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.
Slow Burn #4
Courtesy of BOOM! Studios.
After the events of issue #3, Slow Burn was clearly in a place beyond analogies and metaphors. (Or, mine anyway.) The deeply gripping noir clearly had a penchant for blurring space, time, narrative structures, character work, etc. into a super potent story of how we all just get by.
But all of that greatness somehow pales in comparison to the sheer excellence of this penultimate fourth issue.
Much like #3 dipped back to tell us how our main players — Luke, Roxy, Zach, and Patty — had aligned on the board up to this point, issue #4 focuses on the life of Zach before (but also right now). With a brilliance and grace, the narrative in this issue uses Zach’s battle with dementia to tell a part of the story that allows it to really hopscotch in a most compelling manner possible.
On the one hand, that “device” is, as mentioned, a powerful way for this book to indulge its “erratic tendencies” and to tell stories that demand our energy and attention in engaging them in a really meaningful way. That bounding between memories and points in history felt incredibly exciting, leaning into the unique qualities of comics storytelling and making it feel as if we couldn’t guess what might happen next (sort of like how even the characters might experience things). It’s a small but mighty decision that creates an energy that extends and enhances this already-heartfelt exploration of humanity and the things we do just to move beyond the room we’re trapped in somehow. I think it’s also an indicator of the kind of depth and overtness that writer Ollie Masters has brought to this project, and how he continually finds new ways to break open our exterior and let this story get under our collective skin.
But even without that “device,” the story itself was jam-packed with emotion and stakes and intensity galore. Again, I don’t want to go too much into it, but there’s basically two parts here. One, it certainly effects our current “team,” and we understand more of how they got here as well as the kind of trauma and interpersonal malarkey they still have to manage. But we also see Zach’s own development as a central character, and how this history of both violence and emotional disconnect has forged him into the man he is (or the man he was, perhaps?)
Through this building up of Zach, then, I think we get the strongest example of how this title uses characters to tell a specific story (i.e., it’s all about their development that informs and extends some of the larger themes). And through Zach, we see this is a story about the immutable nature of violence, the (possibly childish?) hope for redemption, the way memory dominates our experiences, and how moving forward often means the pain of forced growth. It’s a way to not only grow an important character but to do so in a way that feels really surprising — just another way that this book wonderfully messes with our brains.
This whole time- and place-hopping approach isn’t always easy (even as it’s wildly compelling). But not only does Masters’ whole approach help streamline things, but we have the efforts of artist Pierluigi Minotti and colorist Alessandro Santoro. Together, the pair find some important ways to make this story truly flourish.
To some extent, the art team don’t really try to make all this “leaping” feel overly distinct from one another — it all sort of happens just like the narrative intended, and when made “physical,” it becomes truly disarming. But then that’s sort of the point, and the visuals’ overarching sense of consistency throughout is a big reason that this massive flood of ideas and emotions works out in the first place. It’s ultimately about leaning into that chaos and still giving us big instances of humanity and dramatic moments (like pistols being brandished and exaggerated “fight” scenes) to allow the reader to cling to the story and never feel like they’re totally lost (just lost enough for the story to feel utterly effective).
At the same time, though, there’s a few more subtle decisions made here to help us track the various timelines and geographies here. There’s a slightly sunnier quality, for instance, to the scenes taking place in Zach’s “heyday” — it’s almost unnoticeable, but it certainly feels like his memory is more clear and he may even look at these moments with a certain romanticism.
As an extension of that, it often feels like the current moments, like those with Roxy and Zach having it out, feel a little more “dirty” and chaotic. That not only fits with the sheer emotionality of their little back-and-forth, but it also makes sense if we’re looking at this through Zach’s lens and he’s somehow snapping back to reality when, for instance, he’s threatened with a gun.
All of that could just be this readers’ specific interpretation, but I think it speaks to something especially important about this book’s visuals. Namely, it’s done with such care and a balance of precision and creative fury that there’s ample space for us to play around with our own perceptions and understanding. It’s another unassuming performance but with such remarkably powerful results.
It’s hard to fully relate the powerful experience I had across issue #4. It doesn’t seem like it’s anything especially groundbreaking, but then it slides you into the story with such grace and power that you can’t help but fall into these proceedings with ample joy and curiosity (and maybe just a touch of fear and/or uncertainty).
It disarms as much as it empowers its readers, and we feel like we’re forming a proper relationship with the story and its characters. There’s a lot left to still be settled in the present day, but if issue #5 is half as good as its previous chapters (issue #4 especially), then Slow Burn should blast away every expectation in its glorious path.
Final Thought: A story that grabs, shakes, and disarms readers in the very best ways.
Score: 10/10
Hexagon Bridge #5
Courtesy of Image Comics.
Hexagon Bridge has been a proper journey. Not just one into a strange dimension of psychic potential, but also into potent ideas about human connection, the art of storytelling, and even the ways we constantly build ourselves up in the world. Through our leads, Staden and Adley, we’ve seen these ideas explored with as much emotional impact as brain-tickling curiosity.
But every adventure must come to an end, and writer-artist Richard Blake bids us quite the farewell with issue #5.
The first thing that struck me about this issue was the visuals (not a massive surprise considering this title’s track record). This chapter focused on Staden moving deeper into The Bridge with his new companions, seeking a boy in a photograph, before we have a kind of reunion between the two bonded BFFs. And from that, what we got were less of the vast, often profoundly overwhelming landscapes that have truly defined this book thus far but something almost novel. Sure, said landscapes had just as much grandeur and beauty and intensity, but you could tell something was new as angles shifted and little bits of “code” appeared and things felt less open-ended and more deliberate and focused. That had the one-two punch of shaping both the arc of the story and our own expectations, aligning them in a way so that we fully understood that we’d arrived at an essential point in this story, and it’s here where everything began to click.
As much as I love when Blake goes big, these smaller, “quieter” offerings felt massively powerful. They were more intimate and less overtly perfect, and in those places we got the sense that this place was coming alive like never before. The end of the book, especially, had some instances where it felt like the book’s main “speeds” — quiet moments in these constructed cities and those impossible landscapes — crashed beautifully together to cultivate new contexts and understandings. It was as if the world had clicked to some new level, and every scene, giant or more focused, was telling us the same story about the true nature of this world and our place in it. I no longer felt like some slack-jawed tourist in this place but increasingly like a resident of this impossible plane, someone who was moving across these scenes with intent and deliberateness. Our heroes had arrived at something, and we were there in the very thick of it thanks to this “new” architecture.
But what exactly had they arrived at? Well, if I told you, I’d likely spoil the surprise. But as I’d mentioned in my review of issue #4, Staden and Adley were already destined for different paths, and that plays out quite perfectly across #5. What I can say is that their dynamic really surprised me — it’s been about maintaining that essential bond they share amid all this reality-smashing grandeur. In that way, I think it also clicked that theirs is a relationship meant for a new kind of intimacy (to fit a world with a new kind of form/shape). It’ll be more clear what that means after your own read, but I certainly like the space they’ve been able to play around with regarding their pairing. It’s added to the book’s musings about love and connection in a way that feels inventive enough, and rather fitting given the concepts of growth and exploration that are equally central to this story.
It’ also placed much of the onus on The Bridge as this kind of living analogy for the potential and evolution of mankind. Sure, part of me almost saw this “turn” coming, and I think it does work to give some real stakes and power to this book. Am I sad that, to a noticeable extent, it shaped the Staden-Adley dynamic in a very specific configuration? And that it also made this a very different kind of love story that sometimes felt more intellectual than emotional? Yes to both — it felt like so much of the power of this journey was about something innately human and giving us some ideas/sentiments to touch. That said, though, the true nature of The Bridge (even as it feels a touch Nolan-esque in its concept) is equally satisfying. For one, it creates a future for these characters, and even if that weren’t at all the case, it’s important to see how our new relationship to this place is the best way for the book’s core themes to really resonate. That, and this book’s been all about new horizons, and it’s now more clear that this world that Blake’s forged will grow and grow in new and compelling ways (even if we never actually see it).
Here’s how I know that Hexagon Bridge was ultimately a success: it ended on a slightly awkward moment that was undeniably perfect from an emotionality standpoint. That kind of singular rush of joy and hope that you now live in this world, and it’s growing and extending with all the light and intent you could ever fully muster. The future of this place is likely that it’ll be around for others to discover, and for new readers to find a sense of connection and a powerful vehicle for their curiosity. I know I’ll return from time to time, and see just how lost in it all I can really find myself.
Final Thought: A solid ending brimming with light and intellectual joy.
Score: 8.5/10
Newburn #14
Courtesy of Image Comics.
I’m all for non-sequential storytelling (especially in comics). I mean, just look what it did for the ongoing Black Panther series and it’s solid development of T’Challa.
But as Newburn builds to record levels of intensity and intrigue, it was still something of a risk for creators Chip Zdarsky and Jacob Phillips to go way, way back to explore the origins of one Easton Newburn. Especially because so much of this arc’s success has been focused on Emily’s development in parallel.
As it turns out, though, this momentary pause was a massive accomplishment for an already accomplished book.
First and foremost, part of me was a little hesitant to delve into Newburn’s background. It felt like that such knowledge might somehow ruin his luster, like learning how they make hot dogs or something. But I think Zdarsky structured it in just a such a way that a few important ideas and sentiments emerge in response.
For one, the whole story of how Newburn came to work for the crime families is very much in line with who he is right now. There’s something wildly familiar about that “younger” Newburn, and that connection makes it feel like a more organic process and one that feels authentic given that it’s a more incremental shift than some fundamental, mega-dramatic transformation.
Part of that is that, as this arc has been about Newburn losing control, we see who he’s been this whole time, and how this need to crack mysteries and this overt violence (of the physical and psychic variety) are mostly pillars of who he is to his core. That “revelation” doesn’t really ruin this arc’s efforts, but instead paints it in a way that Newburn’s been teetering for years, and this moment in time feels like a profound shift even as, once again, it’s all about tiny moments and gestures that send him spiraling further.
I also think this issue gives him a slightly more sympathetic quality, as we see his relationship with his parents and how that informs the larger arc of his life. But it never removes the responsibility of Newburn’s change to start working as the private dick for the worst of NYC — it just shows that he’s more nuanced and complicated than we ever thought (and that’s saying something). It creates a kind of pity, as it were, without absolving him of his sins.
Yet as powerful as this process has been, I don’t think it could have been handled as deftly and intently if Phillips weren’t behind the pen. There’s just so many great decisions here, many of that seemingly small or innocuous, that take this great character work and push it to the upper stratosphere.
The most “basic” of these decisions is that so much of this extended flashback is covered in a solid blue hue. It feels innately Newburn-esque and really reflects his deliberateness and crushing intensity in such a way that it’s deeply effective without seeming all that obvious. And the same goes scenes that pair blue narration and red scenery — that juxtaposition feels like a solid way to delve into the both the dichotomy of Newburn’s actions as well as any latent dissonance he may be experience as he undergoes his “transformation.”
But perhaps the most effective visual device — again, not counting the way Phillips simply lets characters emote with such depth — are the letters from Newburn interspersed across the issue. On the one hand, they’re a nice visual break from all the action, and they allow us to really focus on Newburn as this almost hypothetical construct that’s filled with burning emotions and sharp contradictions. Plus, you can almost see the little hesitations from the pen or typewriter (and other little spots), and that adds heaps of personality. These letters work in such a way that they are both of and apart from the actual story, and they’re a powerful representation of the small but mighty design and writing choices that continue to push this book forward.
As I mentioned at the start, I was a touch worried that this issue might ignore Emily (even temporarily) just as she’s getting into a really interesting place in her own transformation. But this issue ties squarely back to her (without mitigating its mighty effects on Newburn) in a powerful display of burning emotion.
In that way, this turning back of the clocks felt more relevant than ever, and an important decision if we’re really going to pole-vault these characters into new and intriguing places emotionally and contextually. I can’t wait to see what bloody madness and heartache await us in the present day.
Final Thought: It’s OK to know how they make hot dogs.
Score: 8/10
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