Imagine, if you will, a graphic novel without the graphics—a novel so cinematic that every image is vivid, leaping from the page. Now, further imagine that that graphic novel had a plot developed by Cormac McCarthy, perhaps, with videographic expectations for a production collaboration by say, Sam Peckinpah or the Coen brothers, or even, perhaps Quentin Tarantino [the hack—by most standards, he’s better than I will ever give him credit for—I continue to find it unforgiveable that he applied the defibrillator paddles to the cold, dead career of John Travolta while simultaneously foisting Uma Thurman on an unsuspecting public—my rant, and my apologies, he has nothing to do with this novel] and the creators of VeggieTales.
Intrigued? Are you picturing something along the lines of Pome Fiction? Blood Orange Meridien? If so, you’re on your way to imagining Bucket of Face
A more jaundiced reviewer might suggest that the novel is a cautionary tale concerning the empowerment of minorities—the inevitable progression from sweetness to bullies—but, like I said, that would require an overripe reviewer. Better, perhaps, is thinking along the lines of fruit noir. Just because acai berries are sweet, doesn’t mean they’re tasty.
I liked this one and read it at the right time, hence the five stars (well, that and the promise to give all the novels in the New Bizarro Author Series five stars—I’ve been to their group site, and these authors scare the nectar outta me).