evolve Blade for a new generation.
And, sure, partnerships with Doctor Strange in issue #3/#4 and Dracula in issue #6 proved fruitful enough, but it’s issue #7 where Blade has truly met his match.
As if the cover isn’t blatant enough, we get to see the Daywalker team up with The Hulk. It’s one of those partnerships that, perhaps unlike Strange, feels instantly relevant and clear in its overall scope. Both men are familiar with operating on the periphery, and this issue gives them a chance to trauma bond over their recent run-ins with supernatural evil. In that way, we not only see the larger similarities and differences (they’re tortured, yeah, but Blade seems to really own up to it as opposed to Bruce Banner), but also further Blade’s development as a proper force with big connections and lore and whatnot. That last bit is quite important; this is a story, first and foremost, and not just a mere detour for character development.
Similarly, a plan is hatched across this issue that plays up those ideas and energies that the two share — namely, their struggles with inner turmoil (and the beast within) as well as trying to do good amid so much evil and suffering. And all of that made this a decidedly more fruitful tag team for Blade in the long run.
Ultimately, it’s not just about adding to the character and extending his place across the Marvel Universe; it’s also about giving us real and organic opportunities to explore the warrior himself. Writer Bryan Hill clearly has a deep affinity for Blade, and he’s placing him in a series of moments/scenarios that not only tests him greatly but gives Blade chances to properly shine.
It’s about letting us understand the way Blade might perceive himself, or the sort of understated humanity he maintains under that sick duster, in a way that feels endlessly true for this character. (The same goes for Hulk/Banner here, and Hill’s keen eye lays out the man-monster’s layers in an exciting new light.) It’s one thing to want to push him forward, but issue #7 proved it’s been a process with the character’s interests continuously at mind. He’s moving down this path, showing us more heart and depth than ever, and it never feels strange or forced — instead, it’s about maintaining the edge of the Daywalker while showing the important “chinks” in his armor.
And that process isn’t just compelling as a storyline but it comes to life visually in a rather interesting manner. I’ll spoil it now and say that we don’t get a big Blade/Hulk battle, but we do get some extra sweet body horror via demonic possession and some generally nifty monster fights by both “heroes.” The real appeal, though, is elsewhere across this issue (even as all that bloody action still rules).
It’s in little things, like the deeply exhausted design of Banner — that always feels like such a vital choice in exploring the character’s mental and emotional state. Or, the small acts of humanity from Blade to Banner, and how they feel slightly unnerving even as they’re so powerful in tracking his status and also revealing more of Blade’s “truer” self. Similarly, it’s in the quiet force and overall sense of dignity that defines the ending battle of Blade/Hulk versus monsters/demons — I don’t have to ruin the “twist” to tell you that it’s a scene that hints at and explores so much emotionality and character interaction without saying much in the first place.
Together, I think these pillars really defined this issue, and firmly set the tone and mood for these characters to undergo some big reveals — and then to really let the moment wash over both us and them. It’s also a return of sorts for artist Valentina Pinti, who helped draw issues #3 and #4. (Pinti is joined here by frequent colorist KJ Diaz.) It’s not only nice to see some more consistency from a book with a rotating artistic team, but Pinti’s work here, like with those previous issues, has a blend of grit and joy baked in, and it made this big but understated issue really hum.
Based on the ending to issue #7, Blade is going to have a chance to meet even more new friends as he undergoes a journey to a very special place. And while it’s odd to think of Blade as a team player (even as he’s clearly been on teams before), this series has shown us all kinds of new insights and understandings to the vampire-slaying badass. And the more we see — and the more friends that get in on the action — the even better this book becomes.
Final Thought: Friendship is a blade that cuts both ways.
Score: 8.5/10
The Sacrificers #6
Courtesy of Image Comics.
With issue #5, The Sacrificers really turned the heat up (and then some). We got some important insights into the Elixir; added a new important character in the Foreman (aka the Elixir’s creator), and generally made things feel all the more daring and exciting (without disconnecting from that mega emotional core).
But where #5 felt like a sprint, issue #6 was practically a full on run into this story’s bright, bright future.
That’s because there were some clearly important developments — mainly around the relationship of Pigeon and Princess Soluna. I don’t want to give away too much of that pairing (especially since I’ve been waiting months for it to really get going), but suffice to say it’s the core of this book. And that’s not only from a sentimental perspective but in terms of exploring the larger themes of us vs. theme, classism and the elites, and how we heal generational traumas. There’s lots of big, bold ideas percolating at the heart of this “relationship,” and while this issue makes a statement about that, there’s still so much dazzling potential abounding.
That proves doubly just in terms of Pigeon. Across five issues, our little hero has undergone a wealth of trauma and heartache. His turn in issue #6 is perhaps his boldest moment yet, and he gains a kind of depth and authority that had me hooping and hollering through the issue’s finale. But it’s not just that we’re now getting Action Pigeon — his development has been handled with real care and patience, and that’s made it all the more compelling and informative. It’s one of writer Rick Remender’s biggest achievements with this book so far, and Pigeon’s arc is a veritable ::chef’s kiss: of deliberate development and how we grow nuanced protagonists. Also, the boy’s got fighting skills to spare.
Still, it wasn’t just about Soluna-Pigeon (or mostly Pigeon); this issue also focused on the Lord Rokos-Luna dynamic. For one, it was a more deliberate exploration, and it gave room ample to the youngsters to stretch their wings (which felt thematically essential). But even still, these two have a rich and poignant relationship, and getting to see it play out wasn’t just a massive payoff for this story but a kind of sturdiness. As this story grows bigger and ever more angsty, those moments are an anchor — sure, there’s great emotionality throughout, but their convo happens in a way to align ideas and bring things down and generally keep us readers firmly entrenched. It’s never dull (especially with what happens at the end and how it just pushes Rokos to a new level as the big bad), but it is earnest and intimate enough to remind you of what this book does exceptionally well.
The art team, of course, has always been a part of said excellence — their work in past issues has helped ground us in this world’s history and lore and given us the tools to really understand the story’s multi-pronged approaches. But in issue #6, the duo of artist Max Fiumara and colorist Dave McCaig had a chance to show off in a different kind of way.
The Soluna-Pigeon stuff really was the high-octane part of the book. For one, I love the way they approach action, which feels more about revealing the character’s place amid violence and/or bloodshed (but still making that gore look and feel really engaging). Pigeon, especially, looks and operates in these scenes in a way that tries to emphasize his own development but to also show us some tinges and other physical responses that undercut his newfound confidence and the way he regards a burgeoning sense of control. Be it certain angles or even just odd close-ups, there’s still so much power packed in the quiet scenery.
Meanwhile, the Rokos-Luna stuff was decidedly more active and busy just from a visual standpoint. In some ways, it felt like a pretty powerful fight scene just from the visuals alone. But in terms of dialogue and the story itself, I think some of that action tried to obfuscate these ideas and even overwhelm these energies — and that’s a generally good thing. Because we got a kind of dichotomy in these moments, and some important interplay between words and actions that really helped to show the inner workings and strengths/weaknesses of these two gods. And in that, we were gripped completely even as our understandings shifted with each new moment and added bit of dialogue. It was a truly powerful way for the art to interact with story, and to move and shift this relationship to get us thinking about who’s right or wrong but also our relationships to these figures and how we explain those allegiances and reactions.
This issue of The Sacrificers ends with a decidedly dark and tense moment that feels like it was ripped out of your favorite ’90s action movie. A few months ago, it might have felt like an uneven bit of trajectory, but now it clearly works, and that just says a lot. This book has really worked to create terra firma, and now it’s at the point where it’s blasting holes with big action and massive character moves. And yet careful readers will still find something earnest and intimate amid all this “destruction.” It’s why we keep reading, and why this book remains endlessly special.
Final Thought: A deliberate take continues to pay off handsomely.
Score: 8/10
Purr Evil #4
Courtesy of Image Comics.
The story of Purr Evil — aside from focusing on a young girl coming to grips with her life as the vessel for a vengeful god of obsession — has been about its sheer Gen Z-ness. The first three issues felt like mainlining TikTok and G FUEL directly into your brain — and it’s been one heck of a journey to meaningfully keep pace.
But lest we forget, the creative team (writer Mirka Andolfo and artist Laura Braga alongside colorist Bryan Valenza and art assistant Giovanni Manca) are actually trying to tell a truly heartfelt story, and issue #4 is the first time we see more of that rich emotionality under those cat ears and neon hair.
As of issue #4, Deb has firmly in the grasp of her father, Jason, and the pink cat minions of Mucci. Meanwhile, her mother, Rita, her pseudo-beau Robert, and his dad Steve are hatching a plan to get Deb back (or at least prevent Mucci’s further ascension…) And so the bulk of the fourth issue is a kind of moment in amber, as Deb herself recounts her lonely, isolated childhood and reaches an impasse in coming to terms with her burgeoning power.
Sure, to an extent, I missed some of the overt family and romantic interplay that defined the early part of this story. But it also gave us ample time to see the kind of life Deb has lived, and how her journey for connection has been mired by these events and players that she’s only just barely begun to understand. In that way, this feels like the first time we get a moment to let her lot in life really resonate, and to explore the kind of rejection, uncertainty, and yearning that has defined Deb’s life. A lot of the first three issues really blasted us with pop culture references and cutesy vibes — now we have a moment to see that Deb’s a genuinely good kid operating in some really weird and uncertain spaces.
That dynamic feels very real to Gen Z and young people in general. Especially after the last few years of COVID, and how a whole generation of youngsters feel like they’ve lost chunks of their best years and how they further grapple to find meaning and connection in an ugly, perpetually tenuous world. While subtle, that kind of real-world connection did wonders for our relationship with Deb while delving into the story’s interest in not just the wonders of being young (especially right now) but the struggle for meaningful connections, having a say in one’s future, and finding solace in a terrible timeline. Even the idea of obsession felt more clear in this issue, and how that extends and informs those ideas as well as its unique connotations to Gen Z.
So, given the rather “slow” and deliberate nature of this issue (comparatively), it could have been a challenge for the art team to meaningfully translate some of these ideas. And, to a noticeable extent, the whole pink demon cats and obsession angle created lots of pockets of interest, including really intense fight scenes among Deb’s “admirers.”
But there was just as much energy and interest in, say, moments where Deb and old friends played games, or people drink milkshakes at a bar. Yeah, not exactly riveting stuff, but then everything is so dynamic and stylized and endlessly colorful, and even the most mundane moments feel as if they’re the most significant and cool thing to ever happen.
Add in that there was a greater focus across this issue on humanity (and emoting and expressing that accordingly), and the art did its work to hold our interest with really novel instances of character work while still making room for plenty of over-the-top chaos and action. (Also, if I haven’t said it before, everyone in this book’s so dang hyper-attractive, like 90210 or something, and that’s super essential.) It’s a formula that really serves this book as it both gives us the sugary high and still manages to further spark and foster that nougat of emotionality that’s coloring all this zaniness.
Purr Evil used to be like chugging a giant Slurpee and relishing the brain freeze through the pure sugar high. And, yeah, it’s still a lot like that (it remains charming despite my sense of generational disconnect), but this issue made it something more. A tale of a young girl seeking her place in the world, and how we can all relate to that struggle. As the story builds further, I remain a glutton for more exaggerated drama like I’ve been mainlining SweeTarts and 5-Hour Energy.
Final Thought: A powerful exploration of youth’s splendid highs and gut-wrenching lows.
Score: 7.5/10
Fishflies #4
Courtesy of Image Comics.
Jeff Lemire doesn’t want you to get comfortable. So, after two issues of quaint and foreboding “kid horror,” issue #3 of Fishflies felt generally refreshing in its use of whimsy and its thoughtful dissection of small-town life.
But since Lemire’s all about dipping when most creators might weave, issue #4 is another beast entirely — for better and worse.
I liked that issue #3 was all about Officer Danny Laraque and how he managed to inject something more nuanced into what Lemire traditionally does with these yarns of small-town madness. But this latest issue feels more distinctly “Lemire-ian” as he focuses on Fran and the Giant Bug as they flee into the wilderness. I don’t think anyone else quite nails the balance of cutesy and creepy that these little hamlets represent, and Lemire expertly focuses on being a child in these crazed places.
What we get, then, is a familiar but nonetheless effective dissection of loneliness and isolation, and Fran continues to be a really charming lead in all of this. Her pain and hope are nearly palpable, and you see so much of this world through her decidedly robust and nuanced take on family. She’s precocious and thoughtful AF, and her role in this issue (and the story at-large) continues to be both hugely appealing and essential in this story’s “takedown” of small-town life.
But this issue isn’t all cutesy tales of transmogrified convicts and their childhood accomplices. Issue #4 also introduced a rather novel horror angle/element via some weird signs/glyphs — and I’m a little torn about it. Sure, Lemire has a good history with cult-y horror (see Gideon Falls), and it certainly would explain the whole “how a man become a giant bug thing” as well as opening up the use of more magic to happen down the line. And I even like that this sub-plot, as it were, involves the mother of the boy who was shot in issue #1; it’s nice that it remains a vital element of this story and not another lost thread.
I think, though, that it potentially complicates a rather streamlined tale, and makes me wonder if we need added sorcery when explanations seem inconsequential given this book’s already tight-knit cast and expert use of unassuming “magic.” Like, I’m sure it’ll work given that this is Lemire we’re talking about, but I still just think this story doesn’t need more layers — just for thinks to keep growing ever more weird and decidedly wholesome.
Still, I’m willing to give Lemire the benefit of the doubt considering that I think the design of this “supernatural stuff” feels really effective (and sort of vaguely reminiscent of what he’s doing with some of Bone Orchard Mythos with Andrea Sorrentino). And, really, this whole issue excels visually, and to the extent that I feel more at peace about the horror stuff trying to extend the story given that thread of artistic potential.
Even without all that, what we got in this issue is lots of really vivid and dramatic shots. Be it wide angles with Fran in the forest (which actually extends those horror tropes in some creative ways), or the way time and movement are expressed in some compelling ways, this issue continues the book’s overarching streak of feeling both intimate and decidedly cinematic.
In that space between, there’s also some tasty interplay between moods and genres as well as this sense that so much of the intensity and tension happens as we move our way across the pages. It felt like this issue had less color, and even if that’s not wholly true, the pop of Fran’s coat continues to be both visually alluring and important in forging and shaping the role she plays in this story. And, of course, I loved what seemed like a return of that visual “CRUNCH” device that served as both a “soundtrack” and a way to break up scenes — either way, it’s such a neat little tool.
I got to thinking that what really makes this book are all the little bits (like “CRUNCH”) and the way they engage/interact. What that fosters, then, is a story not only with layers but these parts that also ebb and flow in a way to create effective moods and textures. A story with that backdrop, then, is able to grab the listener and facilitate all kinds of feelings and effects. Sure, you can never get fully comfortable with this book, but you can feel as if your time is being used for something extra important.
Final Thought: More horror could mean vital things or a loss of humanity.
Score: 7/10
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