REVIEW: X-Files #7

Ever been to the reptile house at the zoo? The little tanks they have with tarantulas in them? You spend ages staring through dirty glass at a limb of wood covered in moss and bracken for something to pop out only to find out the bloody thing is empty.

That’s what this was like.

Paced like a slug trying to crawl across a salt plane, art so heavy it’s created a world shortage of India ink, it’s down right impossible to tell what the fuck is happening on some pages and I didn’t realise that misshapen troll like creature was supposed to be Mulder at the beginning.

The artist manages to capture the sheer horror of depression in every vaguely human looking face, there was more life in that little robot Asimo that Honda built. The script reads about the same as well, flat and machine like with redundant dialogue that your eye starts glazing over after a bit.

If I was a fan of the X-Files I’d be crushingly disappointed by this, but I’m not so I’m just a bit niggled I’m not getting those twenty minutes of my life back.