I last reviewed Avigon almost five years ago, several websites back. However, I do remember being quite taken with what I had seen, and disappointed that the series never really appeared again. Four years later, Jimmie Robinson provides both an explanation (in the afterword) for the disappearance and, even better, the completion of his collaboration with Che Gilson. Avigon was worth the wait, as it's a gothic masterpiece, with a sensitive and interesting lead character and a fascinating world made up of court politics, clockwork technology and the ever-present cruelty that human beings are capable of. Despite putting the protagonist through a harrowing journey, however, Avigon is ultimately a story of hope, of finding your place in the world by going out into it and living.
In tone, Avigon is haunting and lyrical, quiet and reflective... it reminds me of a European film, with it's understated drama and action. This is a quiet book, one that relies a great deal on its artist. And Robinson is more than up to the task. Robinson has shown himself to be a bit of an artistic chameleon, adopting a more animated style for Evil and Malice and an angular style reminiscent of Gloom Cookie and other "goth" books here. But he's never simply aping, he has a skill with expressions, settings and moments that belies a trained artist. The resentment of Kazrael, the cold arrogance of Pulsifer, the sad confusion of Avigon, they all come through in visuals as well as dialogue. And the settings for the story are beautiful, with the clockwork motif everywhere.
Of course, the book is driven largely by Avigon and how interesting she is. Gilson and Robinson make Avigon a reluctant protagonist (not a heroine, a protagonist) in that all she really wants is to be her own person. On a larger level, this book is about freedom, nature vs. nurture, growing up and the question of what makes someone truly alive, but at its heart, the book is the story of a lonely, confused girl who doesn't know what to make of the world. Avigon's journey out into the world exposes her to selfishness of many stripes, and I was taken in (just as Avigon herself was) several times by her newest ally, only to discover the truth of their motives later on in the story.
That is what makes the book so sad, as a matter of fact. While there is a sense of hope to the ending, in a lot of ways, Avigon is a tragedy story. Her relationship with the man who knows nothing about her, and how quickly the truth about the relationship is revealed, is chilling... but it's not so much a shocking moment as a melancholy one. Her attempts to end her own life are not dramatic and showy, but full of quiet despair. And the way she ends her tale gives her a new insight on things she had taken for granted, but it is not the grand redesign of her life that you tend to expect from a story. Somehow, this book manages to stir a variety of emotions without ever raising its voice. It makes its points quietly but firmly, and leaves the audience to consider them.
Avigon is an interesting, gothic twist on the hero's journey of self-discovery. Robinson and Gilson take us on a low-key but continually riveting tour of their clockwork world, exploring the underside of human nature and the question of independent thought and soul.
