My goal with this nearly weekly blog is to stretch my writing muscles and do some reviews. Since I am only really starting out, I'm only currently writing about comics for which I have a strong opinion, eitehr good or bad. I'm also trying to review issues of a single title as infrequently as possible, which is both limiting and freeing. So, given this combination, I really only have one book to talk about this week.
Spoilers ho!
Flash 8 -- In past blogs, I've talked about the problems that have plagues the release of the new Flash series. For one thing, the art was terribly convoluted and difficult to parse, making the writing that much more important. In the last eight issues, I believe the art team has changed at least three times. Issue 8 was drawn by the team of Ron Adrian and Art Thibert, but it seems clear they did not work together; there is a definite change in art style with about three pages left, as if the pencil changed hands. I'm pretty sure that the last three pages are by Art Thibert, which leaves the majority to Adrian. Those pages, the ones that are most important to the story in this issue are utilitarian and spare. Most of the panels are passable, though there is one panel where Bart and his girlfriend embrace and we see it from the side...and the proportions are ridiculous. Bart's legs are shorter than his torso, and his head is longer than his thigh. Mostly the art was not an impediment to the story, not making me stop to admire or stare, but this panel did make me stop in my tracks.
So this leaves the writing, the factor that has caused many critics I have read to describe Flash as the most disappointing new title of 2006. This issue is a good example of that poor writing, tying up the first meeting of the new Flash with Inertia in what should probably have been a single issue. But I want to concentrate my ire on a ridiculously poorly plotted segment that encapsulates the writing problems.
Inertia has captured Flash's girlfriend and festooned her with bombs all tied to a single timer. Flash will have five seconds to decide if he is going to press the button on the trigger to disarm the bomb, knowing that this will cause a light cannon attuned to the speed force to fire, thus destroying the Flash who is now the speed force incarnate. Being a hero, of course Flash presses the button, and since the cannon takes part of a second to fire, he gets a head start. Then for two pages we watch Flash run with a blue light pacing him until he circles the globe and causes the coherent light to hit the cannon it was fired from, destroying the cannon. Of course Inertia is shocked (SHOCKED, I tell you) at this turn of events and teleports to safety.
Deconstruct this. Inertia has created a weapon that fires coherent light at a target. Considering that light moves in a straight line, it should propel itself in a tangent off the face of the Earth. Instead, this coherent light is somehow able to not only follow the curvature of the Earth, it follows the twists and turns that its target takes. And how does it do that? Somehow Inertia has taught the light to target the speed force, an intangible spiritual force. The cannon can't direct the light, or else it would be rotating in its gymbals at something less than the speed of light and the Flash can escape. And yet, as brilliant as Inertia is to create such a weapon, he doesn't teach it not to strike its own source!
The rest of the issue was fairly mediocre, with this providing the umorous lowlight of the issue. Bilson and DeMeo are leaving the title with this issue, so perhaps there will be improvement. I'm a big Flash fan, and I'll hold out as long as I can, but I was honestly about to drop this title. I'm looking forward to the new writer and pray this title will be righted soon.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Friday, January 26, 2007
Ysabel
My speculative fiction book group has read a collection of fables and the Odyssey in order to talk about myths and legends as a sort of proto-speculative fiction, a forerunner of modern SF, or even the SF of its time. It's an interesting discussion to have, because as we surpass a century of "modern" SF, some of the earliest stories have a feel to them similar the ancient myths and legends. The speculative parts of the stories no longer hold up to any sort of examination and they remain as an artifact of the period they came from.
I don't know if Guy Gavriel Kay is any sort of mythographer, but the foundation on which his novels is built is the idea that myths and legends are manifestations of universal tropes--the important elements of individual myths are universal. It's very Campbellian, but Kay the novelist finds this to be fertile ground in which to work his art. And what he does, better than any writer I know, is take the awe-inspiring power of the mythological and legendary, and wrap up the thoroughly mundane in it. In most myths, any average person who gets in the way of the gods is usually made to regret their ill luck. But Kay tries to tell the legendary through the eyes of the generally powerless and point out how they are integral and key to the events of the myth and legend. Ordinary people touched by myth are not doomed in Kay's writing; they are, however, changed (usually physically and emotionally). This does not mean that Kay dumbs down his legends to where they are vapid--fortunately, Kay spends time working honestly through the complexities of the legends, and does it through the eyes of the mundane, so that the reader can see both the majesty of larger-than-life figures and their very humanity at the same time.
Kay's latest novel, Ysabel, is yet another example of the brilliance he employs in his craft. Ned Marriner, 15, is in Provence while his world-famous photographer father is working on an art book about the region. During a break, Ned meets a young girl named Kate in a cathedral in Aix, and she acts as an informal tour guide for him. Together they run into a strange, scarred man, who seems abnormally strong and, they eventually realize, some hundreds if not thousands of years old. Through their interaction with him, Ned and Kate find themselves drawn into the latest manifestation of a chain of events that has repeated itself for thousands of years. Because of the sheer lifetimes of the creatures involved and the magic that surrounds both their longevity and the circumstances that ensnare them, Ned and Kate find themselves trapped in a legend, whose horrible end they know and recognize may be their own ends as well.
But Kay does something different with Ysabel. At last, the novel takes place on the Earth think we know. And the magic which has such interesting properties in his other novels set in other places, is both weaker and more supernatural than the magic of the standard high fantasy. Instead, the force that moves the characters through the novel is equal parts fate and sheer human stubbornness. Ned and the characters that surround him are determined not to let the end they see coming actually arrive, though when they ask themselves what they think they might be able to do, they never know. Only when decision is required of Ned does he somehow know the right thing to do, because he has become part of the legend, the narrative that binds them all together. The two supernatural protagonists that Ned most often interacts with ask him repeatedly "Who are you?" and while he does not have an answer that suits him or them, he most often says "I'm in the story."
Kay is not a wonderful stylist; his words don't leap off the page. However, his skill does seem to lie in story-telling, creating a compelling narrative and populating it with three-dimensional characters. The pacing of his stories is immaculate--not a wasted word or effort--and the reader is simultaneously impatient to find out what happens next and breathless from the speed of the events in the narrative. In Ysabel, there is no real sense that any of the characters are evil, but they do have their dark sides. But this is not to say they are all boring either. They are individuals, wrapped up in events bigger than themselves and trying to win free. And because of Kay's art of building up the action and then setting it free, that we both want to linger with these people we like and also hurry them into whatever the narrative holds for them.
I admit it; I am a huge fan of Kay. I was elated to receive an early copy of this book, one I had been looking forward to since I turned the last page of his previous novel. I am predisposed to like what Kay writes, but I honestly believe in the power and art of his craft. I don't ever want to put down one of his books, and that surely reflects on his ability to tell a story.
I don't know if Guy Gavriel Kay is any sort of mythographer, but the foundation on which his novels is built is the idea that myths and legends are manifestations of universal tropes--the important elements of individual myths are universal. It's very Campbellian, but Kay the novelist finds this to be fertile ground in which to work his art. And what he does, better than any writer I know, is take the awe-inspiring power of the mythological and legendary, and wrap up the thoroughly mundane in it. In most myths, any average person who gets in the way of the gods is usually made to regret their ill luck. But Kay tries to tell the legendary through the eyes of the generally powerless and point out how they are integral and key to the events of the myth and legend. Ordinary people touched by myth are not doomed in Kay's writing; they are, however, changed (usually physically and emotionally). This does not mean that Kay dumbs down his legends to where they are vapid--fortunately, Kay spends time working honestly through the complexities of the legends, and does it through the eyes of the mundane, so that the reader can see both the majesty of larger-than-life figures and their very humanity at the same time.
Kay's latest novel, Ysabel, is yet another example of the brilliance he employs in his craft. Ned Marriner, 15, is in Provence while his world-famous photographer father is working on an art book about the region. During a break, Ned meets a young girl named Kate in a cathedral in Aix, and she acts as an informal tour guide for him. Together they run into a strange, scarred man, who seems abnormally strong and, they eventually realize, some hundreds if not thousands of years old. Through their interaction with him, Ned and Kate find themselves drawn into the latest manifestation of a chain of events that has repeated itself for thousands of years. Because of the sheer lifetimes of the creatures involved and the magic that surrounds both their longevity and the circumstances that ensnare them, Ned and Kate find themselves trapped in a legend, whose horrible end they know and recognize may be their own ends as well.
But Kay does something different with Ysabel. At last, the novel takes place on the Earth think we know. And the magic which has such interesting properties in his other novels set in other places, is both weaker and more supernatural than the magic of the standard high fantasy. Instead, the force that moves the characters through the novel is equal parts fate and sheer human stubbornness. Ned and the characters that surround him are determined not to let the end they see coming actually arrive, though when they ask themselves what they think they might be able to do, they never know. Only when decision is required of Ned does he somehow know the right thing to do, because he has become part of the legend, the narrative that binds them all together. The two supernatural protagonists that Ned most often interacts with ask him repeatedly "Who are you?" and while he does not have an answer that suits him or them, he most often says "I'm in the story."
Kay is not a wonderful stylist; his words don't leap off the page. However, his skill does seem to lie in story-telling, creating a compelling narrative and populating it with three-dimensional characters. The pacing of his stories is immaculate--not a wasted word or effort--and the reader is simultaneously impatient to find out what happens next and breathless from the speed of the events in the narrative. In Ysabel, there is no real sense that any of the characters are evil, but they do have their dark sides. But this is not to say they are all boring either. They are individuals, wrapped up in events bigger than themselves and trying to win free. And because of Kay's art of building up the action and then setting it free, that we both want to linger with these people we like and also hurry them into whatever the narrative holds for them.
I admit it; I am a huge fan of Kay. I was elated to receive an early copy of this book, one I had been looking forward to since I turned the last page of his previous novel. I am predisposed to like what Kay writes, but I honestly believe in the power and art of his craft. I don't ever want to put down one of his books, and that surely reflects on his ability to tell a story.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Pan's Labyrinth
This is somewhat the second of a themed pair.
One of the more popular story-telling devices in current use is to take the threads of seemingly unrelated plots and tell them interchangeably, until the relationship between the threads is made clear. The movie Crash is a good example of this type of structure; in speculative fiction, Iain Banks and Steven Erikson have mastered it in their works. Guillermo del Toro's most recent movie, Pan's Labyrinth, purports to do the same kind of thing. One plot thread deals with the last days of the Spanish Revolution, as we follow the story of Ofelia going to meet her step-father, a captain in the Spanish National Army trying to quash a cell of revolutionaries in the hills. The second story also involves Ofelia, as she discovers that she is the long lost princess of a fantasy underworld kingdom; to return to her rightful place, she must complete three supernatural tasks.
While Ofelia is the common element that binds these two threads together in the movie's tapestry, something is missing from the structure that is being attempted. In the first place, Ofelia is not an important part of the Spanish Revolution thread; most of the events that take place do not involve her and she knows nothing about them. In the second, there needs to be something more than a character to tie the threads up in any sort of satisfying way; there should be some sort of unity in thematics or meaning, a commonality that is wholly missing from Pan's Labyrinth.
The revolution thread is a fairly standard war story; no new ground is covered by the movie. In fact, the events of the revolution plot are entirely, and sadly, predictable. Of course there is a traitor in the captain's camp, and of course, as soon as that traitor is uncovered, the rebels start their last big push. The images are as graphic as the best war pictures being made today, and I'm not altogether sure that's a good thing in this case. If this was just a movie about the war, it would be critically roasted as derivative and no one would care to see the movie.
Sadly, the fantasy thread is terribly sparse, not really fleshed out with the possibilities inherent in a fairly standard fantasy trope. Neither are the scenes in that plot very exceptional either, actually perhaps somewhat less interesting than the best efforts in the fantasy genre recently. Doug Jones is fairly impressive as the faun, and none can doubt his acting ability as his real persona is hidden by tremendous prosthetics. But the fantasy here is the fantasy of the original Grimm stories; it is brutal and vicious and not particularly tidy. I could deal with unappetizing fare, if I knew it was going to lead to something greater than the parts, but this fantastic brutality is fetched up beside the war scenes, and it just makes for what quickly becomes an unrelentingly brutal picture.
And so I am left wondering if I missed something. Critics around the world are hailing Pan's Labyrinth as the work of genius, but at its end, I only find two unrelated plots, mediocre on their own, and downright frustrating as they are interwoven. What was gained from the intertwining of these two narratives, especially since each offers very little as reflections or sounding boards for the other thread. Even more unconscionable, to me at least, is the movie's suggestion that the fantastic elements are not true at all, but the imaginings of a scared young girl. But this reading of the movie falls apart, because Ofelia has nothing to fear for most of the movie, and the fantastic tasks she performs have effects in the real world that persist after she has completed them. What is gained then by hinting half-heartedly that the narrative for half the movie is broken? And what have all the critics who have celebrated this movie seen that I cannot see? Why is this considered good cinema when it certainly was nowhere near as good as Children of Men, which in turn has gotten very little press at all.
One of my movie companions, who admittedly has strict taste, expected a far different movie from the one we saw, given the high praise heaped upon the movie. She is convinced that no one has the strength of their conviction to tell the emperor he is wearing no clothes. Her husband, whose opinion (like his wife's) I lean upon when making decisions about what movies to see, felt that the movie is another entry into the field of "war is hell." My own opinion lies somewhere between these, and I circle back to my thoughts for the first ten minutes after I walked out--what did I miss? What connection ties the two threads together to lift this movie beyond merely experimental and flawed film-making? There is no cinematographical genius on display with this movie; neither is the acting much above mundane. I'd like to give the film-maker credit for trying something new, but what was attempted by the combining of these two stories is beyond me. And so this movie has become, in my mind, a film example of the phenomenon of Bradbury's novels. People who are paid to tell me what is good have exalted these subjects of their review, and I just can't see it. And I wonder how many people are disappointed by the books or the movie, but have convinced themselves that they should like it just because "smarter" people, professional reviewers, have told them that they should.
So, until someone can explain to me why this is a great movie, I'd recommend staying away from it. And if it takes someone to explain it, I'm not sure I can recommend it once it all gets sorted out.
One of the more popular story-telling devices in current use is to take the threads of seemingly unrelated plots and tell them interchangeably, until the relationship between the threads is made clear. The movie Crash is a good example of this type of structure; in speculative fiction, Iain Banks and Steven Erikson have mastered it in their works. Guillermo del Toro's most recent movie, Pan's Labyrinth, purports to do the same kind of thing. One plot thread deals with the last days of the Spanish Revolution, as we follow the story of Ofelia going to meet her step-father, a captain in the Spanish National Army trying to quash a cell of revolutionaries in the hills. The second story also involves Ofelia, as she discovers that she is the long lost princess of a fantasy underworld kingdom; to return to her rightful place, she must complete three supernatural tasks.
While Ofelia is the common element that binds these two threads together in the movie's tapestry, something is missing from the structure that is being attempted. In the first place, Ofelia is not an important part of the Spanish Revolution thread; most of the events that take place do not involve her and she knows nothing about them. In the second, there needs to be something more than a character to tie the threads up in any sort of satisfying way; there should be some sort of unity in thematics or meaning, a commonality that is wholly missing from Pan's Labyrinth.
The revolution thread is a fairly standard war story; no new ground is covered by the movie. In fact, the events of the revolution plot are entirely, and sadly, predictable. Of course there is a traitor in the captain's camp, and of course, as soon as that traitor is uncovered, the rebels start their last big push. The images are as graphic as the best war pictures being made today, and I'm not altogether sure that's a good thing in this case. If this was just a movie about the war, it would be critically roasted as derivative and no one would care to see the movie.
Sadly, the fantasy thread is terribly sparse, not really fleshed out with the possibilities inherent in a fairly standard fantasy trope. Neither are the scenes in that plot very exceptional either, actually perhaps somewhat less interesting than the best efforts in the fantasy genre recently. Doug Jones is fairly impressive as the faun, and none can doubt his acting ability as his real persona is hidden by tremendous prosthetics. But the fantasy here is the fantasy of the original Grimm stories; it is brutal and vicious and not particularly tidy. I could deal with unappetizing fare, if I knew it was going to lead to something greater than the parts, but this fantastic brutality is fetched up beside the war scenes, and it just makes for what quickly becomes an unrelentingly brutal picture.
And so I am left wondering if I missed something. Critics around the world are hailing Pan's Labyrinth as the work of genius, but at its end, I only find two unrelated plots, mediocre on their own, and downright frustrating as they are interwoven. What was gained from the intertwining of these two narratives, especially since each offers very little as reflections or sounding boards for the other thread. Even more unconscionable, to me at least, is the movie's suggestion that the fantastic elements are not true at all, but the imaginings of a scared young girl. But this reading of the movie falls apart, because Ofelia has nothing to fear for most of the movie, and the fantastic tasks she performs have effects in the real world that persist after she has completed them. What is gained then by hinting half-heartedly that the narrative for half the movie is broken? And what have all the critics who have celebrated this movie seen that I cannot see? Why is this considered good cinema when it certainly was nowhere near as good as Children of Men, which in turn has gotten very little press at all.
One of my movie companions, who admittedly has strict taste, expected a far different movie from the one we saw, given the high praise heaped upon the movie. She is convinced that no one has the strength of their conviction to tell the emperor he is wearing no clothes. Her husband, whose opinion (like his wife's) I lean upon when making decisions about what movies to see, felt that the movie is another entry into the field of "war is hell." My own opinion lies somewhere between these, and I circle back to my thoughts for the first ten minutes after I walked out--what did I miss? What connection ties the two threads together to lift this movie beyond merely experimental and flawed film-making? There is no cinematographical genius on display with this movie; neither is the acting much above mundane. I'd like to give the film-maker credit for trying something new, but what was attempted by the combining of these two stories is beyond me. And so this movie has become, in my mind, a film example of the phenomenon of Bradbury's novels. People who are paid to tell me what is good have exalted these subjects of their review, and I just can't see it. And I wonder how many people are disappointed by the books or the movie, but have convinced themselves that they should like it just because "smarter" people, professional reviewers, have told them that they should.
So, until someone can explain to me why this is a great movie, I'd recommend staying away from it. And if it takes someone to explain it, I'm not sure I can recommend it once it all gets sorted out.
Something Wicked This Way Comes
This will likely be the first of two posts today. Coincidentally they will be on a theme. This first regards a book I've read for a book group, so I won't be going into much detail here.
I consider myself a pretty big fan of Ray Bradbury; I've read a good number of his short stories and thoroughly enjoyed them. I've been to conventions where he has appeared and been swept up in the good feelings for him from the standing ovations that follow him like a shadow. One of my basic assumptions about the literary world is that he is one of the greats, and it will be a sad day when he passes.
The book group I participate in read Fahrenheit 451 a few years ago. It has the reputation of validating Bradbury's career; everyone knows about it (though very few people have ever read it) and it has had culture-changing impact. But while I find the plot to be mesmerizing and poignant, I found the writing itself to be pretty bad, bordering on immature as the experiments Bradbury attempts with the style just seem to keep missing the mark. But it was actually the first novel by Bradbury I had read, and his greatness must be based on the breadth and depth of his work more than any one novel.
The same book group has selected Somthing Wicked This Way Comes, and I find myself with the same problem. The story seems straightforward enough, or as straightforward as any sort of supernatural suspense story can be, but I found myself getting completely lost in the gyrations the language and style of the novel takes. Poetic language can be wielded beautifully, and I imagine it should be used delicately as well, but the effect from Something Wicked is more like a poetic sledgehammer wielded by someone learning the nuance of sledgehammering. When the style and language of a work detract me from the meaning and intent of the work, something is dreadfully wrong. It could be argued that some works may in fact be exercises in style, and that Something Wicked is famous exactly for its stylistics. However, I don't think I've read any reviews of Bradbury's work that praise its style.
So, I'm left with a meditation on reputation. And of course, this leads one to ponder questions of taste. As a caveat, let me repeat that I think Bradbury has earned his implicit title pf master writer for hos work in the short story form alone. But as a result of these two books, I don't intend to ever read another novel by Bradbury unless I am bribed with at least the cost of the book plus recompense for my time if I don't like it. But I wonder how many people actually really like Bradbury's novels or, if in fact, few people who praise Bradbury have actually read his novels. I wonder if his literary popularity is such that anything he writes is immediately branded a classic; hundreds of critics have said it in the past, so it must be true now, right?
I've also never read The Da Vinci Code, which makes me a sort of social outcast at dinner parties. I'm reminded of the Saturday Night Live sketch with the commercial for a Broadway production featuring a hypnotist; the commercial consists of a buoyant announcer backed up by real audience reaction, except that each audience member interviewed repeats the exact same praise in a dead monotone, "It's better than Cats. I'll see it again and again." Clearly The Da Vinci Code touched some integral part of some of its readers--Christian conspiracy or perhaps the need to believe in something being bigger than the world we know, even if it is hidden. But the critics hated it, and the people I know whose opinions I trust have told me not to bother reading the book, as it is very poorly written and not very compelling besides. And I have felt the ostracism that results if you dare to challenge the book's greatness. But when I ask a fan of the book why it's so great, there is nothing concrete in response. And you know, "Everyone's reading it" is not a real good reason for me to want to read it.
In fact, it was fashionably revolutionary for while to admit to not reading The Da Vinci Code. I was like the beatniks in the 50s, daring to question authority in by black clothes and beret. But I find it isn't so terribly cool to say that perhaps Bradbury has some warts, especially when I am attempting to don the costume of serious speculative fiction critic. I suppose it is no help that Bradbury is also an incredibly personable and friendly man. And of course, I could just be out on the fringe of the mainstream (which is where I usually am when talking about the value of speculative fiction). Maybe we should question things that have been co-opted by the mainstream. Was Bradbury ground-breaking? He may well have been, for 50s mainstream readers. But how does that fit into the experience of the reader of speculative fiction in the 50s? Perhaps he was treading ground that other, less popular writers had been to before. And maybe , as a reader of speculative fiction, I should appreciate his success as a sort of liaison between us and the mainstream reader; lord knows he is one of the few SF writers that non-fans can name when challenged.
I suppose that this means I should eventually read some Vonnegut as well. As if my reading list wasn't long enough already.
I consider myself a pretty big fan of Ray Bradbury; I've read a good number of his short stories and thoroughly enjoyed them. I've been to conventions where he has appeared and been swept up in the good feelings for him from the standing ovations that follow him like a shadow. One of my basic assumptions about the literary world is that he is one of the greats, and it will be a sad day when he passes.
The book group I participate in read Fahrenheit 451 a few years ago. It has the reputation of validating Bradbury's career; everyone knows about it (though very few people have ever read it) and it has had culture-changing impact. But while I find the plot to be mesmerizing and poignant, I found the writing itself to be pretty bad, bordering on immature as the experiments Bradbury attempts with the style just seem to keep missing the mark. But it was actually the first novel by Bradbury I had read, and his greatness must be based on the breadth and depth of his work more than any one novel.
The same book group has selected Somthing Wicked This Way Comes, and I find myself with the same problem. The story seems straightforward enough, or as straightforward as any sort of supernatural suspense story can be, but I found myself getting completely lost in the gyrations the language and style of the novel takes. Poetic language can be wielded beautifully, and I imagine it should be used delicately as well, but the effect from Something Wicked is more like a poetic sledgehammer wielded by someone learning the nuance of sledgehammering. When the style and language of a work detract me from the meaning and intent of the work, something is dreadfully wrong. It could be argued that some works may in fact be exercises in style, and that Something Wicked is famous exactly for its stylistics. However, I don't think I've read any reviews of Bradbury's work that praise its style.
So, I'm left with a meditation on reputation. And of course, this leads one to ponder questions of taste. As a caveat, let me repeat that I think Bradbury has earned his implicit title pf master writer for hos work in the short story form alone. But as a result of these two books, I don't intend to ever read another novel by Bradbury unless I am bribed with at least the cost of the book plus recompense for my time if I don't like it. But I wonder how many people actually really like Bradbury's novels or, if in fact, few people who praise Bradbury have actually read his novels. I wonder if his literary popularity is such that anything he writes is immediately branded a classic; hundreds of critics have said it in the past, so it must be true now, right?
I've also never read The Da Vinci Code, which makes me a sort of social outcast at dinner parties. I'm reminded of the Saturday Night Live sketch with the commercial for a Broadway production featuring a hypnotist; the commercial consists of a buoyant announcer backed up by real audience reaction, except that each audience member interviewed repeats the exact same praise in a dead monotone, "It's better than Cats. I'll see it again and again." Clearly The Da Vinci Code touched some integral part of some of its readers--Christian conspiracy or perhaps the need to believe in something being bigger than the world we know, even if it is hidden. But the critics hated it, and the people I know whose opinions I trust have told me not to bother reading the book, as it is very poorly written and not very compelling besides. And I have felt the ostracism that results if you dare to challenge the book's greatness. But when I ask a fan of the book why it's so great, there is nothing concrete in response. And you know, "Everyone's reading it" is not a real good reason for me to want to read it.
In fact, it was fashionably revolutionary for while to admit to not reading The Da Vinci Code. I was like the beatniks in the 50s, daring to question authority in by black clothes and beret. But I find it isn't so terribly cool to say that perhaps Bradbury has some warts, especially when I am attempting to don the costume of serious speculative fiction critic. I suppose it is no help that Bradbury is also an incredibly personable and friendly man. And of course, I could just be out on the fringe of the mainstream (which is where I usually am when talking about the value of speculative fiction). Maybe we should question things that have been co-opted by the mainstream. Was Bradbury ground-breaking? He may well have been, for 50s mainstream readers. But how does that fit into the experience of the reader of speculative fiction in the 50s? Perhaps he was treading ground that other, less popular writers had been to before. And maybe , as a reader of speculative fiction, I should appreciate his success as a sort of liaison between us and the mainstream reader; lord knows he is one of the few SF writers that non-fans can name when challenged.
I suppose that this means I should eventually read some Vonnegut as well. As if my reading list wasn't long enough already.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Comic musings for 1/17
Last week, nothing really jumped out at me good or bad, so I didn't do any reviews. This week is a different story, though.
Before I get into the reviews, however, I have to take a moment to mourn one of the best titles DC has going, Manhunter. Marc Andreyko was fashioning a fine re-imagining of the long-time DC hero, rooting her in the various ages of DC comics as well as keeping her relevant to the current storylines. The story-telling was crisp and lively, the characters well-rounded, and the art better than average.
And no one was reading it.
DC cancelled it once, and a write-in campaign kept it going for a little longer, but ultimately, the numbers could not support the title and it has been cancelled for real. I often see people complaining on boards and newsgroups about the decline of the comic industry, but I wonder how many of them stirred out of their comfortable compartments to try something new. Manhunter, along with the other title that was introduced simultaneously but cancelled much earlier, Bloodhound, were solid comic books, pushing the edges of the DC Universe. Apparently, however, readers would rather throw their support behind another Batman title than give it a shot. Fortunately, Manhunter is now a member of Birds of Prey, meaning that she will be under the watchful eye of perhaps the best writer DC has going right now, Gail Simone sadly,Bloodhound has not been seen since his title was cancelled). If you don't like what DC has to offer, there really are very few people to blame other than the folks who buy comics and the folks who talk about them. I'm not sure if anyone reads this blog, but I will shoulder a portion of the blame for the failure of Manhunter. I promise to call out such finds, as I failed to do with this title. Rumor has it that Andreyko has another project forthcoming. I'm going to buy it just because his name is on it. I hope to talk about it in this blog.
Now for the week's reviews.
Spoilers ho!
The Helmet of Fate: Detective Chimp -- This title had a long uphill battle from its very inception. Arising as it does from the events of Infinite Crisis, there seemed to be little purpose to the book except to make money as a tie-in rather than do anything interesting. It features a character that is getting a little play in Shadowpact, but about whom readers most likely know very little. It feels like one of those books that just isn't going to matter in the long run.
But then you look at the creators. Bill Willingham, who is doing some really exciting things in Shadowpact, Fables, and Jack of Fables is writing. Shawn McManus, who did a wonderful job drawing the Dr. Fate series from the 80s, is back doing something related to that work. So I decided to give it a shot (and my being a obsessive/compulsive completist had nothing to do with my decision).
Look, when I say this is the best character study of Detective Chimp I could imagine, that is not me damning with faint praise, though I admit to saying it 'cause it sounds just so silly. This is a story about a chimpanzee that talks and has the chops to be the world's greatest detective. The story begins with an example of his sleuthing ability before the Helmet of Dr. Fate literally falls into his lap. Suddenly, a very fine detective--whose cynicism regarding people forms the basis of his prodigious talent--knows everything. All the connections are clear to him and he can answer all the riddles. The power of a god is at his hands, and he turns it down, knowing that his true self, as unlikable as it sometimes is, would be totally lost and in the thrall of something else. And through the story, Willingham's whimsy is perfectly matched with McManus's. While the subject matter is serious, the two creators tell the story with panache and wit. And as the story ends, I know Detective Chimp better and the arc that guides the story has progressed. In their hands, the story takes a difficult and odious task and make something a little magical out of it. This is why I read as much Willingham as I can get--Fables is wonderful and easily one of my favorite comics. Now if we could only somehow get McManus on a regular title again.
Aquaman 48 -- Kurt Busiek took over the King of the Seven Seas when One Year Later began. The story he has been telling has been jarring, especially to longtime fans of Aquaman. He introduced a new Arthur Curry, who wasn't the Aquaman we knew, but is the current Aquaman. He somehow has some of the history of the Golden Age Aquaman, but it wasn't explicitly explained where the modern Aquaman was. But Busiek writing earns a great deal of leeway; Astro City buys a lot of respect. But one of my complaints about the series also was the art of Butch Guice, whose work I enjoyed in Ruse and Resurrection Man. In fact, I had been looking forward to the art, but it seemed to keep missing its mark. Somehow, the inking and coloring seemed off--as I try to recall my concerns, it seems to me that too much of the finished panels were ink and not so much space for expression. In addition, the palate was very dark most of the time, so that it was difficult to discern what was happening on the page, especially in facial expressions. So, we had a disconcerting story with unhappy art, leading to a displeasing title.
With issue 48, however, Busiek brings a character back into the Aquaman pantheon, the Fisherman. In a series of jump-cuts, we flash back to a gruesome series of recent murders, including the last Fisherman, and then jump forward to Aquaman being taught how to be a hero by his companions, the Dweller and King Shark. In what is a clearly a set-up issue, the stories converge in the last few pages (or we are led to think they do; Busiek is a good story-teller, so it could all be a mcguffin). But what makes this story click is the work of the new artist on the series, Ricardo Villagran. His lines are clean and smooth and very detailed. Nothing is lost to overinking. And while his palate tends to the monochromatic in the underwater scenes, it is lighter and easier to interpret. All together, this may be the best issue of Busiek's run on the title; unfortunately it is also his penultimate, and Villagran is only a fill-in artist until...Shawn McManus(!) takes over.
The Spirit 2 -- I guess I'm going to keep riding this train for a while. I really love the Spirit, and I want this series to succeed. I am trying very hard to judge it on its own merits, but it is very difficult given the huge shadow cast by Eisner's work. Once again, I find the same shortcomings in this title, but I can see the potential for so much more.
It is difficult to recognize this Spirit, when he keeps doing nothing but observe the events around him, acting more as a narrative device than an actor. In this issue, Darwyn Cooke introduces us to the new P'Gell, the archetypal femme fatale of Eisner's run. Clearly she is up to no good as she finagles her way into an introduction to the Prince of Karifistan and sweeps him off his feet. The allure of P'Gell has always been the interweaving of the tough woman with the innocent girl trying to peek out; this is pretty much the role of the leading woman in all noir stories--innocence and experience combined. Cooke gets this aspect right, but the Spirit remains in the background bumbling along in most unSpiritlike fashion; getting completely beat up by the Prince's guards and not even holding his own in his interaction with Ellen (who calls him Denny Colt!). At one point, the Spirit puts on a disguise, all in black, saying "I've noticed that when I show up at formal parties in a blue mask and hat, it usually ends up with me out back, getting beaten stupid by a gang of doormen the size of beer trucks." This one line shows everything that is wrong with this Spirit; Eisner's incarnation would wear a disguise, but it would still have his colors...and no one would notice. This was Eisner's wink to his audience, reminding us that it's all a well-intentioned bit of fun, but Darwyn forgoes that by giving us a monologue about why he must wear something different. The fun is missing.
Of course P'Gell kills her husband, but when the Spirit catches her, we learn it is not so much for his money, but for revenge--it seems P'Gell truly loved her first husband, a humanitarian doctor who served the poor in Karifistan and was caught up in a genocide by the Prince. Political relevance in the Spirit? Where's the fun?
The last page is the best of the issue. The Spirit is knocked out (again) by P'Gell and she makes her escape. Then the Spirit and the Prince's domo, actually an Israeli security agent in disguise, trade banter about the inscrutability of woman and share a laugh as they saunter off into the sunset. In this page, we finally see the self-effacing side of the Spirit, and hints of the whimsy that underlies his character. But the world he lives in appears to be too real for the lighthearted action of the Spirit, and he ends up just feeling dreadfully out of place.
I'll keep going with this series for a while, but my hope is wavering.
JLA Classified 32 -- One of the JLA's most dangerous enemies is back, but only as a stepping stone for a new villain, the Red King. Dr. Destiny, in another confrintation with the JLA, has powered up his materioptikon with the dream-power of the six billion inhabitants of Earth. The issue opens with the JLA fighting him in the dream-realm and, of course, defeating him. But as he is defeated, a piece of the materioptikon falls at the feet of hard-luck Darrin Profitt. Eventually, Dr. Destiny reaches out through the missing piece to draw Profitt into the dream-realm, where Profitt learns how to send himself into the different potential worlds represented by the facets of the gem-like materioptikon. When Profitt finds a world whose history meets his goals, he joins them all back together, so that his successful world is now the one true Earth.
This is a classic science fiction convention, using time travel or dimension travel to find the Earth where everything goes right, and the creative team handles the story well. But Profitt learns too late that he can only travel to a total number of dimensions equal to the number of people from whom the dream-power was borrowed. Clearly he has been working hard, because of the six billion he had to start with, there remain only four parallels. And since the imprisoned Dr. Destiny has set him against the JLA, Profitt, in his new alter ego of the Red King, is determined to destroy the JLA...and he has four shots to try. His potential worlds have given him "more meta-abilities than any being to date and possessing thousands of perfect strategems for destroying Earth's mightiest heroes...".
This promises to be a fascinating story, if it is pulled off as well as it is begun. Dan Slott is an able writer, so this has a lot of potential. But it also feels very Marvel-like, as the JLA must face off against someone who combines all the meta-abilities of everyone. You know, like Onslaught, or in the DC Universe, Prometheus or Amazo. And does anyone recognize that the Avengers are Earth's Mightiest Heroes?
Before I get into the reviews, however, I have to take a moment to mourn one of the best titles DC has going, Manhunter. Marc Andreyko was fashioning a fine re-imagining of the long-time DC hero, rooting her in the various ages of DC comics as well as keeping her relevant to the current storylines. The story-telling was crisp and lively, the characters well-rounded, and the art better than average.
And no one was reading it.
DC cancelled it once, and a write-in campaign kept it going for a little longer, but ultimately, the numbers could not support the title and it has been cancelled for real. I often see people complaining on boards and newsgroups about the decline of the comic industry, but I wonder how many of them stirred out of their comfortable compartments to try something new. Manhunter, along with the other title that was introduced simultaneously but cancelled much earlier, Bloodhound, were solid comic books, pushing the edges of the DC Universe. Apparently, however, readers would rather throw their support behind another Batman title than give it a shot. Fortunately, Manhunter is now a member of Birds of Prey, meaning that she will be under the watchful eye of perhaps the best writer DC has going right now, Gail Simone sadly,Bloodhound has not been seen since his title was cancelled). If you don't like what DC has to offer, there really are very few people to blame other than the folks who buy comics and the folks who talk about them. I'm not sure if anyone reads this blog, but I will shoulder a portion of the blame for the failure of Manhunter. I promise to call out such finds, as I failed to do with this title. Rumor has it that Andreyko has another project forthcoming. I'm going to buy it just because his name is on it. I hope to talk about it in this blog.
Now for the week's reviews.
Spoilers ho!
The Helmet of Fate: Detective Chimp -- This title had a long uphill battle from its very inception. Arising as it does from the events of Infinite Crisis, there seemed to be little purpose to the book except to make money as a tie-in rather than do anything interesting. It features a character that is getting a little play in Shadowpact, but about whom readers most likely know very little. It feels like one of those books that just isn't going to matter in the long run.
But then you look at the creators. Bill Willingham, who is doing some really exciting things in Shadowpact, Fables, and Jack of Fables is writing. Shawn McManus, who did a wonderful job drawing the Dr. Fate series from the 80s, is back doing something related to that work. So I decided to give it a shot (and my being a obsessive/compulsive completist had nothing to do with my decision).
Look, when I say this is the best character study of Detective Chimp I could imagine, that is not me damning with faint praise, though I admit to saying it 'cause it sounds just so silly. This is a story about a chimpanzee that talks and has the chops to be the world's greatest detective. The story begins with an example of his sleuthing ability before the Helmet of Dr. Fate literally falls into his lap. Suddenly, a very fine detective--whose cynicism regarding people forms the basis of his prodigious talent--knows everything. All the connections are clear to him and he can answer all the riddles. The power of a god is at his hands, and he turns it down, knowing that his true self, as unlikable as it sometimes is, would be totally lost and in the thrall of something else. And through the story, Willingham's whimsy is perfectly matched with McManus's. While the subject matter is serious, the two creators tell the story with panache and wit. And as the story ends, I know Detective Chimp better and the arc that guides the story has progressed. In their hands, the story takes a difficult and odious task and make something a little magical out of it. This is why I read as much Willingham as I can get--Fables is wonderful and easily one of my favorite comics. Now if we could only somehow get McManus on a regular title again.
Aquaman 48 -- Kurt Busiek took over the King of the Seven Seas when One Year Later began. The story he has been telling has been jarring, especially to longtime fans of Aquaman. He introduced a new Arthur Curry, who wasn't the Aquaman we knew, but is the current Aquaman. He somehow has some of the history of the Golden Age Aquaman, but it wasn't explicitly explained where the modern Aquaman was. But Busiek writing earns a great deal of leeway; Astro City buys a lot of respect. But one of my complaints about the series also was the art of Butch Guice, whose work I enjoyed in Ruse and Resurrection Man. In fact, I had been looking forward to the art, but it seemed to keep missing its mark. Somehow, the inking and coloring seemed off--as I try to recall my concerns, it seems to me that too much of the finished panels were ink and not so much space for expression. In addition, the palate was very dark most of the time, so that it was difficult to discern what was happening on the page, especially in facial expressions. So, we had a disconcerting story with unhappy art, leading to a displeasing title.
With issue 48, however, Busiek brings a character back into the Aquaman pantheon, the Fisherman. In a series of jump-cuts, we flash back to a gruesome series of recent murders, including the last Fisherman, and then jump forward to Aquaman being taught how to be a hero by his companions, the Dweller and King Shark. In what is a clearly a set-up issue, the stories converge in the last few pages (or we are led to think they do; Busiek is a good story-teller, so it could all be a mcguffin). But what makes this story click is the work of the new artist on the series, Ricardo Villagran. His lines are clean and smooth and very detailed. Nothing is lost to overinking. And while his palate tends to the monochromatic in the underwater scenes, it is lighter and easier to interpret. All together, this may be the best issue of Busiek's run on the title; unfortunately it is also his penultimate, and Villagran is only a fill-in artist until...Shawn McManus(!) takes over.
The Spirit 2 -- I guess I'm going to keep riding this train for a while. I really love the Spirit, and I want this series to succeed. I am trying very hard to judge it on its own merits, but it is very difficult given the huge shadow cast by Eisner's work. Once again, I find the same shortcomings in this title, but I can see the potential for so much more.
It is difficult to recognize this Spirit, when he keeps doing nothing but observe the events around him, acting more as a narrative device than an actor. In this issue, Darwyn Cooke introduces us to the new P'Gell, the archetypal femme fatale of Eisner's run. Clearly she is up to no good as she finagles her way into an introduction to the Prince of Karifistan and sweeps him off his feet. The allure of P'Gell has always been the interweaving of the tough woman with the innocent girl trying to peek out; this is pretty much the role of the leading woman in all noir stories--innocence and experience combined. Cooke gets this aspect right, but the Spirit remains in the background bumbling along in most unSpiritlike fashion; getting completely beat up by the Prince's guards and not even holding his own in his interaction with Ellen (who calls him Denny Colt!). At one point, the Spirit puts on a disguise, all in black, saying "I've noticed that when I show up at formal parties in a blue mask and hat, it usually ends up with me out back, getting beaten stupid by a gang of doormen the size of beer trucks." This one line shows everything that is wrong with this Spirit; Eisner's incarnation would wear a disguise, but it would still have his colors...and no one would notice. This was Eisner's wink to his audience, reminding us that it's all a well-intentioned bit of fun, but Darwyn forgoes that by giving us a monologue about why he must wear something different. The fun is missing.
Of course P'Gell kills her husband, but when the Spirit catches her, we learn it is not so much for his money, but for revenge--it seems P'Gell truly loved her first husband, a humanitarian doctor who served the poor in Karifistan and was caught up in a genocide by the Prince. Political relevance in the Spirit? Where's the fun?
The last page is the best of the issue. The Spirit is knocked out (again) by P'Gell and she makes her escape. Then the Spirit and the Prince's domo, actually an Israeli security agent in disguise, trade banter about the inscrutability of woman and share a laugh as they saunter off into the sunset. In this page, we finally see the self-effacing side of the Spirit, and hints of the whimsy that underlies his character. But the world he lives in appears to be too real for the lighthearted action of the Spirit, and he ends up just feeling dreadfully out of place.
I'll keep going with this series for a while, but my hope is wavering.
JLA Classified 32 -- One of the JLA's most dangerous enemies is back, but only as a stepping stone for a new villain, the Red King. Dr. Destiny, in another confrintation with the JLA, has powered up his materioptikon with the dream-power of the six billion inhabitants of Earth. The issue opens with the JLA fighting him in the dream-realm and, of course, defeating him. But as he is defeated, a piece of the materioptikon falls at the feet of hard-luck Darrin Profitt. Eventually, Dr. Destiny reaches out through the missing piece to draw Profitt into the dream-realm, where Profitt learns how to send himself into the different potential worlds represented by the facets of the gem-like materioptikon. When Profitt finds a world whose history meets his goals, he joins them all back together, so that his successful world is now the one true Earth.
This is a classic science fiction convention, using time travel or dimension travel to find the Earth where everything goes right, and the creative team handles the story well. But Profitt learns too late that he can only travel to a total number of dimensions equal to the number of people from whom the dream-power was borrowed. Clearly he has been working hard, because of the six billion he had to start with, there remain only four parallels. And since the imprisoned Dr. Destiny has set him against the JLA, Profitt, in his new alter ego of the Red King, is determined to destroy the JLA...and he has four shots to try. His potential worlds have given him "more meta-abilities than any being to date and possessing thousands of perfect strategems for destroying Earth's mightiest heroes...".
This promises to be a fascinating story, if it is pulled off as well as it is begun. Dan Slott is an able writer, so this has a lot of potential. But it also feels very Marvel-like, as the JLA must face off against someone who combines all the meta-abilities of everyone. You know, like Onslaught, or in the DC Universe, Prometheus or Amazo. And does anyone recognize that the Avengers are Earth's Mightiest Heroes?
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Children of Men
As I watched Children of Men, I was often struck by the parallels between the movie and a high-concept prog rock album. I suppose that some of the decisions made by the film's creators explicitly led to the comparison: at one point, our hero Theo Faron (played by Clive Owen), looks out a window over the city of London--a balloon pig floats in his point of view, evoking the cover of Pink Floyd's Animals, while King Crimson's "Court of the Crimson King" plays in the foreground. But the implicit comparisons are more evocative--the movie is made up of broad sweeping movements punctuated with set pieces that illuminate the characters or create discordant images to raise the emotional hackles of the viewer. By intermingling moments of faith and war, hope and crushing despair, the movie raises the emotional stakes and calmly, at the end, delivers on its potential.
The year is 2027, and the youngest person in the world has just died at the age of 18 years and four months. In this time, no children have been conceived, and abysmal despair has set in. Our point-of-view is British, and according to news reports, most of the rest of the world has fallen to wars, terrorism, ecological disaster, and unnamed violence. Whether the violence is the result or the cause of the lack of children is unclear, but what is important is that they go hand-in-hand for the purposes of the movie. England has closed its borders (one assumes it affects all of the UK, but the movie doesn’t bother to ask the question), and illegal immigrants seeking to escape the calamities of the rest of the world are round up and kept in cages as they await deportation to refugee camps. We follow Theo around this world for a couple of days as bombs go off around him and he catalogues the miseries of his age when they tick by. Breaking one of the conventions of such movies, instead of giving us a voiceover (like in Dune) or so much scrolling text to provide the setting, director Alfonso Cuaron establishes the dystopia by observation. For instance, Theo learns of the death of “Baby Diego” from a news report on the TV above the line he waits for coffee in, so that we are given both sweeping views of the world we find ourselves in and details of our protagonist as he reacts to the news. Scenes like this continue to immerse the viewer more and more deeply, and even when the action really starts, facts about the setting appear and disappear from the screen in the natural way of a man moving through his daily life.
But Theo’s daily life is irrevocably altered when his ex-wife contacts him. She is now the leader of an underground group, the Fishes, who are rebelling against the government’s strict stance on immigration. Sometimes their activities push into the realm of terrorism, but Julian (played by Julianne Moore) herself does not seem to be the stereotypical terrorist; she is a fanatic, but not, apparently, violent. She asks Theo for help only his job in the immigration office can provide, and he reluctantly agrees. Through it all, Theo is gently confused and perhaps bemused by what his life has brought him to, but he is well-liked by all he associates with; even his ex-wife claims Theo is the only man she will trust. He attempts to do as asked with conviction based on his word, and then it all goes horribly wrong.
What follows is Theo’s trip through the far darker side of the world he lives in as he first attempts to fulfill his promise, but he eventually comes to believe in the cause of his ex-wife, if not that of the Fishes. And as a result of the brilliant cinematography that uses a camera that follows Theo as if we are standing beside him, sometimes using the shakiness of the handheld camera and using very few jump-cuts, we are immersed in the ugliness of his world. As we uncover the facts of his mission when Theo does, we too feel strongly about his goals and cheer him on through some of the most unsettling scenes in recent movies. Cuaron grabs the root of your emotions and pulls them from dark to light as Theo literally staggers onward, such that we feel that we become part of the movie itself.
Eventually Theo finds himself in a war zone, trying to protect his wards, and the action is reminiscent of Saving Private Ryan. People are hurt and die all around him in brutal battle sequences, and yet he continues on, hopeful and earnest. At last the viewer is allowed to pull back and gaze on scenes of biblical allegory and human strength and weakness with a sense of wonder—what have we done? And even in its horror, Children of Men is evocatively beautiful; dark scenes of industrial cities wreathed in their own smoke are awful to behold and compelling all at once. People facing their worst fears and nightmares are capable of acts of unspeakable kindness alongside the atrocities that must follow.
Children of Men is a brilliant movie. It plays with allegory and allusion, convincing the viewer of its depth as its characters chase hope, not-so-ironically located in a ship named Tomorrow. Clive Owen plays a different role from those in his most recent films, but he plays it wonderfully, portraying the depths of a man trading between despair and hope. Michael Caine is also superb in this movie, playing an aged hippie friend (or perhaps even father) of Theo’s, who acts as moral compass to the weary party.
Sadly, this movie is far too thoughtful to remain too long in theaters. You must see it soon, and you should try very hard to see it in a digital theater. As meticulous as the cinematography is, exquisite care has been given to the soundtrack as well. You will leave the movie shaken, not so much by the fairly simple plot, but by one of the effects of the very best science fiction—this world and the events in it are not so very far removed from our very own.
The year is 2027, and the youngest person in the world has just died at the age of 18 years and four months. In this time, no children have been conceived, and abysmal despair has set in. Our point-of-view is British, and according to news reports, most of the rest of the world has fallen to wars, terrorism, ecological disaster, and unnamed violence. Whether the violence is the result or the cause of the lack of children is unclear, but what is important is that they go hand-in-hand for the purposes of the movie. England has closed its borders (one assumes it affects all of the UK, but the movie doesn’t bother to ask the question), and illegal immigrants seeking to escape the calamities of the rest of the world are round up and kept in cages as they await deportation to refugee camps. We follow Theo around this world for a couple of days as bombs go off around him and he catalogues the miseries of his age when they tick by. Breaking one of the conventions of such movies, instead of giving us a voiceover (like in Dune) or so much scrolling text to provide the setting, director Alfonso Cuaron establishes the dystopia by observation. For instance, Theo learns of the death of “Baby Diego” from a news report on the TV above the line he waits for coffee in, so that we are given both sweeping views of the world we find ourselves in and details of our protagonist as he reacts to the news. Scenes like this continue to immerse the viewer more and more deeply, and even when the action really starts, facts about the setting appear and disappear from the screen in the natural way of a man moving through his daily life.
But Theo’s daily life is irrevocably altered when his ex-wife contacts him. She is now the leader of an underground group, the Fishes, who are rebelling against the government’s strict stance on immigration. Sometimes their activities push into the realm of terrorism, but Julian (played by Julianne Moore) herself does not seem to be the stereotypical terrorist; she is a fanatic, but not, apparently, violent. She asks Theo for help only his job in the immigration office can provide, and he reluctantly agrees. Through it all, Theo is gently confused and perhaps bemused by what his life has brought him to, but he is well-liked by all he associates with; even his ex-wife claims Theo is the only man she will trust. He attempts to do as asked with conviction based on his word, and then it all goes horribly wrong.
What follows is Theo’s trip through the far darker side of the world he lives in as he first attempts to fulfill his promise, but he eventually comes to believe in the cause of his ex-wife, if not that of the Fishes. And as a result of the brilliant cinematography that uses a camera that follows Theo as if we are standing beside him, sometimes using the shakiness of the handheld camera and using very few jump-cuts, we are immersed in the ugliness of his world. As we uncover the facts of his mission when Theo does, we too feel strongly about his goals and cheer him on through some of the most unsettling scenes in recent movies. Cuaron grabs the root of your emotions and pulls them from dark to light as Theo literally staggers onward, such that we feel that we become part of the movie itself.
Eventually Theo finds himself in a war zone, trying to protect his wards, and the action is reminiscent of Saving Private Ryan. People are hurt and die all around him in brutal battle sequences, and yet he continues on, hopeful and earnest. At last the viewer is allowed to pull back and gaze on scenes of biblical allegory and human strength and weakness with a sense of wonder—what have we done? And even in its horror, Children of Men is evocatively beautiful; dark scenes of industrial cities wreathed in their own smoke are awful to behold and compelling all at once. People facing their worst fears and nightmares are capable of acts of unspeakable kindness alongside the atrocities that must follow.
Children of Men is a brilliant movie. It plays with allegory and allusion, convincing the viewer of its depth as its characters chase hope, not-so-ironically located in a ship named Tomorrow. Clive Owen plays a different role from those in his most recent films, but he plays it wonderfully, portraying the depths of a man trading between despair and hope. Michael Caine is also superb in this movie, playing an aged hippie friend (or perhaps even father) of Theo’s, who acts as moral compass to the weary party.
Sadly, this movie is far too thoughtful to remain too long in theaters. You must see it soon, and you should try very hard to see it in a digital theater. As meticulous as the cinematography is, exquisite care has been given to the soundtrack as well. You will leave the movie shaken, not so much by the fairly simple plot, but by one of the effects of the very best science fiction—this world and the events in it are not so very far removed from our very own.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Time Traders
Ross Murdock is a small-time repeat felon who has run out of luck; his next sentence is going to be a long one. Until the judge offers him the opportunity to work on a secret project with the US government, an opportunity he quickly takes. And as is the case when one volunteers (especially in speculative fiction novels), he has no idea what he has set himself up for.
Andre Norton's Time Traders takes two of the most common speculative fiction situations and combines them into a Cold War novel that aspires to become more. On the one hand, America discovers that the Soviets have begun to employ time travel in their efforts to dominate the world, which would be bad enough. But as America attempts to duplicate their technology, it discovers that it is not native, that in fact, the Soviets have retrieved it from aliens. So the Americans establish a force to fight this combined temporal and alien threat. And it is this fight that Murdock has just enlisted for.
The first goal of the task force is to determine in what time period the Soviets have encountered the aliens and either try to disrupt the relationship or horn in on it themselves. America has set up several temporal way stations, and Murdock is trained to slip into the culture of Iron Age England as he investigates the Soviet presence there. His training is nearly ended prematurely when he uncovers a Soviet spy in the American forces, but he overcomes this obstacle with sheer cussedness and continues until he finds himself in the era for which he has trained and the target of religious fanatics scared into action by his Soviet foes.
The course of this short novel wanders from fantasy to science fiction as Murdock rapidly shifts modes; he must deal with the Iron Age natives and their fears, which in turn leads him into conflict with modern Soviets. And when he ultimately uncovers the source of the Soviet technology, he stands against an alien force far greater…and far angrier…than any agent might have expected.
With all this set-up, the novel is surprisingly light and fluffy. Much like the heroes of early scientific romances, Murdock truly has no idea of the big picture and stumbles from encounter to encounter, uncovering bits and pieces of the conspiracy and reporting them back to his superiors. As a result, the reader also doesn't have a clear idea of the big picture until one of those superiors deigns to tell Murdock. This is a weakness in the novel; we know why Murdock goes from event to event, but his movement is not remotely purposeful. What's more, at one point, Murdock takes a head injury and forgets his original time. He moves about in a sort of temporal amnesia in the Iron Age, convinced and convincing others that the back-story created for him is his real history. This episode proves more annoying than ambitious, as Norton's narrator constantly reminds us that Murdock is duping himself, and the attempts to remember seem to take place more in the narrator's head than in Murdock's.
Nonetheless, the novel is fun, in the way that 1950s speculative fiction often is; drop your mind off at the front door and just hang on for the ride. And it is quite a stormy ride, even if the main character is mostly flotsam in the storm's path.
Andre Norton's Time Traders takes two of the most common speculative fiction situations and combines them into a Cold War novel that aspires to become more. On the one hand, America discovers that the Soviets have begun to employ time travel in their efforts to dominate the world, which would be bad enough. But as America attempts to duplicate their technology, it discovers that it is not native, that in fact, the Soviets have retrieved it from aliens. So the Americans establish a force to fight this combined temporal and alien threat. And it is this fight that Murdock has just enlisted for.
The first goal of the task force is to determine in what time period the Soviets have encountered the aliens and either try to disrupt the relationship or horn in on it themselves. America has set up several temporal way stations, and Murdock is trained to slip into the culture of Iron Age England as he investigates the Soviet presence there. His training is nearly ended prematurely when he uncovers a Soviet spy in the American forces, but he overcomes this obstacle with sheer cussedness and continues until he finds himself in the era for which he has trained and the target of religious fanatics scared into action by his Soviet foes.
The course of this short novel wanders from fantasy to science fiction as Murdock rapidly shifts modes; he must deal with the Iron Age natives and their fears, which in turn leads him into conflict with modern Soviets. And when he ultimately uncovers the source of the Soviet technology, he stands against an alien force far greater…and far angrier…than any agent might have expected.
With all this set-up, the novel is surprisingly light and fluffy. Much like the heroes of early scientific romances, Murdock truly has no idea of the big picture and stumbles from encounter to encounter, uncovering bits and pieces of the conspiracy and reporting them back to his superiors. As a result, the reader also doesn't have a clear idea of the big picture until one of those superiors deigns to tell Murdock. This is a weakness in the novel; we know why Murdock goes from event to event, but his movement is not remotely purposeful. What's more, at one point, Murdock takes a head injury and forgets his original time. He moves about in a sort of temporal amnesia in the Iron Age, convinced and convincing others that the back-story created for him is his real history. This episode proves more annoying than ambitious, as Norton's narrator constantly reminds us that Murdock is duping himself, and the attempts to remember seem to take place more in the narrator's head than in Murdock's.
Nonetheless, the novel is fun, in the way that 1950s speculative fiction often is; drop your mind off at the front door and just hang on for the ride. And it is quite a stormy ride, even if the main character is mostly flotsam in the storm's path.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
The Terminal Experiment
The Terminal Experiment is a mish-mash of fascinating ideas, all of which are explored somewhat but none of which is fully explored to the extent I would expect from a Nebula Award-winning novel. For example, in the novel, Robert J. Sawyer introduces the idea of being able to copy a person's neural nets onto a computer hard drive, thus creating an AI duplicate of the person. He then takes it a step further and imagines erasing some of the nets, thus modifying the experiences and thoughts of the copy and thus creating a new person, based in part on the original. In fact, the main character, Peter Hobson, makes three duplicates of himself--one as a control to imitate him specifically, one with no physical needs to simulate life after death, and the last with no knowledge of age or death to simulate immortality. However, these virtual characters are treated nearly tangentially until they escape into the internet and one of them begins planning murders. All of this would make a fascinating novel if expolored in depth, but that never really happens.
Similarly, Hobson discovers the physical basis of the soul, a measurable and plottable electrical nexus that leaves the body upon its death. Again, the topic is touched on tangentially, with news reports regarding the public reaction to the news that there really is life after death, ut other than a few perfunctory scenes of Hobson testing his thesis, nothing much happens with this advance. Also, Hobson encounters a company that promises immortality by injecting nanobots into the human body to stave off the source of aging, as well as implanting technology for preventing accidental (or intentional) death. But again, this idea is given short shrift.
Wrapped up around this mess is the ongoing turmoil of Hobson's relationship with his all-too-human wife, which follows the archetypal plot of nearly every Hallmark movie ever made.
Of course, the AI personalities is given the most attention, but even its climax is revealed by the bizarre flash-forward that is the prologue, one which removes any possible suspense about how the book is going to turn out as well as revealing how it is going to get there. It's all very unfortunate, especially when it is matched up with the writing style of Sawyer. He employs simple, short sentences which propel the reader through the story, but have nothing of art about them, mimicking elementary primers in their style. In this way, the content and style are well-suited to one another, and the book is an enjoyable read until the back cover is closed and the reader realizes that it's all a bunch of fluff without depth. In fact, to seal the deal, we are given a saccharine epilogue as well that breaks no new ground.
In short, the book is a horrible tease, dense with the potential of its own ideas but failing to live up to it.
Similarly, Hobson discovers the physical basis of the soul, a measurable and plottable electrical nexus that leaves the body upon its death. Again, the topic is touched on tangentially, with news reports regarding the public reaction to the news that there really is life after death, ut other than a few perfunctory scenes of Hobson testing his thesis, nothing much happens with this advance. Also, Hobson encounters a company that promises immortality by injecting nanobots into the human body to stave off the source of aging, as well as implanting technology for preventing accidental (or intentional) death. But again, this idea is given short shrift.
Wrapped up around this mess is the ongoing turmoil of Hobson's relationship with his all-too-human wife, which follows the archetypal plot of nearly every Hallmark movie ever made.
Of course, the AI personalities is given the most attention, but even its climax is revealed by the bizarre flash-forward that is the prologue, one which removes any possible suspense about how the book is going to turn out as well as revealing how it is going to get there. It's all very unfortunate, especially when it is matched up with the writing style of Sawyer. He employs simple, short sentences which propel the reader through the story, but have nothing of art about them, mimicking elementary primers in their style. In this way, the content and style are well-suited to one another, and the book is an enjoyable read until the back cover is closed and the reader realizes that it's all a bunch of fluff without depth. In fact, to seal the deal, we are given a saccharine epilogue as well that breaks no new ground.
In short, the book is a horrible tease, dense with the potential of its own ideas but failing to live up to it.
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
Comic musings for 1/4/2007
Yeah, I'm a little late. The wife and I went to visit her family in Atlanta for a little post-Christmas Yuletide celebrating. So do not let me tarry on the way to what appears to be a Superman-filled week-in-review.
Spoilers ho!
All Star Superman 6 -- Grant Morrison continues to show off his love and feel for DC's Silver Age while still mixing in hints of more recent events. In this issue, which appears to be a flashback of earlier days in the life of All Star Superboy, the Kent farm is visited by a group of strangers helping the family out with harvest. It turns out that they are actually members of the Superman Squad, the Unknown Superman, Klyzyzk Klzntplkz (a very Mxyzptlk-looking Superman of the fifth dimension), and the Superman from Morrison's own One Million. They are at the farm to help fight off the attack of a vicious monster, the Chronovore. Superboy, eager to prove himself, jumps into the battle despite the warning of the Superman Squad and loses perhaps the most precious three minutes of his life (what do Chronovores do? They eat time, of course). Reflections and sorrow lead to the silver age twist at the end that wrenches the point-of-view; this never really was a Superboy story.
Through it all, and this is by far the saddest of the All Star Superman stories thus far and yet one that has to be told, Morrison and especially Frank Quitely's art remind us of the carefree lightheartedness of DC's silver age. It's goofy and touching all at once, evoking the sense of wonder youngsters felt at reading those old stories. For me, it's nostalgia, and I am curious as to what younger readers feel as they read these stories since they have little to be nostalgic for. This series won the Eisner for best new series, and this story is a fine representative of why.
Superman 658 -- This final issue in what is described as "Camelot Falls Book One" also tends to evoke some silver age nostalgia, if only because it's another one of those "What if" stories that used to back-up the man stories in the Superman titles. Superman continues to absorb the vision given to him by Arion regarding his role in the destruction of humanity. It turns out there is some interesting evolutionary ideas in why Arion's actions, most of which is explained in the conversation that follows the vision's end. Arion believes that civilizations rise and fall in a natural cycle unless something steps in to stop the darkness. Arion tellsSuperman that he does indeed hinder the growth of darkness, but by doing so he thwarts evolutionary inertia and when civilization finally does fall, it will fall that much harder. Because the heroes not from Earth, like Superman and the Martian Manhunter, are currently keeping the evolutionary forces at bay, those forces build and build until they can remove their hindrance and thus devastating normal humanity to the point of destroying it. And so Arion warns Superman that he has to stop fighting, to give up, or else he destroys the Earth.
On its surface, it's a fascinating premise, and one that we have dealt with in much smaller terms: to save the victim, Superman must abandon it. In this case, the victim is the Earth itself. We know that something is going to have to come along to change the equation that Arion describes. If Superman no longer is fighting the darkness, there no longer is a Superman comic book. So either Superman continues to fight anyway, dooming the Earth, or Arion is lying. (Which possibility do you think is most likely?) But exploring a little more deply, the premise that Arion describes is full of holes. The darkness he describes could also be called entropy, and while it is a natural force, it doesn't "try" to do anything. Whether Superman fights or not, the universe and Earth in it, are going to entropy. The right thing for Superman to do is to try to make that fall as graceful as possible, not sit back and do nothing. Sure, Superman can't win this fight, but it's always about the battle and not the victory.
If Arion turns out to be wrong (or even somebody else), the book has gone to a strange place, because entropy always wins. And the reader has been told, indirectly, that their hero can never win. This is not a general reading of Superman, and it'll be interesting to discover how Busiek writes his way out of this. Horror novels and movies have their heroes in situations they cannot possibly win, and the story ends; characters are used for the life of that instantiation. But Superman must go on, and the story has made it pointless for him to. And, sadly, it took three issues to get there, when one or two could have done it. I honestly don't know where this is going next, but it'll be an interesting literary experiment to see what they do.
Superman Confidential 3 -- The creative center of this series has to be the art ofg Tim Sale. Sadly, at one and the same time, I loathe and enjoy his work. When his art is fully colored, it is fascinating; light and shadows are important and even his gimmicky faces show a tremendous range of emotion. When the panels are only colored in a single palette, like certain pages of this issue and the entire runs of the Batman miniseries he worked on with Jeph Loeb, it just makes me cringe. It looks horribly washed out and pretentious, and it just distracts me from what is going on in the story.
Speaking of which, the story here is not doing a lot for me. In what is reputedly the introduction of Kryptonite to the DC universe, it is disconcerting for the slab of Kryptonite to b doing the narration itself. I recently read a comparison of the kryptonite to the Loch-Nar in Heavy Metal, but the story doesn't do the inanimate narration bit very well. The Loch-Nar, at least, had mystical powers that allowed it to know the stories of the people it came in contact with, but kryptonite has no such ability..and yet seems to know far more than it should. At the same time, the interaction between Lois and Superman is fun, if not in the continuity that we would expect, but it is not enough to sustain the story. I keep hoping that perhaps it really isn't the kryptonite narrating, but if it isn't, I don't see how this is going to be resolved.
Spoilers ho!
All Star Superman 6 -- Grant Morrison continues to show off his love and feel for DC's Silver Age while still mixing in hints of more recent events. In this issue, which appears to be a flashback of earlier days in the life of All Star Superboy, the Kent farm is visited by a group of strangers helping the family out with harvest. It turns out that they are actually members of the Superman Squad, the Unknown Superman, Klyzyzk Klzntplkz (a very Mxyzptlk-looking Superman of the fifth dimension), and the Superman from Morrison's own One Million. They are at the farm to help fight off the attack of a vicious monster, the Chronovore. Superboy, eager to prove himself, jumps into the battle despite the warning of the Superman Squad and loses perhaps the most precious three minutes of his life (what do Chronovores do? They eat time, of course). Reflections and sorrow lead to the silver age twist at the end that wrenches the point-of-view; this never really was a Superboy story.
Through it all, and this is by far the saddest of the All Star Superman stories thus far and yet one that has to be told, Morrison and especially Frank Quitely's art remind us of the carefree lightheartedness of DC's silver age. It's goofy and touching all at once, evoking the sense of wonder youngsters felt at reading those old stories. For me, it's nostalgia, and I am curious as to what younger readers feel as they read these stories since they have little to be nostalgic for. This series won the Eisner for best new series, and this story is a fine representative of why.
Superman 658 -- This final issue in what is described as "Camelot Falls Book One" also tends to evoke some silver age nostalgia, if only because it's another one of those "What if" stories that used to back-up the man stories in the Superman titles. Superman continues to absorb the vision given to him by Arion regarding his role in the destruction of humanity. It turns out there is some interesting evolutionary ideas in why Arion's actions, most of which is explained in the conversation that follows the vision's end. Arion believes that civilizations rise and fall in a natural cycle unless something steps in to stop the darkness. Arion tellsSuperman that he does indeed hinder the growth of darkness, but by doing so he thwarts evolutionary inertia and when civilization finally does fall, it will fall that much harder. Because the heroes not from Earth, like Superman and the Martian Manhunter, are currently keeping the evolutionary forces at bay, those forces build and build until they can remove their hindrance and thus devastating normal humanity to the point of destroying it. And so Arion warns Superman that he has to stop fighting, to give up, or else he destroys the Earth.
On its surface, it's a fascinating premise, and one that we have dealt with in much smaller terms: to save the victim, Superman must abandon it. In this case, the victim is the Earth itself. We know that something is going to have to come along to change the equation that Arion describes. If Superman no longer is fighting the darkness, there no longer is a Superman comic book. So either Superman continues to fight anyway, dooming the Earth, or Arion is lying. (Which possibility do you think is most likely?) But exploring a little more deply, the premise that Arion describes is full of holes. The darkness he describes could also be called entropy, and while it is a natural force, it doesn't "try" to do anything. Whether Superman fights or not, the universe and Earth in it, are going to entropy. The right thing for Superman to do is to try to make that fall as graceful as possible, not sit back and do nothing. Sure, Superman can't win this fight, but it's always about the battle and not the victory.
If Arion turns out to be wrong (or even somebody else), the book has gone to a strange place, because entropy always wins. And the reader has been told, indirectly, that their hero can never win. This is not a general reading of Superman, and it'll be interesting to discover how Busiek writes his way out of this. Horror novels and movies have their heroes in situations they cannot possibly win, and the story ends; characters are used for the life of that instantiation. But Superman must go on, and the story has made it pointless for him to. And, sadly, it took three issues to get there, when one or two could have done it. I honestly don't know where this is going next, but it'll be an interesting literary experiment to see what they do.
Superman Confidential 3 -- The creative center of this series has to be the art ofg Tim Sale. Sadly, at one and the same time, I loathe and enjoy his work. When his art is fully colored, it is fascinating; light and shadows are important and even his gimmicky faces show a tremendous range of emotion. When the panels are only colored in a single palette, like certain pages of this issue and the entire runs of the Batman miniseries he worked on with Jeph Loeb, it just makes me cringe. It looks horribly washed out and pretentious, and it just distracts me from what is going on in the story.
Speaking of which, the story here is not doing a lot for me. In what is reputedly the introduction of Kryptonite to the DC universe, it is disconcerting for the slab of Kryptonite to b doing the narration itself. I recently read a comparison of the kryptonite to the Loch-Nar in Heavy Metal, but the story doesn't do the inanimate narration bit very well. The Loch-Nar, at least, had mystical powers that allowed it to know the stories of the people it came in contact with, but kryptonite has no such ability..and yet seems to know far more than it should. At the same time, the interaction between Lois and Superman is fun, if not in the continuity that we would expect, but it is not enough to sustain the story. I keep hoping that perhaps it really isn't the kryptonite narrating, but if it isn't, I don't see how this is going to be resolved.
Monday, January 1, 2007
Darwin's Radio
What if someone wrote a thriller such that the obstacles the hero must overcome are bureaucracy and the inertia of public opinion rather than galactic threats or the villainy of maniacal despots? Greg Bear's 2000 Nebula Award-winning novel ends up being exactly that book. The concept that underlies the novel is fascinating, that evolution can take place within a generation such that worldwide health officials mistake it for a disease. Bear excels at the explanation of his premise; the scientific passages rival those of Michael Crichton for entertainment value, and the reader walks away with a decent helping of information about the latest evolutionary and biological research.
Fortunately, Bear's characterization works more completely than it did for Moving Mars, such that the three main characters are accessible even if they are not always likable. Among them, they also form an interesting emotional triangle as well as a nexus for the research surrounding the discovery that humankind is about to take its next step. Kaye Lang is the protagonist we follow most often through the course of the novel, and she has moments of strength and weakness, of lucidity and ignorance, just as real people do. But most importantly, those interleaving moments are caused not by inconsistency on her part, but by the movement of the events around her, beyond her control.
Unfortunately, unlike Crichton thrillers, such as Jurassic Park, there is not an immediate peril that the heroes can face down. During the first third of the book, as the characters gather and we are allowed bits and pieces of the evidence for what is taking place, the story moves swiftly and powerfully, from location to location. We meet the characters, their personalities are described through their actions, and the strands of the web begin to come together. But by the second third of the book, we know what is happening to the human race, and the momentum that was built up before is dissipated in the face of the bureaucracy and their unwillingness to accept what is happening to them, which so thoroughly goes against the established theories of evolution. This is not to say that Bear's depiction of a world in the throes of a medical emergency it cannot understand (even if there really is no emergency) is not accurate. In fact, Bear's scenes of disruption are chilling in their likely accuracy. Yet, chapters concerned with scientists and bureaucrats arguing around a board room table simply cannot carry the emotional power of impending doom. There is immediacy, but no one is defending themselves from, you know, dinosaurs on a rampage. And at the end of such passages, there is no climax or momentary release from the tension, just an overwhelming sense of the stupidity of the hive mind. There simply is no fighting the bureaucratic machine--one can run away from it (and the heroes do, many times by the book's end)--and there is no escaping Mother Nature. In fact, the most compellng scenes are those where we witness the public's reaction to the changes taking place around them. The terror, expressed in the protests, the riots, and even the sacrificing of others, carry the emotional impact of the novel until the last few pages, when Everything Changes.
As I was reading, I found myself pondering the convention of this type of book, where a calamity of global importance is taking place, and yet the reader views the most important events from the eyes of a small cast of characters, who often come together. In The Real World, the likelihood that so few people would have such important roles throughout all the phases of such an emergency is rather unlikely. But this fiction is one the reader must follow in order that the story be told with any sort of narrative consistency--how well would the story work if each event was witnessed by a different character, for whom pages and chapters must be spent in order to fully round them out? The author must somehow solve a narrative/structural dilemma--too many page or really flat characters or everything happening to just a few characters. I'd love to read a book that attempts to resolve the problem in a unique way.
So, given the constraints of the kind of book he is writing and the "enemy" the heroes have to face down, Darwin's Radio is a strong novel asking questions that may require real-world answers sooner than we may imagine. The novel is a page-turner and one which I looked forward to picking up as soon as I could after putting it down, Crichton-esque with a twist.
Fortunately, Bear's characterization works more completely than it did for Moving Mars, such that the three main characters are accessible even if they are not always likable. Among them, they also form an interesting emotional triangle as well as a nexus for the research surrounding the discovery that humankind is about to take its next step. Kaye Lang is the protagonist we follow most often through the course of the novel, and she has moments of strength and weakness, of lucidity and ignorance, just as real people do. But most importantly, those interleaving moments are caused not by inconsistency on her part, but by the movement of the events around her, beyond her control.
Unfortunately, unlike Crichton thrillers, such as Jurassic Park, there is not an immediate peril that the heroes can face down. During the first third of the book, as the characters gather and we are allowed bits and pieces of the evidence for what is taking place, the story moves swiftly and powerfully, from location to location. We meet the characters, their personalities are described through their actions, and the strands of the web begin to come together. But by the second third of the book, we know what is happening to the human race, and the momentum that was built up before is dissipated in the face of the bureaucracy and their unwillingness to accept what is happening to them, which so thoroughly goes against the established theories of evolution. This is not to say that Bear's depiction of a world in the throes of a medical emergency it cannot understand (even if there really is no emergency) is not accurate. In fact, Bear's scenes of disruption are chilling in their likely accuracy. Yet, chapters concerned with scientists and bureaucrats arguing around a board room table simply cannot carry the emotional power of impending doom. There is immediacy, but no one is defending themselves from, you know, dinosaurs on a rampage. And at the end of such passages, there is no climax or momentary release from the tension, just an overwhelming sense of the stupidity of the hive mind. There simply is no fighting the bureaucratic machine--one can run away from it (and the heroes do, many times by the book's end)--and there is no escaping Mother Nature. In fact, the most compellng scenes are those where we witness the public's reaction to the changes taking place around them. The terror, expressed in the protests, the riots, and even the sacrificing of others, carry the emotional impact of the novel until the last few pages, when Everything Changes.
As I was reading, I found myself pondering the convention of this type of book, where a calamity of global importance is taking place, and yet the reader views the most important events from the eyes of a small cast of characters, who often come together. In The Real World, the likelihood that so few people would have such important roles throughout all the phases of such an emergency is rather unlikely. But this fiction is one the reader must follow in order that the story be told with any sort of narrative consistency--how well would the story work if each event was witnessed by a different character, for whom pages and chapters must be spent in order to fully round them out? The author must somehow solve a narrative/structural dilemma--too many page or really flat characters or everything happening to just a few characters. I'd love to read a book that attempts to resolve the problem in a unique way.
So, given the constraints of the kind of book he is writing and the "enemy" the heroes have to face down, Darwin's Radio is a strong novel asking questions that may require real-world answers sooner than we may imagine. The novel is a page-turner and one which I looked forward to picking up as soon as I could after putting it down, Crichton-esque with a twist.
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