At its best, ‘The Killing of a Bank Manager’ conveys the comic – near-farcical – intensity of human desire and the disturbing tenuousness of these emotions. However, it strays too often into repetitious use of stock words and images, and over elaborate lists of thesaurus-mined synonyms and approximations that do little save to distract. Where pith would suffice, Kavanagh – too often, it has to be said – opts for the loquacious garrulousness of the verbose tautologist. Nonetheless, a wonderfully refreshing alternative to the ‘play it safe’, ‘no nonsense’ banality of contemporary realism and bourgeois, character-obsessed ‘meat-and-two-veg’ that usually gets served up.

I mean, come on, his plots have always been thin. The only thing tying his work together and making it any kind of entertainment is the visual quality he brings to the page. His work can be very exciting visually, even visceral. But let’s face it, he doesn’t understand, or at least chooses to ignore, character development of any kind, plot development, emotional development, etc. His stories are ridden with angst and pain, torturous and blinding anger from seeming heroes trying to defend values that have become twisted and bent so as to be totally unrecognizable (witness Superman in the original Dark Knight mini series), and his villains are cardboard representations of his own anger towards societal ills (I mean a Catholic Priest who is a serial killer AND a cannibal?, C’mon!)

That this guy stays on top is just amazing. But that may be his point. He’s just cynical enough to realize that this crap he produces is just the way to stay exactly where he is. And sure enough, he may be right.

Keep buyin’, I’m sure he’ll keep producing.