A bad cartoonist wouldn't draw every book scattered in the background of every living room, or the intricate establishing shots of New York City apartment buildings that open many scenes. And a weak memoirist wouldn't imbue her supporting characters with suggestions of lives that go on when she leaves the room. The great deception of Wertz's comics is that you read them thinking that they're just a string of crudely drawn bawdy jokes—and there are plenty of raunchy laughs in her books—and then they spring to life in front of you...
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