I started reading this as a diehard fan of the James Bond books and films, and after having read Gross and Altman’s The Fifty-Year Mission: The Complete, Uncensored, Unauthorized Oral History of Star Trek. This follows the same format as Mission, almost entirely using interviews and soundbites from cast and crew of Bond films, plus pop-culture historians and aficionados and film and literary figures in the Bond orbit. As it released in 2020, the book covers through 2013’s Spectre.
This was an enjoyable read, mostly for the background information. The travails of Fleming trying to get a movie produced were an interesting read, as well as the segments on the 1967 Casino Royale and 1983’s Never Say Never Again. However, once the book starts covering the mainline films, my interest started to drop off. Long passages seemed to be recitations of plot and production facts, and too much of the modern Bond films’ segments were insubstantial self-congratulatory responses from the production team.
If you’re new to the lore surrounding the Bond films’ production, this is a great introduction, hence the four stars. I would have liked more substance or direction.
Aztek is a deconstructed superhero. He does all the things a modern, ’90s superhero does—has a mysterious past, keeps a secret identity, fights supervillains, saves people from society’s ills, joins the Justice League—but he does it intentionally. The reason behind his actions just may not be what he thinks it is.
Aztek is different from other superheroes of the era because he’s not just the cool, stoic, gritty face of the ’90s. What makes Aztek unique is what he chooses to do when confronting modern problems.
While stopping a mugging, Aztek eschews violence and gives the muggers his own wallet to stop any further violence. His gentle approach and mercy save his life later in the issue.
The interesting thing about Aztek’s villains is that they’d have been protagonists in other books. Aztek’s “villains,” more often than not, see themselves as heroes, and tend to be self-destructive, tormented souls at the mercy of unfeeling monolithic corporate or government interests—a intentional stark comparison and contrast with the heroes of the time. 1996 was not a kind time to be a new superhero; as likely as not, they’d be written as merciless government operatives or crazed vigilantes.
Aztek explores and examines superhero tropes and lets its protagonist decide whether to follow them. Any number of other paint-by-number superhero books of the late ’90s were machismo, posing, and costumes with no sense of morality or self-reflection. Aztek shows all its characters just a little mercy.
Even the name of Aztek’s chosen home city, Vanity, might be a veiled reference to Image Comics, the artist-owned, (at the time) style-over-substance superhero factory that was threatening to outpace DC and Marvel’s classic superhero morality tales. There’s no hope in Vanity, except where Aztek creates it.
Under different writers, the story of Aztek would be much less intriguing—it’s practically a beat-by-beat instruction manual on how to introduce a new superhero to DC Comics in the late ‘90s. Again, though, it’s a deconstruction of the superhero story, so someone else in the story who knows superhero tropes is manipulating Aztek for their own ends. Had the series been allowed to continue, it would have been a very satisfying payoff.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the art by N. Steven Harris, Keith Champagne, and Mike Danza. Aztek is a scratchy, gritty, textured book, with flat, muted colors, instead of the popular oversaturated computer colors popular at the time. Aztek’s white and gold costume gleams in comparison to his surroundings in the supposedly-cursed city of Vanity. It’s stylish without being distracting.
Of course, this being the ‘90s, Aztek was canceled ten issues into his run. His story continues in JLA.
Aztek, the Ultimate Man is a Good Thing.
JLA Presents: Aztek, the Ultimate Man was written by Grant Morrison and Mark Millar, penciled by N. Steven Harris, inked by Keith Champagne, colored by Mike Danza, and lettered by Chris Eliopoulos and Clem Robins, and published by DC Comics.
This is a slice of life manga set in a Japan where anthropomorphic animals and human beings live side by side without serious issue. Gourmand wolf Mita Jiro (Ramen Wolf) embodies Robert A. Heinlein’s proverb “Everything in excess! To enjoy the flavor of life, take big bites.” Contrariwise, Yanagi Kagetora (Curry Tiger, or “Currytora”) is hesitant around people and ascetic, mostly preferring solitude and bland, prepackaged meals. But they spend their days off together exploring Japan’s various ramen establishments and enjoying food in company. Their friends notice how close they’ve gotten and try to figure out what they see in each other.
This only the first volume, so the story can be a tad episodic and shallow until they get to the centerpiece and reveal how Jiro and Kagetora met. It’s disarmingly light in tone, but promises to delve into character backgrounds and motivation as more volumes release. The book also teases a romantic relationship between Jiro and Kagetora, but doesn’t make it explicit. I’d appreciate more explicit LGBTQ+ content in future volumes, and certainly hope Emboss is allowed to explore it in depth. As it stands, Volume 1 certainly worked up my appetite for more.
The art is the main course. Emboss shows solid fundamentals in anatomy, backgrounds, and layout, and throws in male eye candy without it getting in the way of story. The presence of anthropomorphic animals makes Beastars immediately spring to mind, but the art is closer in style and tone to Kiyohiko Azuma’s Yotsuba&! It’s charming and cartoonishly expressive while feeling grounded in, if not exactly realism, verisimilitude. That Emboss can make Kagetora so adorable and identifiable in a childhood flashback speaks well to their skills.
Looking forward to the next volume. If it sounds good, buy from my affiliated link below!