3 out of 5

I’m glad I’m reading Legion now, after developing a feel for Salvador Sanz’s storytelling in later works – which has much matured – as opposed to reading this upon release in English, way back in 2007. Narratively, it’s just too much, or it’s too much for the way Sanz was crafting his narratives at this point, and though the translation from Deborah L. Vila is, I’m sure, accurate, there’s a sense that there’s some cultural nuance here that my Western culture self might be missing. The art and concepts are stunning, though, and there’s some telltale artistry in the pacing (both text and visuals) that has carried through Sanz’s stuff, which definitely would’ve set the book apart from any given end-of-the-world horror book. I just don’t think I would’ve been a smart enough reader in 2007 to acknowledge that, and instead would’ve gotten caught up on the kind of all-for-nothing momentousness of the premise, the questionable point of any of the characters beyond functioning as specific plot pivots, and the kind of flat tone of the dialogue.

The title Legion should summon end-of-the-world stuff as-is, especially given the creepily dressed warrior astride some Ed Gein-armored Satan beast on the front cover; as mentioned, that is what it concerns: firstly the appearance of some impossible totems (like a new, can’t be recreated color), and then secondly, otherworldly physical constructs, like a giant face in the clouds, peering down on all. We witness these events through a few chosen points of view, then cut to hell breaking loose: those warriors, those beasts, and a mass, Bosch-ian slaughter.

The zero to a million escalation is echoed in Sanz’s much later Mega, but whether through editorial urging or the uncertainty of less experience, it took Sanz some projects to learn how to effect this pacing without unnecessary exposition, and using better visual cutaways to sell the mood. There’s definitely roots of that stuff here, but instead of letting us know the characters through behavior, they’re all chatter and telegraphing, and used as fodder in a way that doesn’t do anything to betray that term: they’re just there to die. The plot is similarly related somewhat clunkily, where the brilliant bizarreness is undersold – it doesn’t feel like anyone’s appropriately reacting.

But the art (and colors, especially once cast in blood red hues) is just amazing, even if it has an overly-cinematic obsession with Dutch angles. Sanz is like a Carpenter-inspired Woodring, with his own visual language, which he uses in this haunting, Lovecraft-unknown way that is uniquely him, and, again, there are some beats here that are perfect, definitely hinting at what was to come.

So it’s not the story’s prestige compression that’s an issue, as Sanz has proven pretty great at telling complex tales in minimal pages, but it’s just that all of the creator’s strengths aren’t quite dialed in at this point; not quite optimized for the comic page. But: if you were lucky enough to hold onto this from 2007, it’s definitely worth revisiting, and for modern Sanz fans, if you can nab it for a reasonable price (as of 2023, it runs pricey), it’s a great complement to Sanz’s later works.