In the grand tradition of War and Peace, The Social Contract, and The Cat in the Hat Comes Back, Marvel gives us another narrative whose title tells us pretty much all we need to know about its contents. The question is…should you read it?
Brief rant: it would be impossible for this to be a 5-star book. Why? 5-star books are not created as a result of editorial-driven attempts to induce a massive sales spike and foster interest in the long, multi-titled buildup to a beloved character’s inevitable return. We all know death in comics means about as much as when a lady tells you it’s the biggest one she’s ever seen; we especially know that’s true when the character involved is a flagship character like the feisty Canucklehead or the unit in question is mine. So, is there any legitimate creative reason for conceiving of and producing a story called, “The Death of Wolverine?”
Let me answer that question with another question: does a bear, when in need of relieving himself of his fecal burden, knock politely at the door of a posh hotel and eloquently inquire with the esteemed management whether it might be permissible for him to make use of the hotel’s restroom facilities, with the understanding that he, the bear, will not only not make a mess of said facilities, but will, in fact, clean them afterward and leave them more spotless than they have ever been?
No. He doesn’t. He takes a giant, cathartic, steaming shit in the woods, without permission, remorse, or the faintest notion of doing anything afterward other than turning around, giving it a sniff, and being satisfied that he totally just destroyed that small piece of nature.
Am I calling this story a festering turd? No. More of a dried turd, really.
I went into this with pretty low expectations, thinking that if our intrepid creative team could at least come up with a compelling story and an unexpected way of offing the hairy TimBit eater, I’d contemplate the possibility of giving them a reach-around, if they’re so inclined. I’m both disappointed and relieved, respectively, that I shan’t be cuddling any comic creator cock in the near future.
Seeing as how the only point of reading this story is to find out HOW Wolverine shuffles off the mortal coil, I’m going to refrain from saying anything about it save for the fact that it’s somewhat ironic, and while in a certain light it could be seen as amusingly ironic, that light would have to be very dim. And you’d probably need to be drunk.
I’ll say this, though: McNiven draws some purty pictures, even if he sometimes makes Logan look like a GQ model who got drugged and dragged to Bonnarroo.
I’m probably being a little harsh. This was a tough gig, and there are some entertaining moments here and there. But, by and large, this is a pretty pointless story that will be retconned out of existence at the first conceivable opportunity (which is why I’m glad I read it on Marvel Unlimited and didn’t plunk down any cash for it, per se).
For now, however, c’est la vie, you Rush-loving, Molson-swilling, maple syrup aficionado. You’ll be missed. Just let us know wendigo get your new book.
(Get it? “Wendigo?” It’s almost inconceivable to contemplate the mind-buggering but true fact that I was a virgin until my mid-20s…I can’t believe ladies weren’t dropping on my mini-Mjolnir from the time my voice changed (which, to be fair, was probably around my mid-20s). On account of my coolness, I mean. That’s why it’s unbelievable. Because I’m cool.)