Russell tries a little too hard; he splits between 2016 U.S. political metaphor–sort of–for Pebbles and Bamm-Bamm and some really heavy stuff for Fred and Barney. Like, old war stories heavy. It’s well-written enough, beautifully illustrated, but it’s too thin for Russell’s ambitions.

Once again, The Flintstones amazes. I didn’t want to be obvious and say it rocks, which it also does, but it’s more impressive in the way it amazes. What Russell comes up with is really cool. He does a riff on marriage. The not marrying people of Bedrock revolt against the marrieds. It’s a fairly obvious metaphor for marriage equality, but it’s a good one. Russell seems to be treating each issue of The Flintstones as something special. Almost a one-shot (or he’s just really scared of it getting cancelled and he’s doing the best work he can).

The other thing is the characters. His Fred and Wilma are their best possible selves taking into account the adaptation and the brand. They’re ideals, something I don’t remember them being in the cartoon. It’s Russell engaging the brand in a very positive way, while still allowing himself some bite in the rest of the comic.

Great art from Pugh because of course it’s going to be great, it’s Steve Pugh doing comedic cave-people, dinosaurs and talking prehistoric animals.

It’s a really good book.

Wow. It’s beautiful and all, but, wow, what a downer. I mean, the whole thing is just depressing from page three, especially since Pebbles understands The Flintstones exists in a world without any value whatsoever on human life. It’s not hard to see what kind of commentary Russell is making about our modern world, gorgeous Steve Pugh art or not.

Space aliens visit Bedrock and basically destroy the place with their technology. It’s strange for a third issue because the main cast–even though they have important things to do–don’t have much to do as the main cast. Russell’s not building character relationships, he’s not developing anything. If Betty even shows up, she doesn’t have much in the way of lines. Certainly none memorable. Even Fred’s part in the story is only memorable because of how tragic it gets.

It’s kind of a heavy book. Gorgeous, but heavy. It might be too cynical, in fact. Russell’s writing is fine–I suppose the story’s a little light (it’s basically snippets of disaster)–but it’s fine. It’s just so fatalistic I don’t know why I want to read it. There’s better social commentary out there–the Fox News joke is the most obvious and the weakest–and I’m always onboard for Pugh….

But, come on, give the reader a single smile, right? PTSD group sessions don’t lead to smiles, neither does mass murder.

What a weird, wonderful comic book. Entirely unexpectedly–unless you think about Pugh being on the art and then you know at least the art will be amazing–but, otherwise, The Flintstones is a pretty unpredictable place to mine great material. Only Russell does it. There’s something very Afterlife with Archie in all these Hanna Barbera comics but Flintstones is the one where lighting is striking over and over.

Pebbles doesn’t even talk. Bam Bam doesn’t talk either, but Pebbles is in the comic a lot. Russell and Pugh give Pebbles the annoyed teen persona without ever having a scene with her. Okay, I guess I now hope Pebbles is amazing when she does get an issue. Anyway, the way Russell constructs the narrative is this almost reflected approach to adapting “The Flintstones” cartoon in the twenty-first century.

Only Russell isn’t asking deep questions, he’s asking traditional sitcom questions. He’s playing into the plotting of the original cartoon–while also employing a lot of comic book storytelling devices to get the scenes across. When the comic gets to its final, unexpectedly tender reveal, it’s a comic book moment. With a bit of a cartoon vibe. Only less “The Flintstones” than “The Simpsons.”

And the art. There’s so much for Pugh to do in this issue. Not just in terms of realistically realizing some Stone Age gadgetry, but in how he’s conveying the narrative. Pugh’s a storyteller. There’s an inherent pacing to his panels. It’s a perfect storm of timing, intent and talent, which is about the only way to explain this Flintstones book is such a dabba doo time.

So, the first issue of The Flintstones seems to be a proof on concept. Can writer Mark Russell use a grim and gritty version of “The Flintstones” socially relevant to today? Sure? Of course? Anyone could. “The Flintstones,” “The Honeymooners,” whichever. A person, their spouse, their friend, their friend’s spouse. Throw in a couple pets and a kid each and you can make just about any social commentary you want.

It’s not a high bar, which is what I think bugs me so much about The Flintstones. It’s bragging about doing a good job at something easy. Steve Pugh’s art is key, no question. It brings a level of significant quality to a rather mercenary concept. Pugh knocks it out of the park on the art. You believe in this idealized sixties version of the past, even though the frame says it’s real, which ties into the social relevancy angle. Russell has a lot of pop culture references and they’re all really, really careful.

It’s a good comic. It’s got beautiful art. But I’m not sure I like it. I’m not sure the point of The Flintstones is to like it. Beyond buying it, which is fine because Pugh’s art is glorious and Russell’s writing is fine–it’s tedious, but it’s fine. It’s worth the time and money to read it, which just seems a little light as far as ambition goes. It’s The Flintstones after all. We all want to have a yabba dabba do time.