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152 pages, Paperback
Published January 21, 2025
The Tragedy of a Broken Man, Remade
On a quiet Saturday afternoon, I sat down with my son expecting to read just a chapter or two of this pillar of modern comics. Instead, as he slinked away to play another interminable session of Roblox, I found myself completely absorbed by Ed Brubaker’s Books of Doom—a masterful retelling of one of Marvel’s most enigmatic and mythic villains. The story doesn’t just live up to its reputation; it deepens it, offering a portrait of Victor Von Doom that is both chillingly precise and symbolically rich.
Brubaker’s framing device—a journalist interviewing Doom himself—allows the narrative to unfold with a seductive ambiguity. Is this the truth, or merely Doom’s version of it? That question lingers throughout, but it never undermines the emotional and psychological weight of the tale. From the very beginning, Doom is cast not merely as a megalomaniac, but as a child shaped by trauma, a superior and dark intellect, and an unrelenting belief in his own destiny. The death of his mother, a sorceress whose soul was claimed by the Devil himself, becomes the crucible of his obsession. His father’s tragic demise while protecting him only reinforces the isolation and fury that define him. It is a cold, diabolical fury that envelops all.
Brubaker’s characterization of Doom is consistent and compelling. Even as a boy in Latveria, Victor is calculating, arrogant, and driven by a sense of cosmic injustice. His genius is matched only by his ego, and his journey to America—where he attends university and clashes with Reed Richards—marks the beginning of his transformation. This part of his life was new to me and now makes all his arcs afterwards meaningful. The infamous experiment that scars his face and leads him to the Himalayas is rendered with mythic gravitas. There, among monks, he forges his armor and identity, becoming the iron-willed sovereign of Latveria. Everyone would eventually kneel before Doom.
What makes Books of Doom so satisfying is its refusal to dilute his pathology. He is not a villain who seeks power for its own sake; he believes he is the only one worthy of wielding it. His megalomania is not a flaw—it’s a philosophy of the man. Brubaker doesn’t ask us to sympathize with Doom, but he does demand that we understand him. And in doing so, he elevates Doom from comic book antagonist to tragic archetype. This is almost a Russian drama in drawn panels.
The ending, with its subtle hedging of truth and fiction, only adds to the mystique. Doom’s narrative is unreliable, but that unreliability is part of the myth. He is a man who rewrites reality to suit his vision, and Brubaker leans into that with elegance.
As the MCU inches closer to introducing Doom in earnest, I find myself both excited and apprehensive. Will they capture the grandeur, the sorrow, the terrifying conviction? Doom is not just another villain—he is a symbol of unchecked genius, wounded pride, and the eternal struggle between fate and free will. He doesn’t need a real-world analogue because there is nothing like him. He is singular, and this tale reminds us why.