Scan barcode
snixo048's review
4.0
The graphic novel is the perfect medium for retelling a warped, violent but oddly compelling Roman myth. I did not think I would enjoy this as much as I did.
hypops's review against another edition
3.0
Riffing on Petronius’s Satyricon and on contemporary sword-and-sandals flicks, Blutch’s Peplum attempts to thread the needle between Roman tragedy and cinematic camp, all while avoiding too many references to Federico Fellini’s better known film adaptation. It’s an interesting, if unfulfilling, experiment.
Blutch’s expressionist drawing technique is fantastic, but the story itself—despite its deliberately fragmented structure—isn’t very ground-breaking, compelling, or necessary.
Blutch’s expressionist drawing technique is fantastic, but the story itself—despite its deliberately fragmented structure—isn’t very ground-breaking, compelling, or necessary.
m_ess's review against another edition
3.0
Crafted as a sweeping, aggressive, formally rigorous adaption-cum-sequel to Satyricon that flirts with themes of love, madness, violence, obsession, and identity Peplum is an objet d'art. Blutch, seemingly more interested in provocation than emotional connection, treats his plot turns like chess pieces: carved from his source material, positioned for maximum impact, then forgotten once taken off the board.
Case in point: the extended anti-climatic limp boner sequence that makes up the bulk of the final act, a humiliating one-note joke Blutch builds on for page after page of abstracted, ecstatic melodrama to squirm inducing cringe-comedic effect, and then ends with a few moments of abrupt violence.
Or consider the final page
a non-sequitur "happy ending" that comes out nowhere to close the book on an audience trolling dead baby knee-slapper and shocked silence. This is a book that substitutes any sense of purpose beyond the aesthetic with a sense of humor so dark jokes loop from funny to offensive to fascinating in their grotesqueness.
Case in point: the extended anti-climatic limp boner sequence that makes up the bulk of the final act, a humiliating one-note joke Blutch builds on for page after page of abstracted, ecstatic melodrama to squirm inducing cringe-comedic effect, and then ends with a few moments of abrupt violence.
Or consider the final page
a non-sequitur "happy ending" that comes out nowhere to close the book on an audience trolling dead baby knee-slapper and shocked silence. This is a book that substitutes any sense of purpose beyond the aesthetic with a sense of humor so dark jokes loop from funny to offensive to fascinating in their grotesqueness.
More...