I have been waiting for a book like Rage of Ultron for a long, long time.
Aside from the stellar, anatomically pleasant and dynamic artwork by Jerome Opena and Pepe Larraz, and aside from the poignant writing by Rick Remender, I felt part of the story.
I am not an objective reviewer by any extent of the imagination – as much as that is possible – but the book spoke to me in ways that I do not remember books speaking to me inside the genre of comics.
This was deeply personal.
The character of Hank Pym, a.k.a a slew of alter egoes, was always someone I resented that I relate to. A high achiever who felt small – a lingering feeling fostered by constantly finding himself in an environment that probably did not help him – that led him to (very) bad decisions and repetitive reinventions of the self in order to relate to a human race he felt he does not relate with – building resentment of himself and the world outside him. Struggling to belong where he cannot find himself in the picture.
The Rage of Ultron is the Rage of Henry Pym.
The book is a reflection upon that – and keeps it open. And begs the question of “How could one love themselves if all they see is failure?” Even if there are people around him trying to love him in spite of those, showing him that he has already bent backwards to always be in service and be a cornerstone of something bigger, even if there are people who try to show him that he is loved, he finds himself incapable of acknowledging that in him and loving them back to the extent he would like to.
It is all that…and I love it.
And I resent it.
