Alan Moore is responsible for many of our favorite comic book creations.

V for Vendetta, Watchmen, League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, From Hell, Promethea.

(If you aren’t reading Promethea, you are cheating yourself. I mean that.)

But one character slips by most people — even comic book fans. One character — who single-handedly keeps VERTIGO in business.

John Constantine first showed up in the pages of SWAMP THING back when this renegade Brit was writing it. He wasn’t like the other comic book magi. First off, we wasn’t a Doctor. Second, he didn’t speak in the syllable-spanning tongue of Stan Lee (“By the Hoary Hosts of Hoggoth!!!”). He was a street mage. A con man. A chain-smoking, hard-drinking working class magician.

Born out of the punk rock movement, Constantine’s battle wasn’t with Heaven or Hell: it was with authority. If it was Thatcher or Jehova or Lucifer, Constantine despied those who made others feel they needed to be coddled, watched and diapered. He gave the finger to the biggest names in the Universe and he didn’t give a shit what anybody thought about him.

He was a selfish bastard who could save your soul… but it’d cost. Oh, how it would cost.

He didn’t want redemption. That’d be selling out. Damnation? Same thing. Fuck both sides. They’re both playing the same con game. Heaven and Hell, they’re both playing the Spanish Prisoner with our souls. “Pay me now, and you’ll get spades later.” Constantine was too cagey for that game.

He soon moved on to his own comic where we found out why Johnny was such a bad boy and what made him jump off the edge. We got invited into his life — and what a mess it was. Turns out John Constantine is not only a bastard, but he’s a magic addict, to boot. He isn’t in it to save lives or redeem souls or keep Heaven or Hell from taking over. Turns out, he does it for the rush. But it cost him. Oh, how it cost him.

You can’t count the ghosts following John Constantine. There are so many. Friends, lovers, family members. Everyone who died because he was careless, reckless, selfish, or just too damn proud. But he wouldn’t play the game. Not for Heaven and not for Hell. Not for anybody.

He’s John Constantine. Magus. Con man. Fool. Every man wants to be him and every woman wants to save him. The guy who conned all three Dukes of Hell and walked away smiling. Then, just as he’s about to walk away, he realizes, “Oh, yeah. I’m John Constantine. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

So he turns around and gives all three of them the bird and says, “Oh, yeah. Boys? Up yours.”

Not only does he fuck you, he makes sure you know he enjoyed every minute of it. Even when you’re the Duke of Hell.

THAT is John Constantine.

The man I saw in the movie tonight was not. He was… the nutra-sweet version. The filtered cigarette version. The Diet Coke version.

No… that’s wrong. Entirely wrong.

He just wasn’t John Constantine.

Now, is this a valid critique of the film? Saying, “Well, it isn’t the book?”

Fuck right it is.

If a film version of Sherlock Holmes portrayed the Great Detective as a bumbling, absent minded wanker who stumbles on the clues, we’d cry foul.

If Hollywood made a film version of Huck Finn and at the end, Huck turns Jim over to the bounty hunters, goes home, joins the Confederate Army and guns down “Dirty Yankees,” we’d be demanding our money back.

If you saw a version of a science fiction classic — something that profoundly affected not only the field of science fiction, but the field of SCIENCE and beyond — and saw that it had absolutely nothing to do with the message of the book, but in fact was a homilee to what the author called “ANTI-INTELLECUTALISM,” something he declared to be “the Great Enemy of America”… well, you’d have I, ROBOT.

If you translate a work from one medium to another, change is innevitable. The changes from FIGHT CLUB the book to FIGHT CLUB the movie are numerous — including a different ending — but the intent, message and theme must remain true.

The John Constantine I saw tonight was not the John Constantine I paid to see.

He’s a pussy. A wanker. My John Constantine would have kicked his ass all over London seven times before Sunday, stopped to smoke a fag, then done it all over again.

It’s the difference between Rubber Godzilla and CGI Godzilla. One of them is cool, the other is stupid and lame.

I’m glad I saw the movie tonight, but for different reasons. It reminded me of things I needed to be reminded of.

But here, I’ll do you a favor. Instead of spending eight to ten bucks on the movie, check out this link:

Dangerous Habits

It’s the first few issues of the Garth Ennis run on the book. Buy that instead. Read it. You’ll laugh, you’ll scream, you’ll hide your eyes, you’ll fucking cry.

I kid you not. Tears. Openly weeping when I finished that series. No shit. Ain’t lying. Trust me.

Do yourself a favor and read the book. Fuck the movie. Read the book.

Trust me.