Writer: Garth Ennis
Artists: Steve Pugh, Carlos Ezquerra, Richard Case
Publisher: DC Vertigo
Just ignore this book. Please. Pretend it doesn’t exist. Ignore that buzzing in the back of your head which represents your curiosity, it need not inquire.
The Saint of Killers needed an origin like Star Wars needed those prequels.
The Saint’s story reads a lot like a fable: this is how the Saint got his powers, this is what happened to his family that made the Saint so angry, this is how Hell fits into the Preacher world. The origin is told and questions are answered – except no one was really asking these questions to begin with.
“How did the Saint of Killers come to be?” Who cares! He’s called the Saint of Killers and the angels sent him after Jesse Custer, why do we need to know anything else? Part of the Saint’s appeal is due to the fact he’s a badass mystery cowboy who refuses to die – like the enigmatic western stranger who rolls into town, saves the day, and leaves just as mysteriously as he arrived. Once you remove the mystery, you remove part of the appeal. This tale robs from the series more than it adds, and having the Devil whine about how cold the Saint’s blood is only makes it all the more silly.
The Good Old Boys needed a spin-off like Adam Sandler needed a movie career.
The problem isn’t so much that this story is a send-up of Dukes of Hazzard, Ennis style. The problem is that there’s nothing to balance with the humor. Ennis’ humor succeeds so well in the main stories because it’s always juxtaposed to dire situations and there’s always a straight man to play off. Jody could have been the straight man here, but his partnership with TC, the exaggerated hillbilly stereotype, flushes that potential. What remains are a bunch of running gags, many of them telegraphed and none of them subtle, and most of them already done to greater effect back in volume two.
As opposed to the Saint’s tale, we’re not required to take this one seriously, which bumps it up from “cringe-worthy” to “passable”.
And lastly, Arseface needed a sob story like American Christians need to feel persecuted.
It’s not that this is such a terrible story, because it’s not. It deals with teen depression, family abuse, and suicide. It deals with personal responsibility and self respect. It’s about an unfortunate kid who’s unable to put his life on track and looks to a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Too bad it’s about one of the most hilarious characters in the entire Preacher series.
Come on, how are we supposed to acknowledge the pathos of this character when his story is framed by bookend scenes that demonstrate how ridiculous he is? He calls himself Arseface! No amount of post-suicidal therapy is going to bridge that gap. This story had noble intentions, but it’s a clear misfire.
I’d like to think these tie-in stories came out of the Vertigo editors wanting to make a quick buck and not Ennis’ burning desire to write them. They simply do more damage to the Preacher mythos than not. I can really only recommend this collection to those obsessed Ennis fan who have never been disappointed in anything he’s written. Otherwise, pretend your Preacher collection is a Chinese elevator and skip number four.
The art.
The reason I haven’t discussed the various artists on this book is that they have the unenviable task of filling in for Steve Dillon. Dillon’s style is unique, consistent, clear and proportionate, and ultimately a perfect fit for Preacher. I’ve seen great work from Pugh, Ezquerra and Case on other titles, but I find them unsuitable here for the sole reason that they are not Steve Dillon and do not draw like Steve Dillon. If anything, they make me appreciate how perfect an artist Dillon is for what Ennis does with Preacher.
Dillon knows how to humanize and express emotion in his characters. It’s often easy to tell what the characters are saying without even reading the text, and the fact that his character expressions are so vibrant means that the reader often doesn’t realize they’ve been reading pages upon pages of talking heads. It’s also a testament to the writing that it never feels like talking heads, but if the printed page just looked like talking heads, it would get boring very quickly. Dillon doesn’t ever run across this problem.
And when it’s time for the characters to kick over the table and knock out some teeth, Dillon knows which teeth will be splattered across the bloody floor and which ones will still be dangling by a thread. His action and violence is never over the top or gruesomely realistic, but it’s as dark and gritty or absurd and slapstick as the story requires. His knack for facial expressions puts the cap on the action, as the characters’ reactions inform the readers whether they should be laughing or wincing. Most impressive is his rendering of frowns and grimaces, which always carry the right amount of toughness and attitude without crossing over into absurdity. Despite all the suffering and indignity Starr encounters, he always appears intimidating when necessary.
It’s hard to talk about the art without mentioning the stunning covers by Glenn Fabry. I usually despise the division between cover and interior art, and the greater the contrast the louder the fingernails on chalkboard. But somehow Fabry’s realistic and gruesome renderings, sometimes the grossest or most striking image of the entire package, perfectly complement Dillon’s interior storytelling. Fabry’s covers tell the reader everything they need to know before cracking the book open, even if it’s just a portrait. Dillon’s illustrations give the covers context and significance and payoff on the promise the covers set up. Such artistic harmony shouldn’t be possible, but I’m looking straight at it – and I don’t want to stop looking.
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