Book Review: Luda by Grant Morrison is meticulously well-written, a powerful first novel by the groundbreaking comics writer, and barely decipherable

Firstly, a disclaimer. I am very much a fan of Grant Morrison who is pretty much my favorite comic book writer. I have always loved their chaotic punk sentiment, since the 80s proto-Vertigo era of Animal Man and Doom Patrol that deconstructed superheroes in fresh and interesting ways post-Watchmen/Dark Knight Returns (that is, without the lazy grimness of so many contemporaries), all the way to JLA and New X-Men and the high-concept mainstream work of the 2000s written with depth and enthusiasm for the genre, while also experimenting with more literary explorations of the medium published by the aforementioned Vertigo and later Image.

So, suffice to say, I was very intrigued when it was announced that Grant Morrison would be publishing their first prose novel, Luda. And, that does mean I would be reading this with certain preconceived notions and expectations. Perhaps this is unfair, like I should be trying harder to simply read a novel fresh and without any baggage, and that’s enough, but like it or not that’s the context. For me.

The point is, Luda is not a psychedelic science fiction story. Of course I wouldn’t have expected the superhero genre specifically, but even something adjacent along the lines of space opera, or time travel, or spy adventures—no it’s none of that. Rather, Luda is an ambitious novel indeed but somewhat more grounded in a somewhat real-world setting, in the city of Gasglow (get it?), focused on the drag queen scene and the world of musical theatre showbiz.

That’s fair. In fact, Grant Morrison came out as nonbinary in recent years and certainly that makes for a valid inspiration to study such themes, especially for such a cerebral writer. And I have enjoyed reading the occasional queer memoir very much, don’t get me wrong. It’s just, after years and years of reading exciting Grant Morrison graphic novels, it is a bit jarring how different is the novel Luda.

One more thing worth nothing, in the Scots author’s 90s conspiracy fiction opus of The Invisibles there was a trans character called Lord Fanny, a shamanic and anarchic witch who flipped gender roles upside down. This was indeed very ahead of its time. Comparisons for those who are familiar with this work are therefore are unavoidable.

Anyway, with that necessary preamble out of the way, now on to the specifics: Luda is a mentor-protégé story from the point of view of the mentor—drag queen superstar Luci who is the incredibly witty and snarkily vulgar narrator. Luci is an outright celebrity but now in middle age and somewhat over the hill, and the bulk of the “plot” is about the production of a comedic and outrageous pantomime play based on Aladdin. Throughout the novel, the play is rehearsed and the reader gets to see that story unfold. Then, the eponymous and impossibly beautiful Luda shows up and steals the show.

Luci takes this mysterious new superstar under her wing, and they get into some outrageous adventures together involving a grand and haunting sex party, as Luci explains it all. There are endless occult references, referred to as the “Glamour,” with the narration going on and on jumping around from irreverent pop culture to extremely dense treatises on literature and identity and the magickal tradition.

This is all profoundly well written. Too well written. With a modicum of dialogue, the novel is much more about the author’s playing with language than it is about plot or even character. There are so many killer lines, brilliantly clever works of prose in paragraph after paragraph. And it is too much, copious amounts of showing not telling which is unfortunate for a scriptwriter. With every page shouting at you with the most badass turns of phrases you’ve ever come across, in very lengthy paragraphs mind you, there’s no room to breathe and it’s a struggle to maintain that energy.

Check this out, I will open the book to a random spot and there will surely be a perfect example. Let’s try page 136…

The mood was mock-Arthurian. The Questing Best. The Unicorn. The White Hart. Sacred and heraldic beasts cantering through a profane Cumalot. We both knew we were honour-bound to follow the lowing cry all the way to the shadiest of Hades if need be.

See what I mean? I can do this again, totally randomly here’s page 233—

I applied the finishing touches to Luda’s latest makeover, an airbrushed mist of glitter on the perfectly-emphasized letter-opener blade of her left cheekbone. Where previously I’d applied the pink-frosted, lip-glossed doll-sheen of a wide-eyed ingénue on the Bad Ship Lollipop, this time I was serving the seductive, experienced mask of a bloodsucking, eternally young vampire countess with succulent midnight-blue lips. A three-hundred-year-old teenage black widow blinking in stripped-back starlight as I pinned her Louise Brooks copper bob in place.

Or page 292,

When Luda wasn’t here, she might as well be nowhere. Her whole life could be subtracted into a single bag of clothes and shoes, cosmetics and condoms. It was why she borrowed my heels, however reluctantly. She owned nothing.

Like I said, Luda was a quantum event, existing only when she was observed.

It’s a lot. Frankly, there are too many ideas and it overwhelms. How can any one scene stand out, when it’s all trying so hard to stand out?

Anyway, after 400 pages of this with several violent scenes strewn in, I was able to decipher some kind of disturbing mystery surrounding Luda’s origins, and then there’s the shock ending. Although the novel defies classification, the narrative mostly turns out to be a kind of horror. But by that point, after the various revelations and attempts at topping itself which is a feat when everything is gauged at 11, most readers are going to be exhausted.

The nature of this novel, however frantically written, requires a slow reading. Repeat viewings. Like Jocyean studies, with deep dives into the poetic rhythm of the words. There’s tremendous artistry and craft, and for the diligent reader I’m sure it’s very rewarding. I am glad I made it to the end, not just because I’m a Morrison completist but because I got to experience a book unlike anything else I’ve ever read. Yet, I still have to admit it, this was quite a challenge and therefore just not as fun.