Yes, I realize Harry Potter is old news. However, seeing as how I just read it for the first time, it is, as they say, news to me. So, a brief overview of what stood out:
First, I had been warned that J.K. Rowling's strength is not writing, but storytelling - an assessment with which I entirely agree. Harry Potter probably shouldn't win any "excellence in writing" awards, but I found them nigh impossible to put down, and I feel they'll make excellent read-aloud books. They are engaging, entertaining, interesting, and altogether pleasant. I should mention here that the reason it took me so long to read them wasn't because I was a snob about them being "too popular", but because I didn't want to get into something that so many people were alarmingly obsessed with. Yep, I fell victim to Harry Potter's charms. There is a pair of hand-knit Hufflepuff socks in my near future, and I am no longer concerned that, if I knit a yellow-and-maroon striped Mary Poppins scarf as I've been wanting to for several years, people will assume it's a Gryffindor scarf instead. This would be an acceptable assumption.
Second, being a Christian and active in a church community, I had also been warned that Harry Potter is an occultic evil which will encourage children to engage in witchcraft. I had also heard the extreme opposition, being that Harry Potter is actually a Christian story because it's about the power of love and because there is a Bible verse pertaining to the Resurrection on Harry's parents grave. Now having read the whole shebang, I disagree with both positions. For starters, the only element of magic in Harry Potter that comes close to being occultic is the Divination class - the teacher of which is presented as little more than a harmless fraud whom Dumbledore humours. Though it is eventually revealed that she has been gifted with a grand total of two true prophecies in her lifetime, where they come from is not explained, and her divination through tea leaves and crystal balls is presented as something fake which reveals nothing. After reading Potter, I'm actually quite troubled by the dearth of accusations about its occultic nature, because this is a very serious and dangerous accusation to be throwing about on such flimsy grounds.
Of course, not being occultic doesn't automatically make a story Christian. For me, the single most interesting and important thing Harry Potter has to offer to the Church is its thorough exploration of redemption without Christ, particularly demonstrated through the storyline of Severus Snape. As much as Dumbledore talks on and on about how love is the most important thing, and love conquers all, and it's all about love, he turns out, through his interactions with Snape, to be the biggest hypocrite in the series. Dumbledore offers Snape redemption in works, but can do nothing for his broken soul, and even abuses it further by taking advantage of his feelings for Harry's late mother, Lily. He begins his control over Snape as a young man by telling him that, if he really loves Lily, he will work for Dumbledore against Voldemort, and what could be a good thing turns out to be very cruel as we learn that Snape's "love" for Lily was little more than a very painful, broken, dangerous obsession. The first major climax of the series, at the end of The Half-Blood Prince, features Dumbledore forcing Snape to destroy himself even further for "the greater good". As I read it, the great hero of the tale who champions love is someone whose primary practice is using people. Dumbledore is the ultimate embodiment of what happens when we believe the ends justify the means, even if the ends are good. Harry Potter is a fascinating exploration of a life which I don't know, but am very happy to have this opportunity to understand. I'd go so far as to say it's essential reading for the Christian who wants to better comprehend the world they live in.
All this to say, Harry Potter is a worthwhile read. The films suffer from unsuccessful scripts, but they do have extraordinary art direction which makes them worth the time.
Showing posts with label literature. Show all posts
Showing posts with label literature. Show all posts
Monday, January 10, 2011
Friday, April 16, 2010
The Book of the Long Sun
It seems to have been a long time since the phrase "Christian literature" was more than something good for a laugh. Ask people to name a fiction writer who's a devout believer, a deep thinker, and an excellent artist, and chances are Lewis, Chesterton, Tolkien will spring to mind. Thing is, they've all been dead for quite some time. And I've got nothing against older works (some of my favourite authors are dead! Ba-dum ching!), but as a lifelong rabid reader, and a Christian for about fourteen years now, I do have a big problem with artistic stagnation. I've read many fantastic books that embody Beuchner's idea of "the world expressing holy things in the only language it knows", but until these past two weeks I'd never read one by someone who I knew was embodying that idea intentionally - one of his characters even paraphrases the quote - and who's still alive and working, to boot! American sci-fi master Gene Wolfe has been described as "the best author you've never heard of". I'd second that motion. It's surely a sign of the apocalypse that Joe Haldeman has a Hugo, but Wolfe does not. However, the Hugos are a mob award, and something Wolfe does have is the admiration and respect of other writers, Neil Gaiman probably being his loudest and most famous fan. After reading The Book of the Long Sun, it's easy to understand why.
The Book of the Long Sun (comprised of Nightside of the Long Sun, Lake of the Long Sun, Calde of the Long Sun, and Exodus from the Long Sun, volumes published from 1993-1996) is a Dyson Sphere allegory set against the exploration of the fallout of false religion, and the free-will debate that was a very big deal at the time this story was written, as worked out by a writer who has spent many years considering and practicing the truth. Its protagonist, twenty-three year-old Silk, is an augur of the false gods, and the story opens with him receiving an enlightening vision from a largely forgotten, minor god known as the Outsider. The Outsider tells Silk that it is his responsibility to "save his manteion" (a sort of church/school/monastery, over which Silk presides), and that he should not expect to receive any help from the Outsider, as Silk is the help the Outsider has sent. Silk's interpretation of this command then sets off a chain of events which, in a series of four or five days, lead to a full-scale revolution in the city-state of Viron, with Silk at its head. Though he interprets the warning to expect no help as a warning that he will receive no help, help comes to him in such varied forms as a local high-profile thief, a couple of prostitutes, a quiet and timid nun, a talking bird with a serious fixation on fish heads, a "legitimate businessman", and even a few of the gods themselves.
It's hard to figure out where to begin discussing this story, because my main goal is to convince whoever's reading this to read it, and it's not an easy story to summarize, and probably even harder to sell. It's what is commonly referred to in literary circles as "hard" or "high-concept" sci-fi, a genre that isn't quick or simple, very off-putting in its appearance but ironically often more accessible to those who avoid sci-fi as a whole because it's primary concern is story, whereas "low" sci-fi is more concerned with setting and all the trappings of the genre. It's also a dense work of literature, and I don't mean long, I mean dense. Averaging under five hundred pages per volume, and totaling just over a thousand in trade paperback format for the whole shebang, The Book of the Long Sun is easily half the length of the average epic and/or high-concept sci-fi/fantasy story. However, nothing's missing, and no space is wasted. Wolfe accomplishes this in two ways that are somewhat radical in the literary world: first, he dispenses with traditional descriptive writing, offering visual descriptions only as immediately necessary. For example, when Silk first encounters one of the mechanical military "guard dogs" known as taluses, Wolfe offers a description of the talus only as necessary to convey the experience of encountering one. In other words, that initial description is visually incomplete, and it is only until later in the story - when it becomes important to understand what a talus looks like - that he paints the rest of the picture. It's an unusual device that takes some getting used to, but it leaves nothing out and it's absolutely brilliant. It keeps the story moving where other stories take a time-out to gawk. The second way in which Wolfe tells a full and thoughtful story in a flowing and economical fashion is by thinking. As anyone who reads this blog can attest, the hardest aspect of writing is communicating one's full intentions while being concise. The Book of the Long Sun is packed with big ideas, ethos, theologies and philosophies that Wolfe has evidently been pondering for years, probably decades, and which he manages to fully express in the space of two to four sentences. For example, towards the end of the second or beginning of the third volume (I'm afraid it's gone back to the library, so I can't be more precise), Silk has a conversation in which an android, explaining how the world is (having much more empirical knowledge on that count than Silk), makes a casual mention of how "chems" (chemical people) are more valuable than humans, because chems take seventy or eighty years to make, and are not easily replaced, but humans are quick and easy to make, and we grow them inside ourselves. It's a loaded thought on the value of life and casual attitudes towards sex; there's at least a whole semester's worth of bioethics class to be had out of that one brief exchange, and it is typical of Wolfe's writing throughout the whole story. It's intelligent, it's masterful, and it's art. It also makes the book one that's not suitable for reading in short chunks.
Originally, I flipped through the book and resolved not to read it because it was full of "made up" words, and I can't stand books like that. They get tacky and annoying very quickly. Then my husband sold me on the absolutely fascinating story, and I realized two very important things about Gene Wolfe. The first was that every other sci-fi or fantasy book I've read which is packed with alternate words for everyday things is a cheap imitation of Wolfe. The second was that his words aren't "made up" - they're either archaic and unfamiliar English, or logical progressions thereof. The world in which The Book of the Long Sun is set is one in which several generations have passed, and for the common folk language has morphed and evolved into a strange sort of bastard patois which, once you get the hang of it, makes sense and is also ingenious. For example, street people and soldiers using various forms of the word "chill" to refer to killing, or someone being dead. What's a current slang for killing? Putting someone on ice! British slang, mostly the offensive sort, works its way in to substitute for common American curses, like "shag" and its variants in place of "fuck" et al., which I find quite funny as a lot of people I know consider British cursing to be appropriate, to not be swearing, to be unoffensive, which is absolutely ludicrous, but it happens. My absolute favourite language twist of Wolfe's has to be the word "lily" substituting for "truth". We say "gilding the lily" or "don't gild the lily" to refer to embellishing something that's so perfect and beautiful it needs to enhancement or alteration. Just like the truth. Brilliant.
In the end, though, what makes The Book of the Long Sun truly worth reading is what makes any book truly worth reading: its deep and thoughtful message, one easily and often hijacked by hysteria and hyperbole, does not take precedence over the quality of the story. Nor does the quality of the story take precedence over the message, relegating it to a backseat. Here, message and story are equally important, depending on and complimenting each other, and quality and artistic integrity is never sacrificed as they all too commonly are when writers have a Big Idea. Anyone who's read a good book or watched a good movie that had something to say knows that there's no reason why story and message shouldn't coexist in perfect harmony. If you aren't sure what that harmony looks like, may I suggest reading Gene Wolfe. And if you've ever read an article about who sci-fi is the best genre for exploring and explaining the human condition, but weren't convinced, The Book of the Long Sun should be suitable proof.
The Book of the Long Sun (comprised of Nightside of the Long Sun, Lake of the Long Sun, Calde of the Long Sun, and Exodus from the Long Sun, volumes published from 1993-1996) is a Dyson Sphere allegory set against the exploration of the fallout of false religion, and the free-will debate that was a very big deal at the time this story was written, as worked out by a writer who has spent many years considering and practicing the truth. Its protagonist, twenty-three year-old Silk, is an augur of the false gods, and the story opens with him receiving an enlightening vision from a largely forgotten, minor god known as the Outsider. The Outsider tells Silk that it is his responsibility to "save his manteion" (a sort of church/school/monastery, over which Silk presides), and that he should not expect to receive any help from the Outsider, as Silk is the help the Outsider has sent. Silk's interpretation of this command then sets off a chain of events which, in a series of four or five days, lead to a full-scale revolution in the city-state of Viron, with Silk at its head. Though he interprets the warning to expect no help as a warning that he will receive no help, help comes to him in such varied forms as a local high-profile thief, a couple of prostitutes, a quiet and timid nun, a talking bird with a serious fixation on fish heads, a "legitimate businessman", and even a few of the gods themselves.
It's hard to figure out where to begin discussing this story, because my main goal is to convince whoever's reading this to read it, and it's not an easy story to summarize, and probably even harder to sell. It's what is commonly referred to in literary circles as "hard" or "high-concept" sci-fi, a genre that isn't quick or simple, very off-putting in its appearance but ironically often more accessible to those who avoid sci-fi as a whole because it's primary concern is story, whereas "low" sci-fi is more concerned with setting and all the trappings of the genre. It's also a dense work of literature, and I don't mean long, I mean dense. Averaging under five hundred pages per volume, and totaling just over a thousand in trade paperback format for the whole shebang, The Book of the Long Sun is easily half the length of the average epic and/or high-concept sci-fi/fantasy story. However, nothing's missing, and no space is wasted. Wolfe accomplishes this in two ways that are somewhat radical in the literary world: first, he dispenses with traditional descriptive writing, offering visual descriptions only as immediately necessary. For example, when Silk first encounters one of the mechanical military "guard dogs" known as taluses, Wolfe offers a description of the talus only as necessary to convey the experience of encountering one. In other words, that initial description is visually incomplete, and it is only until later in the story - when it becomes important to understand what a talus looks like - that he paints the rest of the picture. It's an unusual device that takes some getting used to, but it leaves nothing out and it's absolutely brilliant. It keeps the story moving where other stories take a time-out to gawk. The second way in which Wolfe tells a full and thoughtful story in a flowing and economical fashion is by thinking. As anyone who reads this blog can attest, the hardest aspect of writing is communicating one's full intentions while being concise. The Book of the Long Sun is packed with big ideas, ethos, theologies and philosophies that Wolfe has evidently been pondering for years, probably decades, and which he manages to fully express in the space of two to four sentences. For example, towards the end of the second or beginning of the third volume (I'm afraid it's gone back to the library, so I can't be more precise), Silk has a conversation in which an android, explaining how the world is (having much more empirical knowledge on that count than Silk), makes a casual mention of how "chems" (chemical people) are more valuable than humans, because chems take seventy or eighty years to make, and are not easily replaced, but humans are quick and easy to make, and we grow them inside ourselves. It's a loaded thought on the value of life and casual attitudes towards sex; there's at least a whole semester's worth of bioethics class to be had out of that one brief exchange, and it is typical of Wolfe's writing throughout the whole story. It's intelligent, it's masterful, and it's art. It also makes the book one that's not suitable for reading in short chunks.
Originally, I flipped through the book and resolved not to read it because it was full of "made up" words, and I can't stand books like that. They get tacky and annoying very quickly. Then my husband sold me on the absolutely fascinating story, and I realized two very important things about Gene Wolfe. The first was that every other sci-fi or fantasy book I've read which is packed with alternate words for everyday things is a cheap imitation of Wolfe. The second was that his words aren't "made up" - they're either archaic and unfamiliar English, or logical progressions thereof. The world in which The Book of the Long Sun is set is one in which several generations have passed, and for the common folk language has morphed and evolved into a strange sort of bastard patois which, once you get the hang of it, makes sense and is also ingenious. For example, street people and soldiers using various forms of the word "chill" to refer to killing, or someone being dead. What's a current slang for killing? Putting someone on ice! British slang, mostly the offensive sort, works its way in to substitute for common American curses, like "shag" and its variants in place of "fuck" et al., which I find quite funny as a lot of people I know consider British cursing to be appropriate, to not be swearing, to be unoffensive, which is absolutely ludicrous, but it happens. My absolute favourite language twist of Wolfe's has to be the word "lily" substituting for "truth". We say "gilding the lily" or "don't gild the lily" to refer to embellishing something that's so perfect and beautiful it needs to enhancement or alteration. Just like the truth. Brilliant.
In the end, though, what makes The Book of the Long Sun truly worth reading is what makes any book truly worth reading: its deep and thoughtful message, one easily and often hijacked by hysteria and hyperbole, does not take precedence over the quality of the story. Nor does the quality of the story take precedence over the message, relegating it to a backseat. Here, message and story are equally important, depending on and complimenting each other, and quality and artistic integrity is never sacrificed as they all too commonly are when writers have a Big Idea. Anyone who's read a good book or watched a good movie that had something to say knows that there's no reason why story and message shouldn't coexist in perfect harmony. If you aren't sure what that harmony looks like, may I suggest reading Gene Wolfe. And if you've ever read an article about who sci-fi is the best genre for exploring and explaining the human condition, but weren't convinced, The Book of the Long Sun should be suitable proof.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
The Postman
About seven or eight months ago, I borrowed a copy of David Brin's The Postman from some friends, and for seven or eight months it gathered dust on my coffee table as I was putting off reading it. I borrowed it in the first place because I'm familiar with Hugo-winner Brin for Startide Rising, but avoided it because in my head I had him confused with David Weber (best known for the Honor Harrington series), who I'm not crazy about. In fact, I bought a Weber book at this year's library sale, because in my head I was buying a Brin novel. Confused? I know I am.
Anyways, the point is, I finally read it, and it is the finest post-apocalyptic sci-fi book - and one of the finest post-apocalyptic sci-fi stories - I've ever come across.
The Postman (1985) opens in U.S. of A., year 2009, sixteen years after a nuclear war that has left the country in a state very similar that of the Fallout video game series, with protagonist Gordon Krantz fleeing for his life while simultaneously trying to reclaim all his worldly possessions after his camp is attacked by "survivalists", roaming terrors who thrive on death, destruction, and mutilating corpses, and who I wouldn't be surprised to hear were the direct inspiration for Fallout's raiders. Just eighteen when the first of the wars began, he has survived the interim, including a three-year long nuclear winter, first by joining a short-lived militia in the early days of the war and later by using his brain and the skills he learned in the militia he wanders the country trading plays and stories for food and shelter at the settlements scattered across the mid-west, thus proving that English Literature 101 may be useful in the event of a nuclear apocalypse after all. After surviving the opening attack on his camp, but losing all his posessions - making him as good as dead, out in the wild - in the course of his escape he stumbles across a derelict jeep containing the fully uniformed body of a pre-war postman, along with a big sack of official government mail regarding what would later be referred to as the Doomwar. Gordon is deeply stricken by this unexpected and most familiar of links to better days, and the fact that the postman was most likely ambushed while trying to deliver his cargo but pressed on as long as he could in an attempt to preserve his country, bringing to mind the U.S. Postal Service Oath to deliver the mail no matter what. He's also delighted to have the postman's warm uniform, and so takes it and the mailbag and continues on his way. At the next settlement he comes across, the residents decide that, regardless of how he came by it, now that he's put on the postman's uniform he is a postman. Recognizing the potential of this course of action, Gordon decides to re-open lines of communication and build up hope, instituting post offices, mail routes, and carriers in each subsequent settlement he comes to and even as going so far as to forge documents "proving" that there is a government out east which is working on restoring America. As the baby postal service grows, and people actually start getting letters from friends and family they thought were long dead, their hope and belief in the rebuilding of the country grows with it. Making the lie even easier to believe is the reasonable assumption that the post would be the only sustainable, wide-reaching federal service to continue after a holocaust, as all it requires is people willing to travel. Gordon is determined to keep the hope alive, but the bulk of the story's tension is found in his constant nervous state of wondering about when his lie will be revealed, and if it will have been successful enough for that revelation to not make a difference to the people.
However, all that's just the setting. The true story of The Postman is a calm, thought out, well-constructed examination of why people need other people, and how it is impossible for an organization, be it town or country, to survive and succeed if run by or consisting of only one type of person or group. This is subtly emphasized by how different each settlement Gordon visits is, in its structure, leadership, attitudes, and practices, and more strongly emphasized by the almost overwhelmingly destructive force of the survivalists. Brin even manages to tactfully deconstruct one of the major and very sensitive real-life socio-political arguments of his time, though I imagine it would not be hard for a certain type of person to ignore everything else and claim The Postman as a feminist manifesto. It is because Brin is so calm that it could be very easy to ignore all the subtle elements that build the core of his message and cling to one of the stronger ones, but ultimately The Postman remains a powerful and successful argument for why no one ideological group can successfully rule or survive on its own.
On top of that, Brin's writing style is incredibly easy to engage. Casual and flowing, his voice in this book feels like a cross between late-50's-early 60's Robert A. Heinlein (Starship Troopers, Stranger in a Strange Land), late-90's Stephen King (Hearts in Atlantis, The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon), and Harry Harrison (Make Room! Make Room!, the Stainless Steel Rat books) minus the hysterics. It opens well, it ends well, has a very reasonable take on the future which is our present, and contains one the most beautifully blunt foreshadowings I've come across. Packed with thoughts and visuals, The Postman somehow manages to never stop flowing, or even slow down. That to me is a most impressive accomplishment - that most famous of descriptive writers, Tolkien, wrote gorgeous visual paragraphs that are well worth taking the time to read, but generally stop the story dead. Brin's visuals are nowhere near as detailed as Tolkien's, but they are full and whole, and his world, protagonist, and secondary characters are both complete and engaging straight 'til the end.
I've never seen the 1997 Kevin Costner film based on this book, and have believed the rumours regarding its legendary dullness as the only Costner-directed film I have seen and enjoyed is 2003's Open Range. However, after reading The Postman, I'm now quite interested in its screen adaptation. Costner is a thinker, and I'd like to see his take on this story. Seeing that the screenplay was written by Brian Helegeland (L.A. Confidential, Conspiracy Theory) and Eric Roth (Munich, The Good Shepherd) more or less confirms that I'll be watching The Postman pretty soon.
In the meantime, I highly recommend The Postman as reading material, even if you've seen and hated the movie. It's a fantastic book, a smart story, and appears to have significantly influenced many aspects of Fallout 3, so if you enjoyed that series I can't think of a single reason why you won't enjoy this book. And if you hate video games with a passion, as some people dear to me do, I still can't think of a single reason why you won't consider The Postman to have been an excellent use of your time.
Anyways, the point is, I finally read it, and it is the finest post-apocalyptic sci-fi book - and one of the finest post-apocalyptic sci-fi stories - I've ever come across.
The Postman (1985) opens in U.S. of A., year 2009, sixteen years after a nuclear war that has left the country in a state very similar that of the Fallout video game series, with protagonist Gordon Krantz fleeing for his life while simultaneously trying to reclaim all his worldly possessions after his camp is attacked by "survivalists", roaming terrors who thrive on death, destruction, and mutilating corpses, and who I wouldn't be surprised to hear were the direct inspiration for Fallout's raiders. Just eighteen when the first of the wars began, he has survived the interim, including a three-year long nuclear winter, first by joining a short-lived militia in the early days of the war and later by using his brain and the skills he learned in the militia he wanders the country trading plays and stories for food and shelter at the settlements scattered across the mid-west, thus proving that English Literature 101 may be useful in the event of a nuclear apocalypse after all. After surviving the opening attack on his camp, but losing all his posessions - making him as good as dead, out in the wild - in the course of his escape he stumbles across a derelict jeep containing the fully uniformed body of a pre-war postman, along with a big sack of official government mail regarding what would later be referred to as the Doomwar. Gordon is deeply stricken by this unexpected and most familiar of links to better days, and the fact that the postman was most likely ambushed while trying to deliver his cargo but pressed on as long as he could in an attempt to preserve his country, bringing to mind the U.S. Postal Service Oath to deliver the mail no matter what. He's also delighted to have the postman's warm uniform, and so takes it and the mailbag and continues on his way. At the next settlement he comes across, the residents decide that, regardless of how he came by it, now that he's put on the postman's uniform he is a postman. Recognizing the potential of this course of action, Gordon decides to re-open lines of communication and build up hope, instituting post offices, mail routes, and carriers in each subsequent settlement he comes to and even as going so far as to forge documents "proving" that there is a government out east which is working on restoring America. As the baby postal service grows, and people actually start getting letters from friends and family they thought were long dead, their hope and belief in the rebuilding of the country grows with it. Making the lie even easier to believe is the reasonable assumption that the post would be the only sustainable, wide-reaching federal service to continue after a holocaust, as all it requires is people willing to travel. Gordon is determined to keep the hope alive, but the bulk of the story's tension is found in his constant nervous state of wondering about when his lie will be revealed, and if it will have been successful enough for that revelation to not make a difference to the people.
However, all that's just the setting. The true story of The Postman is a calm, thought out, well-constructed examination of why people need other people, and how it is impossible for an organization, be it town or country, to survive and succeed if run by or consisting of only one type of person or group. This is subtly emphasized by how different each settlement Gordon visits is, in its structure, leadership, attitudes, and practices, and more strongly emphasized by the almost overwhelmingly destructive force of the survivalists. Brin even manages to tactfully deconstruct one of the major and very sensitive real-life socio-political arguments of his time, though I imagine it would not be hard for a certain type of person to ignore everything else and claim The Postman as a feminist manifesto. It is because Brin is so calm that it could be very easy to ignore all the subtle elements that build the core of his message and cling to one of the stronger ones, but ultimately The Postman remains a powerful and successful argument for why no one ideological group can successfully rule or survive on its own.
On top of that, Brin's writing style is incredibly easy to engage. Casual and flowing, his voice in this book feels like a cross between late-50's-early 60's Robert A. Heinlein (Starship Troopers, Stranger in a Strange Land), late-90's Stephen King (Hearts in Atlantis, The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon), and Harry Harrison (Make Room! Make Room!, the Stainless Steel Rat books) minus the hysterics. It opens well, it ends well, has a very reasonable take on the future which is our present, and contains one the most beautifully blunt foreshadowings I've come across. Packed with thoughts and visuals, The Postman somehow manages to never stop flowing, or even slow down. That to me is a most impressive accomplishment - that most famous of descriptive writers, Tolkien, wrote gorgeous visual paragraphs that are well worth taking the time to read, but generally stop the story dead. Brin's visuals are nowhere near as detailed as Tolkien's, but they are full and whole, and his world, protagonist, and secondary characters are both complete and engaging straight 'til the end.
I've never seen the 1997 Kevin Costner film based on this book, and have believed the rumours regarding its legendary dullness as the only Costner-directed film I have seen and enjoyed is 2003's Open Range. However, after reading The Postman, I'm now quite interested in its screen adaptation. Costner is a thinker, and I'd like to see his take on this story. Seeing that the screenplay was written by Brian Helegeland (L.A. Confidential, Conspiracy Theory) and Eric Roth (Munich, The Good Shepherd) more or less confirms that I'll be watching The Postman pretty soon.
In the meantime, I highly recommend The Postman as reading material, even if you've seen and hated the movie. It's a fantastic book, a smart story, and appears to have significantly influenced many aspects of Fallout 3, so if you enjoyed that series I can't think of a single reason why you won't enjoy this book. And if you hate video games with a passion, as some people dear to me do, I still can't think of a single reason why you won't consider The Postman to have been an excellent use of your time.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Eh, What?
Overheard shouted by author Michael Chabon (The Yiddish Policeman's Union) after getting clocked on the head with a Peanuts poster during a brawl on The Simpsons:
"You fight like Anne Rice!"
Classic.
...?
"You fight like Anne Rice!"
Classic.
...?
Friday, August 21, 2009
Let's Make A Deal
Near the end of his life, master storyteller Will Eisner (The Spirit) wrote a graphic novel called A Contract With God and Other Tenement Stories that is very famous in the right circles. And I have absolutely no idea what to make of it.
I'm starting to notice a trend in books written by great authors shortly before their deaths (not including those who died young or suddenly), namely, that they're...strange. Frank Herbert's God Emperor of Dune, for example, or Robert A. Heinlein's The Cat Who Walks Through Walls. Like A Contract With God, these books are more heavily weighted towards saying something than they are towards telling stories, but what they have to say is cryptic to me. I like speaking with old people, and especially hearing sermons from people who are close to dying of old age, because they're usually very interesting. Important, too, with the weight of so many years behind their words and lessons.
But these books...in particular the Eisner one since I just read it yesterday...there's a trend here, but a trend of what, I have no idea. I should perhaps keep it in the back of my mind to read this stuff when I'm in my twilight years - maybe then I'll understand.
I'm starting to notice a trend in books written by great authors shortly before their deaths (not including those who died young or suddenly), namely, that they're...strange. Frank Herbert's God Emperor of Dune, for example, or Robert A. Heinlein's The Cat Who Walks Through Walls. Like A Contract With God, these books are more heavily weighted towards saying something than they are towards telling stories, but what they have to say is cryptic to me. I like speaking with old people, and especially hearing sermons from people who are close to dying of old age, because they're usually very interesting. Important, too, with the weight of so many years behind their words and lessons.
But these books...in particular the Eisner one since I just read it yesterday...there's a trend here, but a trend of what, I have no idea. I should perhaps keep it in the back of my mind to read this stuff when I'm in my twilight years - maybe then I'll understand.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
John Constantine, Hellblazer
With comics so easily accessible at no cost, why not read 'em all? Adapted into a decent Keanu Reeves film a few years back, Garth Ennis' John Constantine, Hellblazer: Rake at the Gates of Hell is a standard-setting volume. The final act of the Constantine story, it boasts incredible layout and perhaps the best use of the comic medium that I've ever seen. Unfortunately, it's also shockingly immature, uncessarily vulgar, unremittingly oppressive, and its plot can be summarized as, "life's a bitch and then you die, unless of course some random homo ex machina* kills Satan and cures your lung cancer in the last panel." Sometimes stories read out of sequence make me thirst for the rest of the tale (case in point, Hellboy); Hellblazer is not one of those. Boring, I can handle. Stupid, I can handle. Boring and stupid? I may be unemployed, but I've still got better things to do. Watch the movie, for example.
*Don't get your vapors all fluttered, this isn't some weird slur against homosexuals, it's just a joke riffing off deus ex machina. In Latin, which this is, homo means "human", or "man". You're thinking of the Greek homo, which is the one that means "same", and it's kind of ironic if you think about it that that particular word has been co-opted to only have one understood sense or meaning.
*Don't get your vapors all fluttered, this isn't some weird slur against homosexuals, it's just a joke riffing off deus ex machina. In Latin, which this is, homo means "human", or "man". You're thinking of the Greek homo, which is the one that means "same", and it's kind of ironic if you think about it that that particular word has been co-opted to only have one understood sense or meaning.
It's Howdy-Hellboy Time
When it comes to the importance of books, in the popular consciousness comic books hover somewhere between Harlequin romances and novels based on video games. Sure, if you turn them into a graphic novel, then they matter - do you ever wonder how literary culture would would regard Alan Moores' The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen or Tim Sales and Jeph Loeb's The Long Halloween, both of which begun as regular comic issues, if they weren't later published in graphic novel form? And, of course, some graphic novels are genuine graphic novels, intended to be such from the beginning, and those are also regarded popularly as a respectable form of literature. But what happens when a story arc spans a collection of diverse short stories, many of which are stand-alone, thus making graphic novelization impossible...but you bind them into book format anyway?
Well, for one thing, you get the "library volumes" of Mike Mignola's landmark series Hellboy, a book which taught me for the first time in twenty years of reading what people mean when they speak of books as mystical objects; how they were encouraged to read after becoming entranced by a book's physical qualities. Looking (and weighing) like the love child of an encyclopaedia and an atlas, Hellboy Volume 2 is a stunning thing, a black-bound creature with no dust jacket and a cover bearing only its title, byline, and a small matted illustration from a fan favourite story contained within. It's so heavy it makes me grunt when I pick it up. With gorgeous glossy pages too thick to flip idly, the sort you feel guilty about leaving fingerprints on...well, there are books, like the dinky little paperbacks I buy because they're cheap and easy to read on the bus, and then there are books. Hellboy Volume 2 is the latter.
And the good news is, it's not just pretty on the outside. Having spawned one spin-off that I know of, a small army of tributes (Mike Mignola lets other writers/artists publish Hellboy stories), and two solid films by Guillermo Del Toro (Pan's Labyrinth), Hellboy as drawn by Mignola is famous for a groundbreaking art style that relies heavily on clean lines and black. As written by Mignola - I stress this because I have not been impressed with the Hellboy spin-off B.P.R.D., which he doesn't write, or the tribute volume I've read - it's also a great, thoughtful story about nature, choice, predestination, and a guy who more or less defines the phrase "loveable curmudgeon".
Opening its story during the Second World War, Hellboy is the story of a little red fellow with horns and a giant right fist who falls into Allied hands after entering Earth courtesy of a supernatural Nazi experiment gone awry. Taken under charge of the U.S. Bureau of Paranormal Research and Investigation (B.P.R.D.) and adopted by one of its agents, Hellboy grows up far quicker than the average boy and is soon engaged as a field agent himself. Hellboy is based on the short story format, and those short stories are in turn based on existing Old World folk stories both famous and obscure (but mostly obscure). It does, however, have several overarching story arcs, the most prominent being that of who - and what - its main character is. The dictionary definition of laid-back, Hellboy spends somewhere between twenty and thirty years unconcerned and uninterested in why, for example, he was born in Hell and has a gigantic and very powerful right fist that doesn't match his left, as he dispatches supernatural evil on behalf of the B.P.R.D. in a very "all in a day's work" way. In that same manner, he loves his adopted father fiercely, is protective of his friends and colleagues at the B.P.R.D., and has a large soft spot for Howdy-Doody (hey, he grew up in the late '40's) and cats. Wry without being hip, an oddly likeable mix of difficult child and grumpy old man, Hellboy is a great character to build a series around. It's Mike Mignola's treatment of Hellboy's nature, however - and the supernatural in general - that makes the story a far better read than your average demon-based comic, spin-offs and tributes included.
As a general rule, the difference between high-quality, mature supernatural fantasy and crappy, immature supernatural fantasy hinges on the respect the author has for his subject matter. People who write this stuff with a low belief in or respect of the supernatural can still turn out a quality product, but one that's also invariably stupid (Joss Whedon's Angel is a good example of this). One big thing that sets Mignola's Hellboy apart from other comics with the word "Hell" in the title, for example Garth Ennis' John Constantine, Hellblazer, is the fact that Hellboy and the B.P.R.D. get along and work in conjuction with the Church. Hellboy has genuine friends and mentors among the priesthood, and his lady friend Liz, also a B.P.R.D. agent with supernatural powers, is a nun in her spare time. Even better than this is that, as far as the Hellboy I've read, Mignola doesn't make the Church a "good guy" character by twisting it into a popular, politically correct something it's not - it's one of the Good Guys on its own merits.
Hellboy may be a put-off to many readers on the basis of its name alone. Well, as they say in showbiz, it's not what you've got, it's how you use it. At its core, Hellboy is the story of a fallen creature born that way who deliberately works on a daily basis to reject his nature and become something better. It's a redemption story, but a strange one as Hellboy turns out to be the literal son of Satan, his real name being Anung Un Rama, the Beast of the Apocalypse, destined to be the Great Destroyer. Even after he learns this, though, he continues to live as he's been living, and what's especially appealing from a storytelling perspective - and indicative of the author's maturity - is that Hellboy doesn't waste time whining about how it may all be hopeless in the end. He just does as he does, grinding down his horns every morning and choosing to live as his adoptive father taught him, rejecting (and actively slaying) evil.
I believe it was Buechner who wrote that the world speaks of holy things in the only language it knows, which is a wordly language, or something like that. What sealed the deal for me becoming a Mike Mignola fan was the last story in Hellboy Volume 2, "Box Full of Evil". Due to Hellboy's nature and power, assorted forces of evil both supernatural and earthly are in a constant state of attempting to reclaim him for the Devil's purposes, and this is what motivates the villain of "Box Full of Evil". Though he severely injures Hellboy, he is unable to turn him, and so sets about attempting to claim the nature of the Beast for himself. As Hellboy awakens blind on a supernatural plane, a creature there asks him, "Who are you, boy? What is your name?". Mentally defeated and crushed, Hellboy replies that he is Anung Un Rama. The creature summarizes who Anung Un Rama is and demands to know, "is that who you are?". Hellboy says no, and the creature responds, "then that's not your name, is it?" Hellboy is the story of someone who takes on a new name in rejection of the person their old name belongs to. It is written that when we come under the protection of Christ's salvation, we are born again, become someone different, and start life anew. And what is one of the first things that happens after you are born? You are given a name. "Box Full of Evil" touched me in a very deep and secret way, and I doubt I'll ever read it without bursting into tears as it slams home the heart of God's grace.
If nothing else, Hellboy Volume 2 sparks some interesting thoughts on the size of books versus their perceived value, and what an anomaly this volume is in that regard...but that's a story for another day.
Well, for one thing, you get the "library volumes" of Mike Mignola's landmark series Hellboy, a book which taught me for the first time in twenty years of reading what people mean when they speak of books as mystical objects; how they were encouraged to read after becoming entranced by a book's physical qualities. Looking (and weighing) like the love child of an encyclopaedia and an atlas, Hellboy Volume 2 is a stunning thing, a black-bound creature with no dust jacket and a cover bearing only its title, byline, and a small matted illustration from a fan favourite story contained within. It's so heavy it makes me grunt when I pick it up. With gorgeous glossy pages too thick to flip idly, the sort you feel guilty about leaving fingerprints on...well, there are books, like the dinky little paperbacks I buy because they're cheap and easy to read on the bus, and then there are books. Hellboy Volume 2 is the latter.
And the good news is, it's not just pretty on the outside. Having spawned one spin-off that I know of, a small army of tributes (Mike Mignola lets other writers/artists publish Hellboy stories), and two solid films by Guillermo Del Toro (Pan's Labyrinth), Hellboy as drawn by Mignola is famous for a groundbreaking art style that relies heavily on clean lines and black. As written by Mignola - I stress this because I have not been impressed with the Hellboy spin-off B.P.R.D., which he doesn't write, or the tribute volume I've read - it's also a great, thoughtful story about nature, choice, predestination, and a guy who more or less defines the phrase "loveable curmudgeon".
Opening its story during the Second World War, Hellboy is the story of a little red fellow with horns and a giant right fist who falls into Allied hands after entering Earth courtesy of a supernatural Nazi experiment gone awry. Taken under charge of the U.S. Bureau of Paranormal Research and Investigation (B.P.R.D.) and adopted by one of its agents, Hellboy grows up far quicker than the average boy and is soon engaged as a field agent himself. Hellboy is based on the short story format, and those short stories are in turn based on existing Old World folk stories both famous and obscure (but mostly obscure). It does, however, have several overarching story arcs, the most prominent being that of who - and what - its main character is. The dictionary definition of laid-back, Hellboy spends somewhere between twenty and thirty years unconcerned and uninterested in why, for example, he was born in Hell and has a gigantic and very powerful right fist that doesn't match his left, as he dispatches supernatural evil on behalf of the B.P.R.D. in a very "all in a day's work" way. In that same manner, he loves his adopted father fiercely, is protective of his friends and colleagues at the B.P.R.D., and has a large soft spot for Howdy-Doody (hey, he grew up in the late '40's) and cats. Wry without being hip, an oddly likeable mix of difficult child and grumpy old man, Hellboy is a great character to build a series around. It's Mike Mignola's treatment of Hellboy's nature, however - and the supernatural in general - that makes the story a far better read than your average demon-based comic, spin-offs and tributes included.
As a general rule, the difference between high-quality, mature supernatural fantasy and crappy, immature supernatural fantasy hinges on the respect the author has for his subject matter. People who write this stuff with a low belief in or respect of the supernatural can still turn out a quality product, but one that's also invariably stupid (Joss Whedon's Angel is a good example of this). One big thing that sets Mignola's Hellboy apart from other comics with the word "Hell" in the title, for example Garth Ennis' John Constantine, Hellblazer, is the fact that Hellboy and the B.P.R.D. get along and work in conjuction with the Church. Hellboy has genuine friends and mentors among the priesthood, and his lady friend Liz, also a B.P.R.D. agent with supernatural powers, is a nun in her spare time. Even better than this is that, as far as the Hellboy I've read, Mignola doesn't make the Church a "good guy" character by twisting it into a popular, politically correct something it's not - it's one of the Good Guys on its own merits.
Hellboy may be a put-off to many readers on the basis of its name alone. Well, as they say in showbiz, it's not what you've got, it's how you use it. At its core, Hellboy is the story of a fallen creature born that way who deliberately works on a daily basis to reject his nature and become something better. It's a redemption story, but a strange one as Hellboy turns out to be the literal son of Satan, his real name being Anung Un Rama, the Beast of the Apocalypse, destined to be the Great Destroyer. Even after he learns this, though, he continues to live as he's been living, and what's especially appealing from a storytelling perspective - and indicative of the author's maturity - is that Hellboy doesn't waste time whining about how it may all be hopeless in the end. He just does as he does, grinding down his horns every morning and choosing to live as his adoptive father taught him, rejecting (and actively slaying) evil.
I believe it was Buechner who wrote that the world speaks of holy things in the only language it knows, which is a wordly language, or something like that. What sealed the deal for me becoming a Mike Mignola fan was the last story in Hellboy Volume 2, "Box Full of Evil". Due to Hellboy's nature and power, assorted forces of evil both supernatural and earthly are in a constant state of attempting to reclaim him for the Devil's purposes, and this is what motivates the villain of "Box Full of Evil". Though he severely injures Hellboy, he is unable to turn him, and so sets about attempting to claim the nature of the Beast for himself. As Hellboy awakens blind on a supernatural plane, a creature there asks him, "Who are you, boy? What is your name?". Mentally defeated and crushed, Hellboy replies that he is Anung Un Rama. The creature summarizes who Anung Un Rama is and demands to know, "is that who you are?". Hellboy says no, and the creature responds, "then that's not your name, is it?" Hellboy is the story of someone who takes on a new name in rejection of the person their old name belongs to. It is written that when we come under the protection of Christ's salvation, we are born again, become someone different, and start life anew. And what is one of the first things that happens after you are born? You are given a name. "Box Full of Evil" touched me in a very deep and secret way, and I doubt I'll ever read it without bursting into tears as it slams home the heart of God's grace.
If nothing else, Hellboy Volume 2 sparks some interesting thoughts on the size of books versus their perceived value, and what an anomaly this volume is in that regard...but that's a story for another day.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
It's a Bird! It's a Plane! It's a Trope! And it Rocks.
A couple of posts ago, I suggested that you all (yes, all) read Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman's Dragon Wing, the first volume of their seven-book Death Gate Cycle, on the basis that it's good light reading as well as a great introduction to fantasy genre tropes. I then both took my own advice, thus beginning to re-read it myself, as well as foisting it on Corey. The good news is, it may be even better than I remembered it.
The first four volumes focus on the main character's quest to, um, commit anarchy. Haplo is a Patryn, an uber-magic-powerful human race whose members were imprisoned in a humongous organic prison known as the Labyrinth by their arch-enemies the Sartan, the other uber-magic-powerful human race, for reasons unclear in the story's early stages. Just before imprisoning the Patryns, the Sartan split the Earth into four smaller, elemental planets, and then vanished altogether soon after. Haplo, powerful magician though he may be, is a grunt with blind allegiance to his liege lord Xar, who was the first to escape the Labyrinth and made it his life's mission to help others escape. Now, feeling that enough of his people are free, Xar's turned his sights to ruling other peoples as well. He desires to bring order to the universe by bringing it wholly under his command, and plans to accomplish that by having Haplo instigate civil unrest or war on each world, so that Xar can come in, bring peace, and take over. Of course, what's the enemy of the forces or Order? That's right, kids, Chaos! Its embodiment(s) are hard at work turning Xar to their sneaky purposes. Adventures of epic proportions - and a continuous theological discussion - ensue.
Also of course, the Sartan haven't all disappeared, and Haplo discovers this early in his travels. Haplo is young, angry, arrogant, and not prone to critical thinking, yet very powerful, and owns a dog who seems to be not your average dog. His Sartan nemesis Alfred, is older, sad, humble, and prone to over-thinking, yet very very powerful. No dog for him. The first four books introduce a cast of recurring secondary characters, as the first half of each are devoted to introducing the world they're set on; these include a human assassin, human rogue, inhuman child, naive dwarf, homicidal angry dwarf, progressive elf, conservative elf, senile elf, and tarty whoring elf with a heart of gold. Oh, and a mysterious sentient dragon and his seemingly senile geezer wizard. Tropes for all!
But - and this is a big but - these aren't mindless tropes. For starters, each world - Air, Fire, Earth, Water - is actually distinct, and the nature of the unrest Haplo must either instigate or improve on is different in each. He doesn't just go to the same world using the same procedure for four books. Heavy use of tropes may sound lazy on the surface, but Weis and Hickman push their story further by thinking things through. For all their quick-to-read qualities, these books aren't so fluffy. The third book, which takes the old story of a grieving man using necromancy to revive his wife or lover so that they'll be together eternally and extends it to the context of a king and his people, is grim to say the least (not to mention a nice exploration of the series-wide theme of the destruction that occurs when people play God - it's a horrific contrast to the good resurrection prophesied in the Bible). And, though they clearly like their Lord of the Rings, they rise above bad fanfic that somehow got published (Terry Brooks, I'm looking at you!) by building off influences instead of merely using them. Basically, Weis and Hickman are to Tolkien what Alastair Reynolds is to Heinlein and Asimov, or what Jim Butcher is to Spenser and the Brothers Grimm (but not quite as talented as Reynolds and Butcher). Corey has also suggested that their blatant LoTR and other pop references are clues to the series overarching themes of wave theory and finding God. Okay, that last sentence may not make sense, but I can't discuss it without going into they story in great depth; suffice it to say, I think he's right, and these themes are approached with thought and little disappointment. Another recurring theme in the series is abandonment by beings thought to be gods - the Sartan abandoning the Patryn, abandoning the four worlds; Haplo abandoning each world after his work is done - coupled with the search for the One God. This, too, is interestingly done.
And the character Zifnab's constant derogatory references to Gandalf the Grey? Corey has postulated a very interesting, reasonable, sort of profound and, I think, entirely correct reason for this other than the cheap comedic nudges I originally thought they were. If you've read it, I'd be happy to present you this theory; otherwise, it will mean little and spoil much.
If you're thinking the names Weis and Hickman are familiar, that's probably because they also created Dragonlance - but don't hold it against them. The first three books of that series are quite enjoyable; however, if you've made the mistake of reading on from there, don't let that prompt a rejection of the Death Gate Cycle. The only reasons I can think of to not enjoy this series are a) you don't enjoy fantasy, b) you don't enjoy adventure books, or c) you're bigoted, and think Christian/monotheistic themes automatically make a story bad, like those incomprehensible folks who say stuff like "the Chronicles of Narnia would be good if it weren't for all the Christian content!" (This is, without a doubt, the strangest literary criticism I've ever heard. You can't make this stuff up, kids. As the dog in Fallout 3 would say: [aroo?] )
Bottom line: for a long-ish series, the Death Gate Cycle is one of the better uses of your library card - though also worth owning; it re-reads well - and not even that big of a time commitment. Bonus fantasy series points: it also has a clear and well-reached conclusion, not to mention my favourite deus ex machina ever, in book seven. Take that, Wheel of Time!
The first four volumes focus on the main character's quest to, um, commit anarchy. Haplo is a Patryn, an uber-magic-powerful human race whose members were imprisoned in a humongous organic prison known as the Labyrinth by their arch-enemies the Sartan, the other uber-magic-powerful human race, for reasons unclear in the story's early stages. Just before imprisoning the Patryns, the Sartan split the Earth into four smaller, elemental planets, and then vanished altogether soon after. Haplo, powerful magician though he may be, is a grunt with blind allegiance to his liege lord Xar, who was the first to escape the Labyrinth and made it his life's mission to help others escape. Now, feeling that enough of his people are free, Xar's turned his sights to ruling other peoples as well. He desires to bring order to the universe by bringing it wholly under his command, and plans to accomplish that by having Haplo instigate civil unrest or war on each world, so that Xar can come in, bring peace, and take over. Of course, what's the enemy of the forces or Order? That's right, kids, Chaos! Its embodiment(s) are hard at work turning Xar to their sneaky purposes. Adventures of epic proportions - and a continuous theological discussion - ensue.
Also of course, the Sartan haven't all disappeared, and Haplo discovers this early in his travels. Haplo is young, angry, arrogant, and not prone to critical thinking, yet very powerful, and owns a dog who seems to be not your average dog. His Sartan nemesis Alfred, is older, sad, humble, and prone to over-thinking, yet very very powerful. No dog for him. The first four books introduce a cast of recurring secondary characters, as the first half of each are devoted to introducing the world they're set on; these include a human assassin, human rogue, inhuman child, naive dwarf, homicidal angry dwarf, progressive elf, conservative elf, senile elf, and tarty whoring elf with a heart of gold. Oh, and a mysterious sentient dragon and his seemingly senile geezer wizard. Tropes for all!
But - and this is a big but - these aren't mindless tropes. For starters, each world - Air, Fire, Earth, Water - is actually distinct, and the nature of the unrest Haplo must either instigate or improve on is different in each. He doesn't just go to the same world using the same procedure for four books. Heavy use of tropes may sound lazy on the surface, but Weis and Hickman push their story further by thinking things through. For all their quick-to-read qualities, these books aren't so fluffy. The third book, which takes the old story of a grieving man using necromancy to revive his wife or lover so that they'll be together eternally and extends it to the context of a king and his people, is grim to say the least (not to mention a nice exploration of the series-wide theme of the destruction that occurs when people play God - it's a horrific contrast to the good resurrection prophesied in the Bible). And, though they clearly like their Lord of the Rings, they rise above bad fanfic that somehow got published (Terry Brooks, I'm looking at you!) by building off influences instead of merely using them. Basically, Weis and Hickman are to Tolkien what Alastair Reynolds is to Heinlein and Asimov, or what Jim Butcher is to Spenser and the Brothers Grimm (but not quite as talented as Reynolds and Butcher). Corey has also suggested that their blatant LoTR and other pop references are clues to the series overarching themes of wave theory and finding God. Okay, that last sentence may not make sense, but I can't discuss it without going into they story in great depth; suffice it to say, I think he's right, and these themes are approached with thought and little disappointment. Another recurring theme in the series is abandonment by beings thought to be gods - the Sartan abandoning the Patryn, abandoning the four worlds; Haplo abandoning each world after his work is done - coupled with the search for the One God. This, too, is interestingly done.
And the character Zifnab's constant derogatory references to Gandalf the Grey? Corey has postulated a very interesting, reasonable, sort of profound and, I think, entirely correct reason for this other than the cheap comedic nudges I originally thought they were. If you've read it, I'd be happy to present you this theory; otherwise, it will mean little and spoil much.
If you're thinking the names Weis and Hickman are familiar, that's probably because they also created Dragonlance - but don't hold it against them. The first three books of that series are quite enjoyable; however, if you've made the mistake of reading on from there, don't let that prompt a rejection of the Death Gate Cycle. The only reasons I can think of to not enjoy this series are a) you don't enjoy fantasy, b) you don't enjoy adventure books, or c) you're bigoted, and think Christian/monotheistic themes automatically make a story bad, like those incomprehensible folks who say stuff like "the Chronicles of Narnia would be good if it weren't for all the Christian content!" (This is, without a doubt, the strangest literary criticism I've ever heard. You can't make this stuff up, kids. As the dog in Fallout 3 would say:
Bottom line: for a long-ish series, the Death Gate Cycle is one of the better uses of your library card - though also worth owning; it re-reads well - and not even that big of a time commitment. Bonus fantasy series points: it also has a clear and well-reached conclusion, not to mention my favourite deus ex machina ever, in book seven. Take that, Wheel of Time!
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Summer and Reading Go Together Like Peas and Carrots. Really?
I'm what you might call a "regular reader", if only because "regular" sounds better than "chronic", or "obsessive." I get pretty distressed if I don't have anything to read on hand, and tend to go through phases of style and genre. I might read nothing but hard sci-fi for two months, then crave Stephen King, then read comics for a couple of weeks, then take some light fantasy, some Napoleonic war fiction, and then nothing but history, current affairs, or theology/philosophy for a good stretch. I like a little bit of everything, except pure romances and "mystery" (but give me a great noir any day).
All this to say, ever since I was a bright-eyed schoolgirl saddled with a crappy summer reading list, I've never understood the concept of "summer reading". It seems (at least in my day; I haven't been to high school in nearly a decade) that high school summer reading is all about extreme gravitas. I remember being assaulted every year like clockwork with the likes of Graham Greene, Margaret Atwood, Spider Robinson, the occasional Hemmingway, and more books about teen violence, drug use, suicide, prostitution, and plain ol' Rebel Without a Cause-style ennui than you can shake a Molotov at. And now, as an adult, it seems that what I'm supposed to read in the summer is either all the unabashed, guilty pleasure, "this could be a novelization of the Hallmark Movie of the Week" that I can get my hands on; however, certain media outlets will recommend non-fiction tomes of incredible gravity and timeliness, which will render me officially informed.
Either way, there's this idea going around that summer is either the time for non-readers to read, to temper your happy fun vacation with something that would fill any healthy person with the desire to jump off the nearest bridge, or to gorge oneself on the literary equivalent of deep-fried Mars bars and Desperate Housewives. And my response to all this is...why? If you don't enjoy reading enough to make time for it in the first place, why squander your precious vacation time? And if you do enjoy reading, why reserve certain genres for one time of year? And, if you're one of Those! who assembles school summer reading lists, why not pick some serious books that don't blow, like Les Miserables or Dracula or (original/unabridged=freakin' awesome novel) instead of punishing your children with Atwood and Hemmingway?
I'm going to violate a personal blogging rule here and make a list. A list that would've prompted me to send Those! a thank-you gift, had I been granted such a list while in high school at summer reading time.
Official classics:
Les Miserables, Victor Hugo - unabridged, read the French if you can swing it, as some key comments defy translation to English.
Dracula, Bram Stoker - everyone's heard of it, few have read it, few know what an extraordinary book it is.
The Three Musketeers, Alexandre Dumas, pere - unabridged, French if you can, etc. Hi-larious.
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll, unabridged. Not your Disney's Alice.
Peter Pan, J.M. Barrie, unabridged. Not your Disney's Peter. You want the kiddies reading something dark this summer? Here you go.
There is some good classic poetry out there. Much of it was written by Poe, Rimbaud, Blake, Tennyson, Frost, Spenser, Milton, Eliot, Gilbert & Sullivan, and, of course, Shakespeare. For those who "don't like poetry", that is one list of ridiculously different poets. I personally would add Edward Lear and Hilaire Belloc to the list of "poetry classics", but your English prof may disagree. ;) Roald Dahl's "Snow White and the Seven Dwarves" may also not make the "classic" cut.
Old(er) books your teachers may or may not consider classic:
Starship Troopers, Robert A. Heinlein - a hallmark, landmark, sci-fi masterpiece. Hard to believe it clocks in at a mere 263 pages in the paperback edition.
Red Harvest, Dashiell Hammet. Sounds like something Mike and Joel would watch on Mystery Science Theatre 3000. Is actually the father of all detective noir.
Out of the Silent Planet and Perelandra, C.S. Lewis. The first two books of his "space trilogy". Strange, deep, musical, and did I mention strange? At the very least, read the second - it's a thing of grave beauty.
I, Robot, Isaac Asimov. No, the movie won't cut it for your book report, as the book is actually a series of interconnected short stories.
The Young Hornblower Omnibus, C.S. Forester. Napoleonic war naval fiction. Memorable characters, easier to read than Master and Commander (Patrick O'Brien). Though M&C is excellent, Hornblower is lighter and more fun.
Contemporary, i.e. not older than I am:
The Stand, Hearts in Atlantis, The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, or The Gunslinger, Stephen King. Yes, folks, he's written more than trashy slashers, and stands an indisputable master of the writing craft. While these titles are quite low on or free of gratuitous R-rated content, I still wouldn't give 'em to the younger teens, or any kid you wouldn't let play Fallout 3.
Storm Front, Jim Butcher. Book one of The Dresden Files, a paranormal P.I. series with equally good senses of humour and gravitas, well-written, well-told, and it's mature about the supernatural, too. Unique!
His Majesty's Dragon, Naomi Novik. Like Horatio Hornblower, but with dragons, aerial combat, and feminism. Light, smart, and tons of fun.
Lost and Found, Alan Dean Foster. A short, smart, fun interstellar man-and-dog adventure similar to A Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, but more relaxed and less determinedly "look how ridiculous this is!" ridiculous (also, not British). Although, if you haven't read the Guide, I highly recommend it.
Century Rain, Alastair Reynolds. Hard sci-fi, classic-style noir, and alternate history all boiled into one of the best reads of the decade. Think Chinatown meets...Ghost in the Shell, crossed with Children of Men. Kind of. Small, mutant, fanged children, the likes of which are often seen in Japanese horror films, are also involved.
The Long Halloween and Dark Victory, Jeph Loeb and Tim Sale. Yes, comics. Also a strong story, good character exploration, interesting themes... Dark Victory is a continuation of The Long Halloween, so read that one first.
Assassin's Apprentice, Robin Hobb. For the requisite "disaffected teenager" book on your list, this was my personal favourite as a disaffected teenager, and I still like it as an adult. Book one of six.
The Dragonbone Chair, Tad Williams. The landmark fantasy classic of my generation, I'd go so far as to say the Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn trilogy is our Lord of the Rings. Williams is an excellent storyteller, and the big twist of the story is devastatingly hilarious. Bonus: the teenaged hero is...a normal teenager! Crazy!
Dragon Wing, Margaret Weiss and Tracy Hickman. Book one of a series that pulls out every fantasy trope in the book, recognizes its doing such, and is completely unashamed...and that's why it works, and is such an enjoyable read. If you want to teach the kids about tropes, this is a very fun place to start. And, with a 1990 publishing date, Dragon Wing may also be the first major, widespread introduction of steampunk to Western fantasy.
...and there you have it. Anna, I apologize for further burdening your "to read" list; you have my full permission to ignore this post completely. :D
All this to say, ever since I was a bright-eyed schoolgirl saddled with a crappy summer reading list, I've never understood the concept of "summer reading". It seems (at least in my day; I haven't been to high school in nearly a decade) that high school summer reading is all about extreme gravitas. I remember being assaulted every year like clockwork with the likes of Graham Greene, Margaret Atwood, Spider Robinson, the occasional Hemmingway, and more books about teen violence, drug use, suicide, prostitution, and plain ol' Rebel Without a Cause-style ennui than you can shake a Molotov at. And now, as an adult, it seems that what I'm supposed to read in the summer is either all the unabashed, guilty pleasure, "this could be a novelization of the Hallmark Movie of the Week" that I can get my hands on; however, certain media outlets will recommend non-fiction tomes of incredible gravity and timeliness, which will render me officially informed.
Either way, there's this idea going around that summer is either the time for non-readers to read, to temper your happy fun vacation with something that would fill any healthy person with the desire to jump off the nearest bridge, or to gorge oneself on the literary equivalent of deep-fried Mars bars and Desperate Housewives. And my response to all this is...why? If you don't enjoy reading enough to make time for it in the first place, why squander your precious vacation time? And if you do enjoy reading, why reserve certain genres for one time of year? And, if you're one of Those! who assembles school summer reading lists, why not pick some serious books that don't blow, like Les Miserables or Dracula or (original/unabridged=freakin' awesome novel) instead of punishing your children with Atwood and Hemmingway?
I'm going to violate a personal blogging rule here and make a list. A list that would've prompted me to send Those! a thank-you gift, had I been granted such a list while in high school at summer reading time.
Official classics:
Les Miserables, Victor Hugo - unabridged, read the French if you can swing it, as some key comments defy translation to English.
Dracula, Bram Stoker - everyone's heard of it, few have read it, few know what an extraordinary book it is.
The Three Musketeers, Alexandre Dumas, pere - unabridged, French if you can, etc. Hi-larious.
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll, unabridged. Not your Disney's Alice.
Peter Pan, J.M. Barrie, unabridged. Not your Disney's Peter. You want the kiddies reading something dark this summer? Here you go.
There is some good classic poetry out there. Much of it was written by Poe, Rimbaud, Blake, Tennyson, Frost, Spenser, Milton, Eliot, Gilbert & Sullivan, and, of course, Shakespeare. For those who "don't like poetry", that is one list of ridiculously different poets. I personally would add Edward Lear and Hilaire Belloc to the list of "poetry classics", but your English prof may disagree. ;) Roald Dahl's "Snow White and the Seven Dwarves" may also not make the "classic" cut.
Old(er) books your teachers may or may not consider classic:
Starship Troopers, Robert A. Heinlein - a hallmark, landmark, sci-fi masterpiece. Hard to believe it clocks in at a mere 263 pages in the paperback edition.
Red Harvest, Dashiell Hammet. Sounds like something Mike and Joel would watch on Mystery Science Theatre 3000. Is actually the father of all detective noir.
Out of the Silent Planet and Perelandra, C.S. Lewis. The first two books of his "space trilogy". Strange, deep, musical, and did I mention strange? At the very least, read the second - it's a thing of grave beauty.
I, Robot, Isaac Asimov. No, the movie won't cut it for your book report, as the book is actually a series of interconnected short stories.
The Young Hornblower Omnibus, C.S. Forester. Napoleonic war naval fiction. Memorable characters, easier to read than Master and Commander (Patrick O'Brien). Though M&C is excellent, Hornblower is lighter and more fun.
Contemporary, i.e. not older than I am:
The Stand, Hearts in Atlantis, The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, or The Gunslinger, Stephen King. Yes, folks, he's written more than trashy slashers, and stands an indisputable master of the writing craft. While these titles are quite low on or free of gratuitous R-rated content, I still wouldn't give 'em to the younger teens, or any kid you wouldn't let play Fallout 3.
Storm Front, Jim Butcher. Book one of The Dresden Files, a paranormal P.I. series with equally good senses of humour and gravitas, well-written, well-told, and it's mature about the supernatural, too. Unique!
His Majesty's Dragon, Naomi Novik. Like Horatio Hornblower, but with dragons, aerial combat, and feminism. Light, smart, and tons of fun.
Lost and Found, Alan Dean Foster. A short, smart, fun interstellar man-and-dog adventure similar to A Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, but more relaxed and less determinedly "look how ridiculous this is!" ridiculous (also, not British). Although, if you haven't read the Guide, I highly recommend it.
Century Rain, Alastair Reynolds. Hard sci-fi, classic-style noir, and alternate history all boiled into one of the best reads of the decade. Think Chinatown meets...Ghost in the Shell, crossed with Children of Men. Kind of. Small, mutant, fanged children, the likes of which are often seen in Japanese horror films, are also involved.
The Long Halloween and Dark Victory, Jeph Loeb and Tim Sale. Yes, comics. Also a strong story, good character exploration, interesting themes... Dark Victory is a continuation of The Long Halloween, so read that one first.
Assassin's Apprentice, Robin Hobb. For the requisite "disaffected teenager" book on your list, this was my personal favourite as a disaffected teenager, and I still like it as an adult. Book one of six.
The Dragonbone Chair, Tad Williams. The landmark fantasy classic of my generation, I'd go so far as to say the Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn trilogy is our Lord of the Rings. Williams is an excellent storyteller, and the big twist of the story is devastatingly hilarious. Bonus: the teenaged hero is...a normal teenager! Crazy!
Dragon Wing, Margaret Weiss and Tracy Hickman. Book one of a series that pulls out every fantasy trope in the book, recognizes its doing such, and is completely unashamed...and that's why it works, and is such an enjoyable read. If you want to teach the kids about tropes, this is a very fun place to start. And, with a 1990 publishing date, Dragon Wing may also be the first major, widespread introduction of steampunk to Western fantasy.
...and there you have it. Anna, I apologize for further burdening your "to read" list; you have my full permission to ignore this post completely. :D
Sunday, June 7, 2009
And here you thought all I did was watch summer blockbusters
One thing you may have noticed about me is that I'm afraid of neither the lowbrow nor the highbrow. I watched Shaun of the Dead last night, for the second time, on purpose. I own Masters of the Universe, on purpose. And, at my request, my birthday gifts from Corey consisted of a screening of Terminator: Salvation...and a large volume by Alvin Plantinga.
I'd never heard of him before my husband mentioned the name. It can be handy at times, having a spouse who grew up in academia. I've been re-acquainting myself with the works of Tom Clancy recently, and wanted something a bit deeper to balance things out; fortunately, the Edmonton Public Library was able to deliver. Alvin Plantinga, PhD. (Yale), has been teaching and writing for over thirty years, is the director of the Center for Philosophy and Religion at the University of Notre-Dame, and is widely considered to be America's leading Christian philosopher. Note that this is quite different from being a Christian apologist. The field of apologetics is typically geared toward the widest audience possible, and in my experience is primarily used to battle misconceptions about Christianity, whereas Plantinga is a philosopher in the formal, traditional sense of the word, with the goal of making proofs, and his audience is academic. Word on the street is he's particularly well-known in academia for quietly advancing the rationality of belief in God. As the current, aggressive Big Issue of the atheist movement is the idea that belief in any god is irrational, Plantinga's God and Other Minds: A study of the rational justification of belief in God caught my eye in particular.
I should note here that I'm only about a third of the way through that title. God and Other Minds is a philosophical treatise through and through, and not meant to be something one can quickly flip through on the bus. A formally constructed argument, it requires attention, digestion, re-reading, and, for folks like me with no formal philosophical training, the occasional Googling of a latin philosophy term or two. That being said, with a little effort, it's a brilliant piece of work and well worth the time. Primary atheist polemicist Christopher Hitchens - who is a philosopher by no stretch of any imagination, and whose (in)famous God is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything is so poorly constructed and written that I could not bring myself to finish it - is a very determined proponent of the idea that belief in any god is inherently and utterly irrational, a notion which comes up frequently in his column syndicated weekly through Slate.com (I read it in The National Post). Plantinga's thirty year-old argument to the contrary is far more rational and convincing than anything I've read by Hitchens yet. He (Hitchens) takes great pains in his writings to ignore arguments by established philosphers like Plantinga, choosing to take aim at easy or sensational targets instead, and at this early point in my reading I can only conclude that a) Hitchens has never read Plantinga, b) Hitchens has read Plantinga, but hasn't understood him, or c) Hitchens has read Plantinga, understood him, and refuses to concede any points but is incapable of mounting a proper counterargument. If you're tired of sensationalism, easily overturned objections, and lazy thinking - on either side of this debate - Plantinga is an essential read.
(He's also quite unintentionally humorous, because since he uses understood, established methods of creating philosophical arguments, he can say things like, "this argument is impeccable" without coming off as a total prig...but it's still funny.)
Fortunately, there are Plantinga works that, while still involved reads, can be read on the bus on the way to work; for example, God, Freedom, and Evil, which I'm about as far through as I am God and Other Minds. If you don't mind a book that'll probably take a couple of months to work through unless you are free to sit and read all day, these are some excellent titles. And when your brain gets tired from all that heavy thinking, you can always kick back and watch Shaun of the Dead. It's good to lead a balanced life.
I'd never heard of him before my husband mentioned the name. It can be handy at times, having a spouse who grew up in academia. I've been re-acquainting myself with the works of Tom Clancy recently, and wanted something a bit deeper to balance things out; fortunately, the Edmonton Public Library was able to deliver. Alvin Plantinga, PhD. (Yale), has been teaching and writing for over thirty years, is the director of the Center for Philosophy and Religion at the University of Notre-Dame, and is widely considered to be America's leading Christian philosopher. Note that this is quite different from being a Christian apologist. The field of apologetics is typically geared toward the widest audience possible, and in my experience is primarily used to battle misconceptions about Christianity, whereas Plantinga is a philosopher in the formal, traditional sense of the word, with the goal of making proofs, and his audience is academic. Word on the street is he's particularly well-known in academia for quietly advancing the rationality of belief in God. As the current, aggressive Big Issue of the atheist movement is the idea that belief in any god is irrational, Plantinga's God and Other Minds: A study of the rational justification of belief in God caught my eye in particular.
I should note here that I'm only about a third of the way through that title. God and Other Minds is a philosophical treatise through and through, and not meant to be something one can quickly flip through on the bus. A formally constructed argument, it requires attention, digestion, re-reading, and, for folks like me with no formal philosophical training, the occasional Googling of a latin philosophy term or two. That being said, with a little effort, it's a brilliant piece of work and well worth the time. Primary atheist polemicist Christopher Hitchens - who is a philosopher by no stretch of any imagination, and whose (in)famous God is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything is so poorly constructed and written that I could not bring myself to finish it - is a very determined proponent of the idea that belief in any god is inherently and utterly irrational, a notion which comes up frequently in his column syndicated weekly through Slate.com (I read it in The National Post). Plantinga's thirty year-old argument to the contrary is far more rational and convincing than anything I've read by Hitchens yet. He (Hitchens) takes great pains in his writings to ignore arguments by established philosphers like Plantinga, choosing to take aim at easy or sensational targets instead, and at this early point in my reading I can only conclude that a) Hitchens has never read Plantinga, b) Hitchens has read Plantinga, but hasn't understood him, or c) Hitchens has read Plantinga, understood him, and refuses to concede any points but is incapable of mounting a proper counterargument. If you're tired of sensationalism, easily overturned objections, and lazy thinking - on either side of this debate - Plantinga is an essential read.
(He's also quite unintentionally humorous, because since he uses understood, established methods of creating philosophical arguments, he can say things like, "this argument is impeccable" without coming off as a total prig...but it's still funny.)
Fortunately, there are Plantinga works that, while still involved reads, can be read on the bus on the way to work; for example, God, Freedom, and Evil, which I'm about as far through as I am God and Other Minds. If you don't mind a book that'll probably take a couple of months to work through unless you are free to sit and read all day, these are some excellent titles. And when your brain gets tired from all that heavy thinking, you can always kick back and watch Shaun of the Dead. It's good to lead a balanced life.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Clear and Present Entertainment
My recent re-watching of The Hunt for Red October left me craving some more Tom Clancy. In high school, I read and owned all the Jack Ryan novels, Patriot Games clear through to Executive Orders, as well as the Mr. Clark backstory Without Remorse. I also read the second Mr. Clark novel, Rainbow Six, and stopped there. Then I moved away, left my books in a closet, and chances are high I'll never see them again. But that's what libraries are for!
My favourite of the Jack Ryan novels is, obviously, Clear and Present Danger, set between Red October and The Sum of All Fears. A drug war story involving Army special operatives and Latin American drug lords, rough sailors and foolish politicos, and introducing Mr. Clark in his first big role after his small but key appearance in The Cardinal of the Kremlin, Clear and Present Danger finds Jack Ryan starting to take over Admiral Greer's responsibilites as the CIA's Deputy Director (Intelligence) as the Admiral is in the final stages of death by cancer. Provoked by both a heinous crime and an election year, the President, NSA, and heads of the CIA and FBI set up an operation so black only they and the operatives involved know about it - or so they believe. Said operation involves a new special ops team composed of Rangers, Green Berets, and other bests-of-the-best being dropped in the Colombian mountains to send some large and pointed messages to the drug cartel at their points of production and distribution. It's a thoroughly illegal operation, and one Jack is deliberately kept out of the loop on, until a combination of leaks and military men who aren't stupid, plus the assassination of the FBI's director, gradually blows the operation's cover. Things start to go wrong on the Colombian end, and when the NSA pulls out the team's air support and severs their radio connections, Mr. Clark approaches Jack for help getting them out. And so on and so forth.
Re-reading Clear and Present Danger for the first time in nearly a decade, I was quickly reminded why I enjoy Tom Clancy so much. His books are light reads, full of simple stories and archetypal, characters, but his consistency - not to mention plenty of fun technical detail - is what makes them work and keeps them interesting. Clear and Present Danger is populated with familiar, one-dimensional characters - we have the drug cartel's boss, Escobedo, the arrogant fool whose arrogance and foolishness will be his undoing, and Cortez, the suave and cunning second banana who really runs the show. We have National Security Advisor Admiral Cutter, the highly-placed buffoon in charge of field operations he has no experience with or understanding of, and CIA director Bob Ritter, the smart and experienced subordinate hobbled by his superior's bad decisions. We have Domingo "Ding" Chavez, the tough but smart kid from the L.A. barrio who joined the Army to avoid imminent arrest or gang-related death and quickly applied himself to be one of the finest graduates the Ranger school has ever seen. We have...you get the picture. Even the "deep" characters like Mr. Clark are very straightforward. And then, there's Jack Ryan, who defies existing action-hero/political thriller stereotypes as that rarest of literary creatures, the academic who understands and respects the military. What makes them all work is the fact that Clancy is consistent with each and every one of his characters. They have very rigid, clearly defined roles, and they all stick to them, not doing anything out of place with their character types. It sounds boring when I explain it like this, but it's actually what makes the books engaging, interesting, and fun instead of irritating, pretentious, and stupid.
Random content advisory: Clancy's soldiers and sailors swear like, well, soldiers and sailors, and quite frequently, too. If salty language, even in context, troubles you, these are not the books for you. Also, he doesn't sanitize violence.
If you've pondered watching the film Clear and Present Danger, my advice is: don't, especially if you've already read the book. The casting is pretty sketchy, and for a character-driven story, that's rarely a good thing. I like Harrison Ford, and I really like Willem Dafoe, but I don't like either of them as Jack Ryan or Mr. Clark, respectively. Also, it's just a very so-so picture. The book, on the other hand, is a tad long but well-conceived and enjoyable. If you're one of those people who likes to set aside the summer as a time for light reading, this is a good pick, and may even leave you wanting to read the rest of the series. If you do that, just be sure to read them in order, because from here to Executive Orders is one story arc. And no, Op Center, Splinter Cell, etc. are not part of that series, nor are they good. But Rainbow Six is.
My favourite of the Jack Ryan novels is, obviously, Clear and Present Danger, set between Red October and The Sum of All Fears. A drug war story involving Army special operatives and Latin American drug lords, rough sailors and foolish politicos, and introducing Mr. Clark in his first big role after his small but key appearance in The Cardinal of the Kremlin, Clear and Present Danger finds Jack Ryan starting to take over Admiral Greer's responsibilites as the CIA's Deputy Director (Intelligence) as the Admiral is in the final stages of death by cancer. Provoked by both a heinous crime and an election year, the President, NSA, and heads of the CIA and FBI set up an operation so black only they and the operatives involved know about it - or so they believe. Said operation involves a new special ops team composed of Rangers, Green Berets, and other bests-of-the-best being dropped in the Colombian mountains to send some large and pointed messages to the drug cartel at their points of production and distribution. It's a thoroughly illegal operation, and one Jack is deliberately kept out of the loop on, until a combination of leaks and military men who aren't stupid, plus the assassination of the FBI's director, gradually blows the operation's cover. Things start to go wrong on the Colombian end, and when the NSA pulls out the team's air support and severs their radio connections, Mr. Clark approaches Jack for help getting them out. And so on and so forth.
Re-reading Clear and Present Danger for the first time in nearly a decade, I was quickly reminded why I enjoy Tom Clancy so much. His books are light reads, full of simple stories and archetypal, characters, but his consistency - not to mention plenty of fun technical detail - is what makes them work and keeps them interesting. Clear and Present Danger is populated with familiar, one-dimensional characters - we have the drug cartel's boss, Escobedo, the arrogant fool whose arrogance and foolishness will be his undoing, and Cortez, the suave and cunning second banana who really runs the show. We have National Security Advisor Admiral Cutter, the highly-placed buffoon in charge of field operations he has no experience with or understanding of, and CIA director Bob Ritter, the smart and experienced subordinate hobbled by his superior's bad decisions. We have Domingo "Ding" Chavez, the tough but smart kid from the L.A. barrio who joined the Army to avoid imminent arrest or gang-related death and quickly applied himself to be one of the finest graduates the Ranger school has ever seen. We have...you get the picture. Even the "deep" characters like Mr. Clark are very straightforward. And then, there's Jack Ryan, who defies existing action-hero/political thriller stereotypes as that rarest of literary creatures, the academic who understands and respects the military. What makes them all work is the fact that Clancy is consistent with each and every one of his characters. They have very rigid, clearly defined roles, and they all stick to them, not doing anything out of place with their character types. It sounds boring when I explain it like this, but it's actually what makes the books engaging, interesting, and fun instead of irritating, pretentious, and stupid.
Random content advisory: Clancy's soldiers and sailors swear like, well, soldiers and sailors, and quite frequently, too. If salty language, even in context, troubles you, these are not the books for you. Also, he doesn't sanitize violence.
If you've pondered watching the film Clear and Present Danger, my advice is: don't, especially if you've already read the book. The casting is pretty sketchy, and for a character-driven story, that's rarely a good thing. I like Harrison Ford, and I really like Willem Dafoe, but I don't like either of them as Jack Ryan or Mr. Clark, respectively. Also, it's just a very so-so picture. The book, on the other hand, is a tad long but well-conceived and enjoyable. If you're one of those people who likes to set aside the summer as a time for light reading, this is a good pick, and may even leave you wanting to read the rest of the series. If you do that, just be sure to read them in order, because from here to Executive Orders is one story arc. And no, Op Center, Splinter Cell, etc. are not part of that series, nor are they good. But Rainbow Six is.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
A Cop, an Eskimo, and the Messiah walk into a bar: The Yiddish Policeman's Union
There are times when you can, in fact, judge a book by its cover. When you pick up a fantasy or sci-fi published after 1995 or so whose cover looks like bad Xena fan art, it's going to be pretty rare that what's on the inside doesn't read like bad Xena fan fic. Conversely, a closer look at the cover of Steve Lawhead's Scarlet shows the title lettering made to look like hammered metal, as one would see on an old arrowhead, and that genius detail laid over a standard image of a hangman's noose foreshadows this fantastic story's twists and improvements on the familiar Robin Hood myth. What got me to pick up Michael Chabon's The Yiddish Policeman's Union was not the cover art, however, but the title itself. I mean, look at it! How could you resist?
Set in current times, The Yiddish Policeman's Union is an alternate history wherein the newborn state of Israel was destroyed three months after its creation, and the average developed nation is still doing everything it can to keep Jews off its soil. The only place they're allowed to have a large settlement is in the Alaskan wilderness, in a place no one but another undesirable people group wants. However, this settlement isn't permanent: appeals for statehood have been rejected, and as our story opens the Sitka district will be reverting to American property in three months, its residents mostly displaced. It is amongst this backdrop that worn out, alcoholic, suicidal homicide detective Meyer Landsman gets a late-night call for a death at the seedy hotel he lives in. What appears to be a drug-related suicide is, of course, no suicide at all, and ties to his past (and other factors) draw Meyer and his converted Inuit partner Berko Shemets into a case no one wants them to touch. Toss guilt, envy, ex-wives, a Messiah prophecy, and the Jewish religious mafia into the mix, and out of the blender comes a book that is as pleasurable to read as it is tough.
The story is interesting, and a strong commentary on the consequences of the choices people make when they believe they have no choice. What really sets The Yiddish Policeman's Union apart, though, is the writing. Michael Chabon is an anomaly, a writer who uses his large vocabulary freely yet without pretension. It's unlikely there are any words in there you won't recognize - he just uses lots of them, in good variety, and to great effect. It's no surprise, then, that he's also great at turning a phrase, and his descriptions flutter back and forth between acutely hilarious and acutely heart-wrenching. On top of that, this book is written in third-person present tense ("Meyer walks into the room and sits down" instead of "Meyer walked into the room and sat down"), a mode I've never before seen successful. It should have felt strange, but in Chabon's hands, this unusual style flows as normally as his words.
If you pick up this book because you noticed it won a Hugo and was shortlisted for the BSFA, you may be disappointed. Alternate history is not science fiction, and as there's no unusual or different technological aspect to the items character here use in their everyday lives, I really can't see how it qualified for the award. The Yiddish Policeman's Union is not a sci-fi, but it is one of the best novels you'll likely ever read. As I was reading it, I thought to myself, "I'd like to see this made into a movie by the Coen brothers." Well, guess who already had that idea? It should be out in the next couple of years, and it's one of the only adaptations I've ever looked forward to.
Set in current times, The Yiddish Policeman's Union is an alternate history wherein the newborn state of Israel was destroyed three months after its creation, and the average developed nation is still doing everything it can to keep Jews off its soil. The only place they're allowed to have a large settlement is in the Alaskan wilderness, in a place no one but another undesirable people group wants. However, this settlement isn't permanent: appeals for statehood have been rejected, and as our story opens the Sitka district will be reverting to American property in three months, its residents mostly displaced. It is amongst this backdrop that worn out, alcoholic, suicidal homicide detective Meyer Landsman gets a late-night call for a death at the seedy hotel he lives in. What appears to be a drug-related suicide is, of course, no suicide at all, and ties to his past (and other factors) draw Meyer and his converted Inuit partner Berko Shemets into a case no one wants them to touch. Toss guilt, envy, ex-wives, a Messiah prophecy, and the Jewish religious mafia into the mix, and out of the blender comes a book that is as pleasurable to read as it is tough.
The story is interesting, and a strong commentary on the consequences of the choices people make when they believe they have no choice. What really sets The Yiddish Policeman's Union apart, though, is the writing. Michael Chabon is an anomaly, a writer who uses his large vocabulary freely yet without pretension. It's unlikely there are any words in there you won't recognize - he just uses lots of them, in good variety, and to great effect. It's no surprise, then, that he's also great at turning a phrase, and his descriptions flutter back and forth between acutely hilarious and acutely heart-wrenching. On top of that, this book is written in third-person present tense ("Meyer walks into the room and sits down" instead of "Meyer walked into the room and sat down"), a mode I've never before seen successful. It should have felt strange, but in Chabon's hands, this unusual style flows as normally as his words.
If you pick up this book because you noticed it won a Hugo and was shortlisted for the BSFA, you may be disappointed. Alternate history is not science fiction, and as there's no unusual or different technological aspect to the items character here use in their everyday lives, I really can't see how it qualified for the award. The Yiddish Policeman's Union is not a sci-fi, but it is one of the best novels you'll likely ever read. As I was reading it, I thought to myself, "I'd like to see this made into a movie by the Coen brothers." Well, guess who already had that idea? It should be out in the next couple of years, and it's one of the only adaptations I've ever looked forward to.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
It's the sincerest form of flattery, or at least that's what they say: Variable Star
The problem with having read a lot of sci-fi over the past fifteen years is that it often seems I've read all the good stuff. There are some incredible exceptions to that rule - see: Alastair Reynolds - but otherwise, unfamiliar sci-fi lit is a risky business for the reader. There's an awful lot of crap out there. Some days I feel daring, but lately I've been going with what I know, so when I saw Robert A. Heinlein's name on the cover of Variable Star, I took it home. However, Heinlein's wasn't the only name on the cover. Variable Star was written by Spider Robinson, some twenty years after Heinlein's death, when the executors of his estate came across a draft for a story they really wanted to read in completion. I would like to read the story Heinlein would have written, too; unfortunately, previous experience tells me Variable Star is not it.
The plot is classic Heinlein, involving interstellar colonization and young men, and for the first fifteen pages or so, the execution is excellent - Robinson's stated intention was to write the book Heinlein would have written, and within those fifteen pages, I would never guess that it wasn't written by the master. Unfortunately, the book takes a pretty sharp downturn, with the protagonist adopting a very contemporary form of immaturity as well as the false growth and false profound epiphanies that are meant to be his triumph. Think of Zach Braff's film Garden State, or any episode of Scrubs, and you'll get what I mean by that. However, the thing that makes Variable Star most unlike a Heinlein novel is that it contains somewhere between seven and eight times the swearing (this estimate is probably low). And it's that casual, thoughtless, "nothing better to say" sort of swearing, to boot - in other words, lazy, lousy writing.
Don't be fooled by Robert A. Heinlein's good name on the cover of Variable Star. Grab something he actually wrote, and don't look back.
The plot is classic Heinlein, involving interstellar colonization and young men, and for the first fifteen pages or so, the execution is excellent - Robinson's stated intention was to write the book Heinlein would have written, and within those fifteen pages, I would never guess that it wasn't written by the master. Unfortunately, the book takes a pretty sharp downturn, with the protagonist adopting a very contemporary form of immaturity as well as the false growth and false profound epiphanies that are meant to be his triumph. Think of Zach Braff's film Garden State, or any episode of Scrubs, and you'll get what I mean by that. However, the thing that makes Variable Star most unlike a Heinlein novel is that it contains somewhere between seven and eight times the swearing (this estimate is probably low). And it's that casual, thoughtless, "nothing better to say" sort of swearing, to boot - in other words, lazy, lousy writing.
Don't be fooled by Robert A. Heinlein's good name on the cover of Variable Star. Grab something he actually wrote, and don't look back.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Chillin' in the 90's V: It's a Pleasure to Be Aboard!
They just don't make action films like they used to. I'm not saying there are no good action films anymore, on the contrary there have been some excellent ones this decade (see: Iron Man, Sahara, Indiana Jones IV, Batman Begins/The Dark Knight, Spider-Man 2, Casino Royale, and anything with the word "Bourne" in the title). What I mean when I say they don't make action films like they used to is, simply, that they don't make action films like they used to. The action of the current decade has a completely different flavour, style, and, often, message than the action of the 90's. When I want to sit down for an entertaining afternoon of things going boom, The Bourne Identity will never fit that bill - I'll pop in my special edition of The Rock, or go rent The Saint (which I used to own - did you borrow my copy and never return it?) or, most recently, The Hunt for Red October (also not in vogue anymore: action films involving submarines, or Russian villains. Too bad, really).
Starring Alec Baldwin, Sean Connery, Sam Neill, and featuring most of the small army of guys seen in virtually every action film of the time - as well as appearances from Gates "Dr. Crusher" McFadden and James Earl Jones, and that rarest of all 90's film creatures, Tim Curry not playing a villain - The Hunt for Red October is based on Tom Clancy's novel of the same name, and is not only a fantastically entertaining picture but also one of the best literary adaptations to date. It's the mid-80s and those crazy Russians are playing underwater cat-and-mouse again, and photos of an unidentified new technology on the Russian nuclear sub Red October land in the lap of young naval historian-turned-CIA analyst Jack Ryan (Baldwin) to puzzle over. To make matters more pressing, the Red October is heading, in defiance of Moscow, straight for U.S. waters. Moscow knows the October is defecting, thanks to a letter mailed prior to setting out by her captain, Marko Ramius (Sean Connery), but is content to cover up the shame of this loss by encouraging the U.S. Navy's belief that Ramius has gone rogue and is planning to fire missiles on the East Coast - a belief that will most likely result in the sub's destruction. Ryan's job is to analyze, and in the process of analyzing he soon comes to the independent conclusion that Ramius is defecting, which creates a series of problems. The sub is far too valuable to risk destroying if Ryan is right; however, proving or disproving his conclusions will require both tricky diplomacy and tricky military manoeuvering. On top of that, the Russian navy is on standing orders to destroy the Red October on sight. The Americans want to find her. The Russians want to sink her. The Americans want the Russians to think they want to sink her. The hunt is on.
The Hunt for Red October is smooth, smart, and packed with great performances, solid action, and memorable moments. Ryan's boarding of the U.S.S. Dallas, cheerfully greeting her commander between bouts of puking sea water all of the deck ("It's a pleasure to be aboard, sir!"), is one of my all-time favourite "dramatic" entrances. Most impressive, this is one literary adaptation that didn't leave me feeling like anything was missing. Granted, it's one of Clancy's shorter novels, but this is still a significant feat. And then there are all the welcome little things inherent in Clancy's work and which should be inherent in any film based on his work, that affirm that soldiers are not stupid. On top of all that, Jack Ryan is a fantastic character and one of (if not the) best non-action-heroes. As a former Marine eased out of the service after breaking his back in a chopper crash, he respects the military and knows how it operates. That being said, by the time we meet him he's a professional academic, which means that although he's familiar with military thought processes, he thinks like the academic that he's become. One thing that means is that The Hunt for Red October is thankfully devoid of any stupid, manufactured drama based on the maverick "intellectual" outsider clashing with the hotheaded big dumb ape military man - Ryan and his naval allies can't agree on everything, but they disagree for good and logical reasons and understand what the other needs, even if they can't provide it.
Having read all the Jack Ryan books plus Mr. Clark's backstory (Without Remorse) before seeing any of the films (four out of six books have been adapted to date), The Hunt for Red October remains my favourite. It's the most well-made - enlisting John McTiernan (Die Hard) as director probably helped there - and Alec Baldwin nailed the character. I really didn't like either Harrison Ford or Ben Affleck in the Jack Ryan role, and no film yet has done justice to Mr. Clark, the secondary character and black-ops king who's, oddly enough, my favourite person in the Jack Ryan series (though Liev Schrieber in The Sum of All Fears came close). Seeing as how Mr. Clark isn't in The Hunt for Red October, there's nothing to detract from the film on that end of things. Lucky film.
I'm trying to think of a better action film that's entertaining and smart without being grim, and aren't coming up with anything. This is a fantastic picture, and if you've never seen it I would go so far as to say you're missing out.
Starring Alec Baldwin, Sean Connery, Sam Neill, and featuring most of the small army of guys seen in virtually every action film of the time - as well as appearances from Gates "Dr. Crusher" McFadden and James Earl Jones, and that rarest of all 90's film creatures, Tim Curry not playing a villain - The Hunt for Red October is based on Tom Clancy's novel of the same name, and is not only a fantastically entertaining picture but also one of the best literary adaptations to date. It's the mid-80s and those crazy Russians are playing underwater cat-and-mouse again, and photos of an unidentified new technology on the Russian nuclear sub Red October land in the lap of young naval historian-turned-CIA analyst Jack Ryan (Baldwin) to puzzle over. To make matters more pressing, the Red October is heading, in defiance of Moscow, straight for U.S. waters. Moscow knows the October is defecting, thanks to a letter mailed prior to setting out by her captain, Marko Ramius (Sean Connery), but is content to cover up the shame of this loss by encouraging the U.S. Navy's belief that Ramius has gone rogue and is planning to fire missiles on the East Coast - a belief that will most likely result in the sub's destruction. Ryan's job is to analyze, and in the process of analyzing he soon comes to the independent conclusion that Ramius is defecting, which creates a series of problems. The sub is far too valuable to risk destroying if Ryan is right; however, proving or disproving his conclusions will require both tricky diplomacy and tricky military manoeuvering. On top of that, the Russian navy is on standing orders to destroy the Red October on sight. The Americans want to find her. The Russians want to sink her. The Americans want the Russians to think they want to sink her. The hunt is on.
The Hunt for Red October is smooth, smart, and packed with great performances, solid action, and memorable moments. Ryan's boarding of the U.S.S. Dallas, cheerfully greeting her commander between bouts of puking sea water all of the deck ("It's a pleasure to be aboard, sir!"), is one of my all-time favourite "dramatic" entrances. Most impressive, this is one literary adaptation that didn't leave me feeling like anything was missing. Granted, it's one of Clancy's shorter novels, but this is still a significant feat. And then there are all the welcome little things inherent in Clancy's work and which should be inherent in any film based on his work, that affirm that soldiers are not stupid. On top of all that, Jack Ryan is a fantastic character and one of (if not the) best non-action-heroes. As a former Marine eased out of the service after breaking his back in a chopper crash, he respects the military and knows how it operates. That being said, by the time we meet him he's a professional academic, which means that although he's familiar with military thought processes, he thinks like the academic that he's become. One thing that means is that The Hunt for Red October is thankfully devoid of any stupid, manufactured drama based on the maverick "intellectual" outsider clashing with the hotheaded big dumb ape military man - Ryan and his naval allies can't agree on everything, but they disagree for good and logical reasons and understand what the other needs, even if they can't provide it.
Having read all the Jack Ryan books plus Mr. Clark's backstory (Without Remorse) before seeing any of the films (four out of six books have been adapted to date), The Hunt for Red October remains my favourite. It's the most well-made - enlisting John McTiernan (Die Hard) as director probably helped there - and Alec Baldwin nailed the character. I really didn't like either Harrison Ford or Ben Affleck in the Jack Ryan role, and no film yet has done justice to Mr. Clark, the secondary character and black-ops king who's, oddly enough, my favourite person in the Jack Ryan series (though Liev Schrieber in The Sum of All Fears came close). Seeing as how Mr. Clark isn't in The Hunt for Red October, there's nothing to detract from the film on that end of things. Lucky film.
I'm trying to think of a better action film that's entertaining and smart without being grim, and aren't coming up with anything. This is a fantastic picture, and if you've never seen it I would go so far as to say you're missing out.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
My Other Boat Is A Car: Small Favor
Out of all the things to enjoy about it, the single most enjoyable aspect of Jim Butcher's supernatural P.I. noir series The Dresden Files has to be the author's consistency. I don't just mean consistency of character, or tone, or things like that; what I mean is, I've just concluded the ninth and most recent book, and it was excellent. So was the eighth, and the seventh, and... His writing in and of itself hasn't necessarily improved, but my point is that every book in this series is good. No mediocre missteps, no "what the **** were you thinking, Butcher?", no "the last book was waaaaay better!". You pick up a Dresden Files book, and you know you're going to get something just as quality and well-written and entertaining and thoughtful as the last time you picked up such a tome. After nine volumes, that's impressive.
In other words, Small Favor is a worthy addition to the story of Harry Dresden, this one featuring Queen Mab of the Winter Fae calling in the second of three favors Harry has been bound to grant her. Throw our lovable resident legitimate businessman Gentleman Johnnie Marcone into the mix, along with the funniest freaky fairy-tale villains yet - yes, even better than the flaming-poop flying monkeys - and you've got one good tale. In other news, Harry finally finds someone to give the Holy Sword whose care he's been charged with since Death Masks - let's just say, he didn't offer it to who you thought he would. Small Favor also features the return of Sanya, as well as Kincaid and Ivy seen together again, and a fantastic appearance by Toot-Toot. Thomas is fighting at Harry's side once more, Molly's apprenticeship is continuing nicely, and Harry's respective friendships with Michael and Charity continue to evolve. The author's comedic skills haven't flagged either - Harry's sit-down with Bob the Skull early in the book had me making a scene of myself on the bus in ways I haven't since I used to listen to tapes of the Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy radio play whilst in transit. Yep, nothing to dislike here. As well, the fights which could be more accurately called battles ...did I mention the Denariians are back, and travelling in even larger packs than they did in Death Masks? The fights are quality, hair-raising, and the standoff at the Shadd Aquarium is particularly notable.
I look forward to having a hundred bucks or so to drop on the whole series one day, I do!
In other words, Small Favor is a worthy addition to the story of Harry Dresden, this one featuring Queen Mab of the Winter Fae calling in the second of three favors Harry has been bound to grant her. Throw our lovable resident legitimate businessman Gentleman Johnnie Marcone into the mix, along with the funniest freaky fairy-tale villains yet - yes, even better than the flaming-poop flying monkeys - and you've got one good tale. In other news, Harry finally finds someone to give the Holy Sword whose care he's been charged with since Death Masks - let's just say, he didn't offer it to who you thought he would. Small Favor also features the return of Sanya, as well as Kincaid and Ivy seen together again, and a fantastic appearance by Toot-Toot. Thomas is fighting at Harry's side once more, Molly's apprenticeship is continuing nicely, and Harry's respective friendships with Michael and Charity continue to evolve. The author's comedic skills haven't flagged either - Harry's sit-down with Bob the Skull early in the book had me making a scene of myself on the bus in ways I haven't since I used to listen to tapes of the Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy radio play whilst in transit. Yep, nothing to dislike here. As well, the fights which could be more accurately called battles ...did I mention the Denariians are back, and travelling in even larger packs than they did in Death Masks? The fights are quality, hair-raising, and the standoff at the Shadd Aquarium is particularly notable.
I look forward to having a hundred bucks or so to drop on the whole series one day, I do!
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
The Forever Whine
The Forever War, by Joe Haldeman, was recommended to me on the strength of my appreciation for Robert A. Heinlein's military sci-fi masterpiece, Starship Troopers. Seeing as how that book has never been unseated from my #1 slot for its genre (and I've been devouring classic and contemporary sci-fi since I read 2001: A Space Odyssey at the age of 10), I was anxious to get my mitts on The Forever War. Since it hasn't been consistently in print since its first publishing, that wasn't an easy task, so when I saw it at Coles for $4.99, I was a happy camper. However, by the time I hit chapter four, to continue the camper metaphor it was the equivalent of discovering I'd accidentally pitched my tent atop an underground swamp, and then it rained for four days. But it came highly praised, so I finished that sucker, and now bring my findings to you.
The plot is pretty basic (not that there's anything wrong with that), and follows young draftee William Mandella as he fights a war whose purpose remains uncertain. It's also a hyperspace war, which means that William may travel between solar system for a subjective three months, but twenty-five years will have passed on Earth - so even if he survives combat, he may never see his family or any civilian friends again. Matters become even more discouraging for William when he and his girlfriend, Marygay, are promoted and assigned to different ships. This overarching story is punctuated by occasional combat situations, learning how much things on Earth have changed since William's departure, and talking about how much he hates the military.
I think I may have liked this book were I alive during 'Nam, a hippie, or politically correct. As such, The Forever War had nothing to offer me. Author Haldeman is a Vietnam veteran, this book was inspired by that experience, and every page oozes with related baggage. Alternating between being a protester's ultimate revenge dream (in this army, everyone's a conscript...but only the elite are drafted), a bizarre and ridiculous portrayal of how to run a military (more on that later), and tackling some sexual discrimination issues with a "Ha! Now you know how it feels!" that's about as subtle as a Margaret Atwood novel or an episode of House, this book didn't make a very good case for why so many people think it's the best sci-fi novel ever. The hardest part about reading to the end was not being able to conjure up any sympathy or respect for hero and narrator William. He bitches in a shocked and offended fashion any time it appears that military discipline may be required of him and then wonders, when he's given command, why his company is so unhappy and mutinous. Could it be, perhaps, because their military has no concept of what a military is, requires no (self-)discipline of any sort off the battlefield, encourages morale by having the troops disrespect their superior officers by shouting "Fuck you, Sir!" every time they're dismissed (the logic behind becoming a happier, more confident grunt by being taught and encouraged to hate your CO eludes me - standard troop unity involves hating the sargeant but loving the Old Man), supports them getting drunk and stoned on a regular basis, organizes orgies, and doesn't seem to mind when commanding officers voice their uncertainty, lack of knowledge, and fears to their subordinates en masse? Yes, I realize this is a 'Nam commentary, and as my husband pointed out, something was obviously very wrong with the American military at that time as the reported percentage of Vietnam veterans with severe psychological problems outstrips veterans of any other American war significantly. At the time Haldeman wrote this book, the accepted number was %30, a finding which a number of studies have reduced to 18% over the current decade; there are lots of factors in play here. However, the paradox of any "personal experience" story is that it always leaves the question of how much of that account is trustworthy and how much is tainted by, well, having actually experienced it. The first American-involved war I'm old enough to remember watching on TV is Operation Desert Storm, so I can't throw anything into the ring in this regard. What I can throw down is the criticism that it's hard to feel for a character who makes no effort to improve the situation he's been forced into, rejects such bourgeois concepts as personal growth, and comes across as childish, thoughtless (literally; I don't mean 'insensitive'), and, frankly, stupid. If William Mandella is an accurate representation of America's intellectual elite, that country's screwed.
On top of all that, The Forever War isn't even well-written. I'd put its quality of writing somewhere around that of one of the bad Star Wars novels, for example any part of the "Jedi Academy" trilogy, or early Stephen King. Yes, I know it's a first novel. I'd probably be more generous here if it weren't for all the fawning adoration directed online toward this particular first novel, from formal sci-fi reviews and one inexplicable Hugo to personal websites - it's pretty disingenuous (and oxymoronic) to label any first novel a "masterpiece". I can't help but wonder if this book is so popular because it's a "human cost of war/war is hell" story, and we're just supposed to like those. I know this is cynical, but in my experience it's just not socially correct to dislike such stories. They're powerful! They tell it like it is! Do they? None of that really matters in the end if they're plain old bad or mediocre art elevated above their levels by how popular their ideology is. Starship Troopers has nothing against the military as an institution, and for a lot of the detractors I've spoken with or read this suggestion that it's not only okay but necessary for the soldier profession to exist - and that it can even be a noble calling one can take pride in - is a foundation for criticism.
It makes perfect sense to me that Starship Troopers is required reading for American officer candidates and The Forever War is not. Starship Troopers lays out a complex, thoughtful, rational and perhaps attainable model for soldiers and militaries to aspire to. Also, it's really well-written. I suppose one could argue that The Forever War should be taught as an example of what never to do in the army; I mean, William may very well be the worst fictional officer in print. The literally insane captain from Lieutenant Hornblower has nothing on this guy.
On a side note, it seems in retrospect that the abominable film version of Starship Troopers was written by someone who really preferred The Forever War, but wanted to market it under a more famous and respectable title or just couldn't get the rights. I've long wondered what the point of making that film the antithesis of its namesake book was - perhaps this is a clue.
Andre, the floor is yours - I am exceedingly curious to have your five cents on this book, and the case for calling it a sci-fi masterpiece. In particular, I'd love to hear from someone who likes it, but who can express that appreciation with something more useful than "this is the best book eeeeeever!!!! It's so deep, man!". That would be you. :)
The plot is pretty basic (not that there's anything wrong with that), and follows young draftee William Mandella as he fights a war whose purpose remains uncertain. It's also a hyperspace war, which means that William may travel between solar system for a subjective three months, but twenty-five years will have passed on Earth - so even if he survives combat, he may never see his family or any civilian friends again. Matters become even more discouraging for William when he and his girlfriend, Marygay, are promoted and assigned to different ships. This overarching story is punctuated by occasional combat situations, learning how much things on Earth have changed since William's departure, and talking about how much he hates the military.
I think I may have liked this book were I alive during 'Nam, a hippie, or politically correct. As such, The Forever War had nothing to offer me. Author Haldeman is a Vietnam veteran, this book was inspired by that experience, and every page oozes with related baggage. Alternating between being a protester's ultimate revenge dream (in this army, everyone's a conscript...but only the elite are drafted), a bizarre and ridiculous portrayal of how to run a military (more on that later), and tackling some sexual discrimination issues with a "Ha! Now you know how it feels!" that's about as subtle as a Margaret Atwood novel or an episode of House, this book didn't make a very good case for why so many people think it's the best sci-fi novel ever. The hardest part about reading to the end was not being able to conjure up any sympathy or respect for hero and narrator William. He bitches in a shocked and offended fashion any time it appears that military discipline may be required of him and then wonders, when he's given command, why his company is so unhappy and mutinous. Could it be, perhaps, because their military has no concept of what a military is, requires no (self-)discipline of any sort off the battlefield, encourages morale by having the troops disrespect their superior officers by shouting "Fuck you, Sir!" every time they're dismissed (the logic behind becoming a happier, more confident grunt by being taught and encouraged to hate your CO eludes me - standard troop unity involves hating the sargeant but loving the Old Man), supports them getting drunk and stoned on a regular basis, organizes orgies, and doesn't seem to mind when commanding officers voice their uncertainty, lack of knowledge, and fears to their subordinates en masse? Yes, I realize this is a 'Nam commentary, and as my husband pointed out, something was obviously very wrong with the American military at that time as the reported percentage of Vietnam veterans with severe psychological problems outstrips veterans of any other American war significantly. At the time Haldeman wrote this book, the accepted number was %30, a finding which a number of studies have reduced to 18% over the current decade; there are lots of factors in play here. However, the paradox of any "personal experience" story is that it always leaves the question of how much of that account is trustworthy and how much is tainted by, well, having actually experienced it. The first American-involved war I'm old enough to remember watching on TV is Operation Desert Storm, so I can't throw anything into the ring in this regard. What I can throw down is the criticism that it's hard to feel for a character who makes no effort to improve the situation he's been forced into, rejects such bourgeois concepts as personal growth, and comes across as childish, thoughtless (literally; I don't mean 'insensitive'), and, frankly, stupid. If William Mandella is an accurate representation of America's intellectual elite, that country's screwed.
On top of all that, The Forever War isn't even well-written. I'd put its quality of writing somewhere around that of one of the bad Star Wars novels, for example any part of the "Jedi Academy" trilogy, or early Stephen King. Yes, I know it's a first novel. I'd probably be more generous here if it weren't for all the fawning adoration directed online toward this particular first novel, from formal sci-fi reviews and one inexplicable Hugo to personal websites - it's pretty disingenuous (and oxymoronic) to label any first novel a "masterpiece". I can't help but wonder if this book is so popular because it's a "human cost of war/war is hell" story, and we're just supposed to like those. I know this is cynical, but in my experience it's just not socially correct to dislike such stories. They're powerful! They tell it like it is! Do they? None of that really matters in the end if they're plain old bad or mediocre art elevated above their levels by how popular their ideology is. Starship Troopers has nothing against the military as an institution, and for a lot of the detractors I've spoken with or read this suggestion that it's not only okay but necessary for the soldier profession to exist - and that it can even be a noble calling one can take pride in - is a foundation for criticism.
It makes perfect sense to me that Starship Troopers is required reading for American officer candidates and The Forever War is not. Starship Troopers lays out a complex, thoughtful, rational and perhaps attainable model for soldiers and militaries to aspire to. Also, it's really well-written. I suppose one could argue that The Forever War should be taught as an example of what never to do in the army; I mean, William may very well be the worst fictional officer in print. The literally insane captain from Lieutenant Hornblower has nothing on this guy.
On a side note, it seems in retrospect that the abominable film version of Starship Troopers was written by someone who really preferred The Forever War, but wanted to market it under a more famous and respectable title or just couldn't get the rights. I've long wondered what the point of making that film the antithesis of its namesake book was - perhaps this is a clue.
Andre, the floor is yours - I am exceedingly curious to have your five cents on this book, and the case for calling it a sci-fi masterpiece. In particular, I'd love to hear from someone who likes it, but who can express that appreciation with something more useful than "this is the best book eeeeeever!!!! It's so deep, man!". That would be you. :)
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