Looking at the storied and deeply troubled film adaptation history of Garth Ennis and Steve Dillon's highly influential comic series Preacher, it's easy to see why it was such a success. Several movie studios as well as HBO have all purchased the rights to Preacher because of its unique story and cinematic approach to storytelling, only to ultimately let it die in pre-production because executives are afraid of religious controversy. Personally, I've never understood why studio heads shy away from pushing the buttons of the Christian Right. If one thing guarantees ticket sales, it's offensive material. Of course, Preacher isn't just some comic that thumbs its nose at organized religion. It may be dark, violent and crude, but it also has a very clear moral core.

In reading Gone to Texas, the first trade paperback compilation of the Preacher comics, I couldn't stop thinking about Kevin Smith's film Dogma. Aside from the nearly identical themes of an absent God and a secret truth behind the nature of Heaven and Hell, both stories are products of an era that sought to reconcile Western religion with modern society. They're grunge versions of the uniquely biblical immediacy of divine forces, worlds that are as troubled and violent as the one described in the Good Book.

Preacher posits a 1990's America where supernatural entities aren't so much at war with one another as they are uncomfortable neighbors who have to go through more or less the same stresses of life. Angels are depicted as aimless, cynical bureaucrats and the book's hero, Reverend Jesse Custer, is a foul-mouthed believer whose sense of moral outrage skirts hypocrisy without actually ever going over the line.

For its philosophical complexity, Preacher is an intelligent comic, but it's also a pulpy gore-fest with a punk attitude. Guns in Preacher don't just put holes in people, they blow off whole body parts and turn faces into mounds of meaty mush. It's rare for more than three pages to go by with no violence, though it should be noted that (in the typical American fashion) Preacher is still fairly squeamish about sex. Compared to the gun fights in the book, the few erotic elements aren't all that graphic.

Preacher also fits in a very interesting place in the history of comics. It was published with the Vertigo imprint, the segment of DC Comics that basically imported a team of British writers and artists for their more mature take on the genre. Vertigo is famous for bringing readers Neil Gaiman's Sandman series and among that first crop of writers was Garth Ennis, creator Preacher.

It can't really be said that Vertigo or any of its titles ever attempted to do something new with the comic format. Preacher itself isn't really revolutionary, but it's still an interesting specimen of the ultra-violent titles that sprung up like wildflowers in the mid 1990's. Given its intermittently brilliant art, filmic writing and unpredictable story, I've decided to run through the main arc of the series. I'll be coming back to Preacher several times in the coming weeks.