Panels From Beyond the Grave #29

 CREEPSHOW (One-Shot, 1982)

December.  I haven't written a comic book review since December.  Apologies to the imaginary people who fancy this column.  In truth, I haven't bought or thumbed through many comics in the past six months, and I've been sitting on this one for awhile.  This is a "special occasion" title.  What was the special occasion?  Er, I wanted to consume it.  If you're new here, I'm a Creepshow freak (read my review of the first film HERE, bitch).  I'm starting a modest collection centered on the resplendent anthology.  I own the t-shirt, I own the Blu-ray, I own the VHS tape (signed by George fucking Romero), I own the rad Italian poster and I own the shit out of the graphic novel.

I'll never forget the day I found it.  Sure, I could have procured it on eBay years ago, but anyone can do that.  I just didn't feel like disbursing the fifty greenbacks it would have cost me, and besides, ordering a rare collector's item online is oft-times a clinical transaction.  You might even call it passive or quiescent.  Y'know, if you were a dick.  Anyhow, my mother schlepped me to an exanimate consignment shop on an otherwise drab autumn day.  We hit these joints every other week, and I rarely spot widgets of interest.  You know the score.  The movie section is comprised of Disney clamshells and eighteen copies of The Fugitive.  Kill me.

This particular promptuary was conjoined with a bookstore.  Nothing grabbed my eye...until it happened.  I saw it.  I literally gasped.  Yes, I'm well aware of the fact that I need to paw and encroach upon a female body, but for now, let's overlook my exacting melancholy.  I've coveted this damn graphic novel ever since I found out that it existed.  I couldn't believe that I located it in the wild.  Without prevarication, I can say that it's in slipshod shape.  Some of the pages are half-stapled and the colors have been drained of their spangle, but I couldn't care less.  My Creepshow comic ain't for sale, ya heard?  If it was in mint condition, I still wouldn't dare part with it.

It was always my intention to read this omnibus.  I can't imagine propping it up on a shelf untouched, left to age in a perpetual state of vainglory-fueled quarantine.  No, it had to be enjoyed.  And I did enjoy it.  There are no advertisements, no fan mail, no foreword/afterword.  The meat itself is nearly identical to the film, a few odd tweaks notwithstanding.  The order of the stories has been switched.  "Something to Tide You Over" and "The Crate" have swapped bearings.  Strangely, the opening dialogue between Ted Danson's Harry and Leslie Nielson's Richard in "Tide" is relayed via flashbacks.  Upson Pratt's grotesque demise in "They're Creeping Up on You" is diluted a bit.  The hissing cockroaches merely pile out of his mouth instead of erupting from his chest.

As evidenced, the changes are miniscule and seemingly insoluble.  They don't affect the comic's readability, though.  It's Creepshow.  It's fucking awesome.  Bernie Wrightson's artwork is grandiose in a pulpy way (???).  The visuals are more dynamic than those found in EC anthologies.  Ironic, seeing as how Creepshow is a direct homage to Tales From the Crypt, The Haunt of Fear and similar titles.  The Creep is essentially The Cryptkeeper, which is my sole complaint about this tattered tome.  He doesn't have his own personality.  Hell, he refers to us - the dear readers - as "kiddies" at least once per vignette.  Naturally, alliteration is scattered all over the fucking place.  I should probably let that slide.

Is it any wonder that I'm awarding the Creepshow graphic novel a high rating?  Savage Dragon says, "Christ, go outside for once in your wretched life.  Diptwat."