The Boys Vol. 1. The Name of the Game.
Garth Ennis and Darick Robertson.
What, exactly, would you expect from a comic about five lethal rejects whose battle is to combat the world's biggest problem; superheroes? Well, I can tell you immediately that you are wrong. Five anti-superhero's with nothing in common other than their quest to bring down 'the most dangerous force on Earth', grow into a strangely tender family sewn together by violence, revenge and ...just because. Oh, and don't forget the horny fuck-anything-that-walks pit bull, Terror.
I'm a Garth Ennis fan through and through, from the moment I discovered PREACHER and fell utterly in love with it. I think it's fair to say that among the things I look for in a comic, a lack of convention features pretty close to the top of the list. Lucky for me, there's nothing about The Boys that's conventional, or predictable or...for some comfortable.
If the prospect of five characters with moderately racist/ generally offensive names and traits trying to rid the world of spandex-wearing, mindless 'fucks' isn't to your liking, then I'd steer well clear of this beauty. Billy Butcher is a cockney geezer through and through, laced with a generous tot of 'I don't give a fuck' and a sprinkling of nutjob. His almost paternal (if your Dad's a merciless killer) 'Off you go, into the big, awful world' approach to initiating new boy Wee Hughie into the fold is where we join the gang in this first volume. Thrown into the pit with very little in the way of formal introductions to his colleagues, Wee Hughie's got to work out what the hell is going on with these guys, who they are and what role he could possibly be expected to play in all of this. The circumstances under which Hughie was offered his new 'position' weren't exactly pleasant, which is where the bar was set for his journey into the thoroughly<em> unpleasant</em>.
Frenchie, our ever insightful, almost melancholic frog with a beautiful eloquence to his short temper provides the reason behind much of the debate. Though honestly, there's never much of a debate about anything The Boys do. There seems to be an unwritten rule and an unspoken flow to the horrors they commit. Unspoken particularly, is The Female. A seemingly ageless mute who's capacity to reign terror on all and any who'd be fool enough to cross her. Ironically, of them all, I'd say undoubtedly that it's The Female of The Boys who puts the willies up me the most. A total lack of explanation or emotion linking or driving her actions means she's' a total enigma. A question mark above a series of random clues. Quite the opposite then, to our giant, Mother's Milk. Our black giant who's calculated, calm and very cool planning and execution of his...executions make him the final member of the team. Aside from Wee Hughie, this huge leather-clad beat of a man is the unlikely conscience of the group. The only one who questions their Boss' motives. It's his back story that I'm itching for, for that reason alone. What lets a man be a part of something so vicious while his Jimmeny Cricket is still whittering away in his ear?
Let's not forget about The Supes. Unconventional? All over again, Mr. Ennis. Never before have spandex suit and cape wearing crime fighters been ridiculed, chewed swallowed and shat out as much as in this book. The squeaky clean lifestyle of a gym-perfect torso saving a dame from a falling tower block? Sure. But you'll also get the flip side, that the so-called superhero is probably into gang rape, class -A's and bestiality...and that's just on his lunch break.
Despite the extremes that we encounter in this book, the characters, what they represent and how we perceive their actions brings up a few jolts of unexpected empathy. Whether is be the megalomanic dick-bag Supe who thinks every female on the planet's their for his cock-sucking pleasure, or the young an naive, impressionable and confused new Supe who's fallen victim to the former's tricks...the fundamental issues that they present to us are real and ever-present in the world, our society, our lives.
You can rely on Garth Ennis to be brutal inhis truths which are delivered without apology by excellent writing and brought to life by the morbidly detailed and brilliant penning of Darick Robertson. I take great pleasure in being able to tell you that many a times, his panels have evoked "Urrrggghh shiiiiiit!" followed by a giggle of sincere delight.
You're not looking for happy endings or '*Insert butter-wouldn't-melt name here* saves the day!' type story lines are you? Of course not or you wouldn't have made it this far. Take my word for it and plunge yourself into this brilliant awfulness and too bad to be true(ness)
Come on, Terror!
