I picked up this very volume a few times before, admittedly struggled to get into it, and never got quite past the 20 page mark. Through sheer force of will (and a heavily loaded pot of black coffee helped) I recently grinded my way through this ~150 page compendium. While generally enjoyable: A: there’s a lot to slosh/wade through, and B: Torpedo is definitely not for everyone.
As an effect of an era, not quite a failure of the author/illustrators to be sure, working through a medium that has been beyond pillaged to detrimental effect, a million distillations have weakened the original strength of Film Noir. Given that nothing has quite been duplicated, reduplicated, and revamped/rebooted an innumerable times as Film Noir, any tale sampling it’s essential components: a hard-boiled detective, a gritty 30’s/40’s era underworld, and a harshly amoral landscape can only be compared against a million other carbon-copies. Already cooked into something of a cinematographic gumbo, it becomes imperative that the creators make their own original content stand out strongly in this highly oversaturated milieu.
Enter: Luca a.k.a. Torpedo, our homicidal, gun-toting, titular hitman who plys his murderous trade in mid-20th Century New York. Featuring mini-stories that are loosely tied by theme and place, there’s no real over-arc here, just snippets from the fictional, “In the day in the life of a New York Hitman.” Microscopic in nature, there’s almost an Aesopic feel with each tiny, closed loop ending on some type of zinger that reflects not a moral but the internalized ending of an unseen ourorborous. Consuming first the ending then the introductions, these tiny-tales sometimes add to the characterization/back-story of our anti-hero, but most are just expositions of typical gangster fare.
And in fact, it is this pretty-much opaque darkness that most sets Torpedo apart from his Film-Noir derived peers. Taking one step past that of the amoral and the violent, Abuli’s work is uniquely characterized by its extraordinarily dark sense of humor and the uncompromising sensibilities that follow. As an acquired taste, or a debasement from one’s own degenerate predilections, any laughs within are highly unconventional and strictly amoral. Somewhat reflecting parallels in Tarantino’s two best works, Pulp Fiction and Reservoir Dogs, the black humor is there, the charm that made characters lovable like Mr. White and Jules Winfield is not. Without a modicum of complexity, or even a scintilla of moral or personal depth, Torpedo is a mere strongman out for no one other than himself.
Which brings me to my last point, no matter one’s opinion on the execution, or the stylistic implementations within, the greatest weakness here is that of Torpedo’s character. To repeat myself, as out for no one other than himself (sans an occasionally appearing low-IQ shorty who acts more as a cat’s paw than a properly bodied side-kick) Luca’s M.O. serves none but himself. With no moral or social imperative beyond that of a ruthlessly, biologically reduced masculinity that reflects a brutally simplistic dichotomy – embodied only in the urges to fight and fuck – Torpedo is far more biomechanical automaton than a free-will laden human.
Irregardless of all my criticisms, I still think there is a generally good read here. Yet, Torpedo is as he always was, an extremely particular taste that will delight few, offend many, and puzzle many more.
Read with coffee on tap.