The second volume in the Century trilogy, 1969, is disappointingly lightweight. The plot doesn’t advance much, and Moore’s obsession with sex and nudity is now completely intruding on the narrative, shoehorned in at every opportunity and derailing the story. It’s not a terrible book, Moore’s mad genius is still clearly at work in the details, and I did kind of love the Rolling Stones and “Sympathy for the Devil” homages. The ending is interesting, too, setting up an unexpected roadblock for the conclusion. But the whole thing felt like Moore spinning his wheels. Here’s hoping the third and final volume in the trilogy, 2009, is a return to form.
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