Page 45 Review by Stephen
This looks bad. Really
really bad. But believe it or not, its only the third most-terrible idea Ive had today and today I have had exactly nine terrible ideas.
Oh, Clint. Every idea you have is terrible.
Comedy crime with an eye for design so sharp that this is the first superhero book we have ever allowed in our window. Partly because its not even a superhero book, but mostly its Ajas design.
Theres a charming use of flesh and purple tones, and a thrilling deployment of stark black and white with plenty of wide-open space. In one instance a newspaper clipping smuggles in the creator credits; in another the only mask in this entire series so far (apart from a certain gold-plated façade) makes for a belly-laugh moment you may have heard whisper of. Im not going to steal the fun from you. Heres a Daily Bugle headline instead:
Oh God Somebody Do Something
Fractions timing is immaculate. At least three of these stories kick off in the middle, at the height of yet another monumental disaster, the one quoted above then proceeding to count down through each of Clints nine increasingly idiotic ideas. Thank goodness for Kate Bishop, then the younger, female Hawkeye whos smarter, sassier and infinitely more savvy, so often left to pull Clints fat (and occasionally naked) ass out of the fryer.
Tell you what, if I die, you can have the case. Its good for travel.
Think I have quite enough of your baggage already, thanks.
Heres some of what I wrote of the first issue before the spying, the lying and the videotapes arrived. Before Clints sex-drive got him into the coolest comic car chase I can recall, complete with some old trick arrows he really should have found time to label before dipping his wick. Bring on the tracksuit Draculas, bro!
By his own admission Clint Barton can be more than a little juvenile. The man with the hair-trigger temper and mouth to match has a long history of knee-jerk reactions. But for all his sins, this totally blonde bowman and relative outsider has a heart of gold and a social conscience to boot. So when those who have taken him in the neighbours he shares communal barbeques with on hot summer nights on the roof of their tenement building fall under threat of mass eviction, Clint cant help but act on impulse, and you just know its going to go horribly, horribly wrong.
Its a first-person narrative with a grin-inducing degree of critical, objective detachment. It dashes frantically, nay recklessly, backwards and forwards in time with little-to-no hand-holding, as Clint watches yet another badly laid plan precipitate a cycle of ill-aimed, flailing thuggery. At its centre lies the plight of a battered mongrel which Barton fed pizza to in order to win the dog over. But now its in trouble.
What kinda man throws a dog into traffic seriously, I ask you traffic right now rain cabs nobody watching out for sideways demon pizza mutts cmon, Clint cmon nobody nobody watching out Cant watch oh God
Now, there is a natural affinity if ever I read one.