VOICE FROM THE LONGBOX

I have seen the future of comics, and its name is Doop. Marvel Comics recently completed a month of wordless comic books they called "Nuff Said". The idea behind this event was to tell an entire month's worth of stories without a single word. The comic writer had to be very specific to get their point across. The artist had to be careful that their illustrations conveyed the story without the benefit of word balloons. Marvel apparently got semi-cold feet prior to "Nuff Said" and decided to include the (partial) text of the writer's script in the back of each issue. Some were quite clever (Spider-Man fighting a gang of mimes, for example), while others showed the shortcomings of their creative teams. My own yardstick for quality was whether I could understand the plot of the issue without reading the script. Which, in a roundabout way, brings us back to Doop. Doop is a shape-changing blob in a comic titled X-Force. Imagine Slimer crossed with a pickle. X-Force was a comic that typified '90s mutant comics at Marvel. It was overdrawn and, usually, overwritten. About eight months ago, Marvel turned X-Force into something "radically" different. Now they were mutant versions of those obnoxious, whiny snots on MTV's The Real World. These "heroes" had sold out and cashed in on their fame. They regularly betrayed each other, had sex, and whined a lot. Not a single one was even remotely likeable. Except Doop. Doop hovers in the air and records X-Force as they fight over the remote. It doesn't speak a recognizable language, but it does talk. Which, not coincidentally, brings us back to "Nuff Said". X-Force #123 is the singularly most weird and twisted comic I've ever read. The premise that writer Peter Milligan and artist Mike Allred use to fill 22 surreal pages: Doop gets a zit. Doop pops the zit. The resulting hole in Doop sucks in the entire team. Seriously. And then, it gets weird. Doop decides to rescue the team by crawling inside the hole in his own head. He turns himself inside out. If Doop was weird on the outside, words can't convey what's inside. If Escher did comics, it would be this issue. Rivers of sweat. Nightmarish Doops in drag. A room full of tongues and some stained glass skies. Oh yeah, and remember, NO words. This was so bizarre and so twisted, I'm just glad I didn't read this issue when I was much younger and more, shall we say, experimental. So, is this a glowing review or a harsh condemnation? Hell, I dunno. Find a copy of the comic and judge for yourself. But, if you happen to see any camera-wielding, free-floating pickles with bad acne and you don't run and hide, you can't say I didn't warn you.