It's a coffee-table book. And a biography. It's a coffee-table biography. This is simultaneously a strength and a weakness. I mean, one might be tempted, as I was, to display it somewhere where it can be appreciated visually and to occasionally leaf through it, reading a small section here, a small section there, out of order, just consuming the 1-4 page sections that it's so carefully divided into before putting it down again for a while, or even just flipping through to admire the art, something that wouldn't have worked in a smaller volume, or, obviously, in a straight text piece... The problem with that is that one would miss out on the actual narrative of the thing…
So one might instead, as I eventually did last week, decide to bite the bullet and read it from start to finish, you know, as if it were a proper book. Now the greater picture of Moore's life in general, and prolific creative output in particular, begins to take shape, and the arrogant charm of Moore's frequent too-clever-by-half quotes that litter the manuscript coalesce into an intimate picture of Moore the writer, Moore the artist, Moore the bat-fuck crazy Roman snake-god worshipping urban wild-man. The most immediately apparent issue with this approach is that it's a fucking coffee-table book and is therefore utterly unsuited to being held, for any length of time, in any manner that one might likely hold a book when reading in a comfortable position in any of the places one might choose to partake in this particular quite pleasure; you know, lounging in an armchair, reclining on the couch, lying in bed, relaxing under a tree in the moonlight while naked Wiccans dance chanting about an open fire in the clearing below... I ended up reading most of it sitting at the kitchen table.
It takes a bit longer to realise that the arrangement of the book --both on the level of eschewing a strictly chronological tale in order to divide chapters by theme, by periods of the artist's work in a particular medium; and on the level of keeping individual sections, for the most part, bite-sized-- makes for a somewhat disjointed and occasionally repetitive narrative. It's clear that the book was written in sections, and then arranged afterwards, and that the author did not always take the care he might have in ensuring that individual subsections transitioned logically into each other. The effect ranges from inducement of mild temporal confusion to a sense of utter dislocation. The last couple of sections, which deal with Moore's work outside comics, suffer the most; the majority of these pages end up as rather dull lists of all the little projects Moore was involved in, with no effort spent to do more than catalogue the his exhaustive accomplishments. Like even Millidge himself was tiring of his own sycophantic idol-worship and really felt it might be time for some tea.
This issue of tone, noticeable throughout, does really start to drag a bit at the end; an unbridled love of his subject matter, accompanied by a point-blank denouncement of any and all adaptations, regardless their individual merits, leave Millidge too impartial an observer, inviting a backlash from the reader whether it's deserved or not. Probably this issue would not present so much if one chose to read it as a coffee-table book...
As it happens, the question of whether this was the best way to do things is probably moot; I can think of no other way that it would have worked. It couldn't be just a biography; that would lose too much by sacrificing the pages of art, photos, and scripts that inject colour and life into the work. It couldn't be just a coffee-table book; that would be too shallow, that would somehow not feel right for a book about Alan Moore. It doesn't always really work as it is, but I really can’t imagine it being any other way.