Yeah, we collected enough to fill that Suburban from the back of the driver's seat to the rear doors. Good effort.

The St. Louis Symphony Orchestra paid a visit to Columbia this weekend; Sarah and I were in attendance. The program of Glinka's Russlan and Ludmilla Overture (1842), Brahms' Variations on a Theme of Joseph Haydn (1873), and Tchaikovsky's Symphony No. 5 in E minor (1888) was exceptionally executed--technically superb and musically passionate--but so narrow in scope as to make the Tchaikovsky masterwork come off as a generally unmoving finale. I mean, was nothing written for orchestra outside this band of a mere four decades?

I was even more disappointed when I reviewed just this year's (right--all of two months!) repertoire on the orchestra's web site, which included some of these gems, any of which would have provided some musical variety and greatly enhanced the concert: Tippet's Suite in D, Elgar's Cello Concerto in D minor, Haydn's Symphony No. 92 in G major, Britten's Four Sea Interludes from Peter Grimes, Shostakovich's Cello Concerto No. 1 in E-flat major, Rachmaninoff's Symphonic Dances, or even Seven Early Songs by Berg.

Not to say the performance was lacking in any way. Just a bit too much of the same, if you get my meaning.

1) Yes, I understand quite clearly that this work represents a profound break from what came before.

2) Yes, I understand the significant impact this novel had on what has come since.

3) Yes, I value the work and its authors for some of the subtle nuances employed (e.g., the nine panel structure).

However, there are several reasons why I can't emphatically proclaim this work as "one of the 100 greatest English novels of the last century" (as Time magazine did).

First, I didn't especially care for the color work. I understand this is a completely subjective judgment on my part. Sue me.

Second, the literary devices--the comic within the comic, a running television providing parallel "commentary" to the primary action, etc.--are utterly transparent. The authors take such opportunities to wink at the audience and congratulate one another on their adroit sensibilities. The trouble is, they are too clever by half. It's annoying.

Third, the twelve chapters provide some interesting plot points and an approach to the psychology of super-heroes that was previously unexplored. The climax, however, paled in comparison to the lead-up. I was left unfulfilled by the novel's promise.

I could go on, but one last point: the story serves as a morality play on man's fear, man's aggression, and the "inevitabilities" these create. Frankly, such a message was trite and worn even when the novel was originally published in the mid-1980s. I won't expound upon it here, because you may want to read and draw your own conclusions. Suffice it to say that man hasn't yet demonstrated the ability to learn from his own history--even now, twenty years after the publication of this series--and it seems unlikely he ever will.

Anyone interested in graphic storytelling should read this novel; for everyone else, it's a flip of the coin.