As an adolescent, I was an almost obsessive fan of the first two volumes. As an adult, I still appreciate Moore's more "serious" work, such as V for Vendetta, Watchmen, and From Hell. I'm probably the most receptive audience a book like this has.
I'm going to be blunt. The thing that's great about (the first two volumes of) League is that it's a straight-forward superhero adventure yarn with a Victorian steampunk setting and a compelling gimmick. That gimmick is that all of the characters from 19th and early 20th century pulp fiction (Doyle, Fleming, Haggard, Poe, Rohmer, Stoker, Stevensen, Lovecraft, Wells, Verne, etc) share the same universe. Moore has stated as such that this was his original idea; a Justice League with Mr. Hyde instead of The Hulk, etc., and originally wisely kept Sherlock Holmes and Dracula as unseen characters to keep them from overshadowing the other elements of the story. The first two volumes, while not shying away from the premise that the world Moore was creating was a crossover-universe of the entirety of fiction, used this seasoning sparingly. Hallway portraits contain hints that individuals such as Orlando, Prospero, and Lemuel Gulliver had previously walked through the world, and tertiary plots mentioned in passing suggest that the fantasy realms of Lewis Carroll, L. Frank Baum, C.S. Lewis, and W.H. Hodgson exist right outside the central protagonists' peripheries. Characters from "high" fiction such as the works of Dickens, Melville, and Wilde make brief cameos. The most sublime example of this is the beginning of the second volume, which vividly shows (but doesn't linger too long on) a meta-Mars in which the Martians from A Princess of Mars, Lieut. Gullivar Jones: His Vacation, and Out of the Silent Planet form a united front to battle the Martians from War of the Worlds. (In my opinion, a single cameo from Martian Manhunter or Marvin the Martian would have ruined this scene.) As an adolescent, I was left in suspense by the volume 2 cliffhanger. When would the League finally encounter Sherlock Holmes, or fight Dracula? Would they encounter Frankenstein's Monster next? Tarzan? Ayesha? Cthulhu? The Cheshire Cat? Would they go venturing for an ancient artifact that belonged to Conan or Frodo Baggins? Would there be a subtle, clever illusion to the birth of Clark Kent? These are obviously not the most original ideas, but they give a context for where I, as a teenage boy, thought the stakes were set.
My personal theory is that Moore was traumatized by the unauthorized 2003 film adaptation. This abysmal film made him question whether or not he was making generic adventure schlock. But beneath the frivolity were decent introductions to important readings of the source materials. The ending of Vol 2, for example, illustrates how War of the Worlds was a critique of British imperialism. Mina Harker as a suffragette with PTSD illustrates the feminist reading of Dracula. League was not vapid; it was a good, and solidly intelligent introduction to English lit for teenage boys obsessed with comic books.
The next installment in the League series, Black Dossier, totally went off the rails. Moore seemed more obsessed with extravagantly world-building this 'unified field theory' of fiction setting at the expense of characters, tone, or compelling plots. The bulk of the narrative is set in the League's version of the 1950s - an incoherent and jarring slurry of Fireball XL5, Bulldog Drummond, and Nineteen Eighty-Four. The beginning of Vol 3: Century made me hope this was a hiccup. I have to admit I got a pang of childhood nostalgia seeing the museum halls crammed with statues of Babar the Elephant and skeletons of Gulliver's Travels races. Once again we are in the late Victorian era, and are introduced to a compelling new character; Captain Nemo's daughter, who it turns out is also Pirate Jenny from Brecht's Threepenny Opera. Off the bat, we have the first problem. If Vols 1 and 2 of League had tried to retell Moby Dick or Oliver Twist, they would not have worked. What works about them is that they primarily revolve around the era's equivalent of superhero comics - magazine serials - and using a crossover comic to merge all the elementary parts of late 19th century magazine serial fiction adds a titilating, but not overpowering new level. Brecht, on the other hand, was a modernist and Marxist playwright, and Pirate Jenny is a brilliantly haunting metaphor for proletarian revolution. Moore's choice to make the Threepenny Opera the central plot of Vol 3 act 1 comes off more as bastardization than as a sublime creative reimagining ala his past treatment of serial fiction. (The graphic novel is also a questionable medium for a musical, a problem that plagues this volume throughout.) The new League roster is lackluster, comprised only of E.W. Hornung's AJ Raffles and W.H. Hodgson's Carnacki the Ghost Finder, who pale in comparison to Nemo, Hyde, and the Invisible Man. This is likely intentional on Moore's part, as he is trying to establish that the League is degenerating, as a metaphor for the decline of artistic quality throughout the 20th century. (More on this later) However, this does not make it any less boring to read. (Act I also has a boring rehash of the Whitechapel murders, an inexplicable choice from the author of From Hell.)
But we're dispatched with this fairly shortly. After all of Act I is spent establishing the character of Jenny, (the only interesting character in the lot) we are immediately whisked away to 1969 for Act Two, where Jenny is an old woman and disappears after a single scene, never to be heard from again. Quartermain and Mina are now beatnik mods. The two characters are now immortal, thanks to the events of a minor subplot in Vol 2. Making Alan and Mina and their struggle with immortality the central plot of this story is a narrative decision I find questionable. (The meditation on the ramifications of immortality is also humorous in a world where the reality of vampires is humdrum.) Moore overestimates how compelling these two specific protagonists are. If anything, their third wheel Orlando ends up stealing the show. Neither Alan Quatermain nor Mina Harker represent archetypes of 19th century British fiction the way, say, Sherlock Holmes does. Now that Moore has crowded up his panels with all sorts of fantastic aliens and demons, his decision to keep Holmes a mostly unseen character seems quaint. The 1969 setting of Act II failed to keep my attention. The superhero comics Easter Eggs were fairly unimaginative, and knowing Moore, I saw the Jerry Cornelius cameo a mile away. The LSD scenes struck me as the sort of cheesy neo-retro-psychedelia that you would see in a mid-series Simpsons episode where Homer smokes weed. (Moore and O'Neill make the especially embarrassing choice to finally illustrate Dracula as a cartoonish bat during one of these scenes.) Moore's view of the 60s is simultaneously Polyanna and cynical, focused on the drug culture, hippies, and occult sex orgies. It is here where we start to see Moore's obsession with magick bleed into the story. (As someone who finds magick to be a rather boring subject, it's a lot like reading a cartoonist write about golf.) The plot of this entire book involves a quest to prevent Oliver Haddo (from W. Somerset Maugham's The Magician, in other words, Aleister Crowley) from creating a "moonchild" who will become the antichrist. In Act II we learn, somewhat predictably, that the events of Rosemary's Baby were a failed attempt to create such an antichrist, and that the titular baby has since died. This illustrates my problem with newer League, the attempts to integrate the plots of other fictional works begin to strike me as perfunctory and joyless, as well as preoccupied with "rectconning" the plots of, say, Nineteen Eighty-Four or Rosemary's Baby to fit the plot of League. (As opposed to the alternative of reconsidering whether League should venture into the late 20th century with its furcating fictional apocalypses and dystopias., or if it's the best vehicle to reinterpret a work with the political gravity of a Nineteen Eighty-Four.) Also an important secondary character throughout this volume is a character from Slow Chocolate Autopsy, an obscure novel by Alan Moore friend Iain Sinclair.
Act III of Vol 3 is when Moore, not content with distracting himself from the once secondary element of creating a unified field theory continuity of all works of fiction, now tries to heavy-handedly introduce what is the "real" message of League this whole time, that the quality and creativity of modern commercial mass-entertainment has reached its nadir. This is something I agree with Moore on, and I think it's truer now than it was in 2009. The irony that Moore fails to realize is that this very work itself, when compared to Watchmen or V for Vendetta, is an example of this phenomenon. (Certainly our era has produced better works of art than this) The problem is, because Moore is an unplugged boomer, he doesn't really know how to populate his 2009 League world. We're left with the occasional Easter Egg reference to a contemporary sitcom or prime time television drama that Moore has likely seen in passing. This doesn't capture the feeling of dreariness Moore is going for, and instead just comes off as unpolished. The one decision that other critical reviews of League vol 3 deride, which I will defend, is the choice to make the central antagonist - the antichrist - Harry Potter. Moore is not literally saying Harry Potter itself is the decline of western art, he is using it as an example, and one that works within this little plot he's created for himself. I actually think this story element would have worked better if it had been developed more, but that would have meant Moore actually needing to read the Harry Potter books. (I don't blame him for not wanting to, but also I'm not the one who chose to put Harry Potter in my graphic novel) What's stranger to me, and more underlooked, is how he has Mary Poppins appear out-of-the-blue as a godlike deus ex machina (I don't recall any allusions to her up until this point) to defeat Antichrist Potter. I have to admit I like Moore and O'Neil's version of Marry Poppins, and wish she could have appeared in one of the more down-to-earth installments of the League I imagined as a kid. All and all the ending is unsatisfying and unrewarding. I'm left not caring about Mina Murray the immortal bisexual sex beatnik and wish I had gotten to see more of Mina Murray the Victorian suffragette vampire-hunter.
All and all I feel he same way about this that I do Twin Peaks: The Return. I understand why Lynch and Moore want to deconstruct their fan-favorite works in order to raise a critique of the sort of commercial mass-art they inadvertently played a role in creating. But why punish Twin Peaks or League of Extraordinary Gentlemen fans? Are they truly the greatest offenders? If you hold your own previous work in such contempt, why not just make a Lynch film or a Moore graphic novel that isn't Twin Peaks or League of Extraordinary Gentlemen? I still think there are some glimmers of good ideas scattered throughout. Ironically, the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, in its entire scope, might be one of Moore's rare works than an unauthorized adaptation could actually stand to improve on. It's not as if he has a claim to have created any of these particular characters!