Undulating, writhing masses of sexless flesh and muscle and bone; a fetishistic reimagining of the entire world through skin. Saint Muscle, the (aptly named) fleshbomb masterpiece, is a bizarre and singular work that, in every page, every panel, draws connections between the bodies we inhabit, the architecture we create, and the very earth we stand on. Scorpions fight, wolves kill, man destroys in a strange wasteland world that combines mythic greek heroism with classic shounen movement. And lots of muscles. So many muscles. A clear forefather to later works of hyper-masculinity like Fist of the North Star, Baki, and Jojo's Bizarre Adventure, Saint Muscle is atonce erotic and disgusting, a deep understanding of anatomy used to twist and distort the male figure into hulking masses--careful, sensual details paid at times to things like leg hair and the fold of a gut--of impossible musculature traversing largely episodic stories about the oppression of the lower class. Though it might try and claim otherwise, this is a furious and political work from an author intimately familiar with capitalism's vicious, master/slave dynamic to the common man and the laborer.

This is told with a style as they come, hitting like an ancient legend, and as gruesome too, full of moments of incredible horror and violence: a mansion made from corpses; slaves trapped in a death race; a seemingly infinite almost apocalyptic desert of rock and sand. When it was released, the series floundered, readers shocked by its odd movements, bold worship of the male body, and disgusting, fun-house mirror reflections of our own world. And it hasn't lost an inch of its power to shock some forty-odd years later.

There's nothing else quite like it. Praise the muscle. It is our only hope of freedom.

More thoughts (including the history of the series and its author) here: https://baxtersmono.medium.com/the-biggest-flex-in-manga-saint-muscle-f87209aa341c