As I’ve said more than once, to paraphrase Jarvis Cocker, I am not Grant Morrison though I have the same initials.
I’ve always had an affinity for the writer, going all the way back to their Zoids and Zenith work way back in the late '80s (I’m old), and that’s something that’s only grown more true in the subsequent decades where they’ve moved in different directions at a time when I’ve found myself particularly receptive to what they’re writing. The '90s one-two punch of The Invisibles and Flex Mentallo: Man of Muscle Mystery, arguably two of their defining works, felt particularly potent, but I could say the same about things like The Filth or Seven Soldiers of Victory: The Bulleteer.
That’s especially true when it comes to their latest venture, Luda. Their first full-length novel — they’ve written short prose before, as well as the non-fiction prose Supergods — it’s a glamorous, over-the-top confession on behalf of the protagonist, one-time drag supernova Luci LaBang, that encompasses a history of pantomime, a series of lessons in magical thinking, and an increasingly paranoid relationship with Luci’s co-star, the eponymous Luda, amongst many other things. It’s extravagant, hilarious, heartbreaking, and — thrillingly to someone who grew up just outside of Glasgow — entirely Scottish. It feels like the most Grant Morrison thing they’ve ever written, and it resonated with me as I eagerly read it.
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