The Abysm of Time

League of Extraordinary Gentlemen: Black Dossier

Well, it's not like The Tempest had much of a plot either. Slack story beats aren't the only parallel: like Black Dossier, that play had a sense of finality that wasn't quite borne out (though this magician must have something better up his sleeve than Two Noble Kinsmen) and drew upon several existing sources despite its status as one of Shakespeare's "original" works. On the other hand, where The Tempest obeys the three unities of classical drama (Dogme 95 B.C.), Moore and O'Neill careen across whole centuries of fiction. Also, Black Dossier has a lot more fucking.

That was one enjoyable crumb I took from the disappointing "main" story - that Mina Murray and Allan Quatermain would love to just travel around meeting various analogues and occasionally shag one of them. Unfortunately, too much of the tale is larded with domestic minutae and expository trivia. Moore is exceedingly clever here, as ever, but too often the cleverness is all; I wish there were more scenes in this book like the small betrayal of Greyfriars' pathetic caretaker, which impresses not just with its allusive brilliance (Mother = Bob Cherry + Harry Lime X Kim Philby) but also its emotional impact.

In fact, I wish they'd chucked out the connecting thread and made the whole thing a companion book, freed from the demands of any sustained narrative. The "supplementary" bits are easily Black Dossier's best. They're hilarious, for one thing - that Orwellian porn is locked in an epic struggle with the Wodehouse/Lovecraft combo for the title of World's Funniest, and the demented Beat prose isn't far behind. They also make Moore's sweeping case far better than his pedestrian main story, as when he uses a Shakespearean fragment to both fill in backstory and ably masquerade the Bard himself (unhelpful, indolent doormen, filthy wordplay about naughty bits).

Kevin O'Neill is a great partner for him, a master chameleon in his own right. Sure, O'Neill brilliantly embodies period styles, from the painterly swashbuckle of 50s historical comics to vulgar 18th century political cartoons, but his likenesses are equally exact: look at the Blackadder cameo during the Orlando sequence, or Joan Crawford's hushed-up blue movie, looking like it came straight from Hollywood Babylon. His precise hand with lines gives this crabbed Britain the dilapidated verisimilitude Moore's script glosses over.

Still, a couple of the new characters make their mark. Moore deftly implies that Orlando's kaleidescopic sexuality can impose and seduce all at once; desire animates both fighters and lovers. And Bulldog Drummond is the best example yet of a peculiarly parochial concern amidst League's vast scope - Britain's troubling relationship with its national heroes. Yeah, Bulldog might be a vicious, reactionary bastard, but he's our bastard. At least he's got beliefs, even if they include a diverse multitude of bigotries. But the loyalty and spirit of Fair Play that heroes like Drummond represented really are compelling, which makes it all the more sobering to see them blown away by an amoral operator with nostalgia for nothing.

God save the village green and roll on the Century, then (Pirate Jenny!). This time Prospero's valedictory speech opened doors rather than close them; it's a declaration of limitless potential, and I'll indulge any of Moore's parlour games if he'll put that grand theory of fiction into practice with narrative and emotional heft. A good library dwarfs any dukedom, and this book has so many romances left to be spun.