A guide for things to come

Many things to write about, and hopefully soon. Finished a book on Friday, started and finished a second book on Friday, saw Up on Saturday and Lying in the Gutters is no more. I'll try to get to the first of these in the next couple of days....

The Three Ages of Star Trek (viewing)

From about the third grade on, I would walk home from school (which was only about three blocks away) and find some way to entertain myself until my mother got home from work. This would generally give me around two and a half hours of time to fill, and Mom didn't allow me to go outside until I got into junior high school. So I read and, more often than not, watched TV. I was probably about 9 or 10 years old when a local station picked up the syndicated repeats of the original Star Trek series (this would be about 1974-5). As a burgeoning fan of speculative fiction—by that time I had devoured E. E. Smith, Burroughs, and Heinlein, and probably more—this was a real treat for me. There was a profound lack of speculative fiction on TV at that time; in fact, as I recall, there was a pretty profound lack of science fiction on the big screen as well. It would be another two years before Star Wars would come out and almost singlehandedly revitalize interest in the genre. So it was in this setting that I stumbled upon Star Trek and was immediately enchanted. Here were starships, alien planets, and sometimes even big weapons firing at said starship and planets. E. E. Smith was (and still is) a favorite, so I had this image in my mind of science fiction being starships that got larger and larger over successive generations with amazing destructive powers, and alien races that just despised mankind so that those starships had to be deployed against them (I just had a vision of the Enterprise placed side-by-side with the Skylark IV and chuckled to myself at the panic that Kirk and Crew would probably feel). And only having the covers of those books and my mind's eye as tools to envision those images, finding Star Trek was like an epiphany. I was engrossed in it, and watched it over and over, fascinated by the things I had read about made at least visible.

Here were alien races that worked with and against mankind. Here were heroic captains—and Kirk really does personify the pulp captain exemplar to the last decimal point—and sneaky villains. Here were alien races barely understandable in their biology or motivation, and our feeble attempts to interact with them. It was like the quintessence of everything I loved about science fiction boiled down and then given out in daily doses. To my eternal gratitude, my mother also enjoyed (or at least pretended to enjoy) the shows, arriving home about fifteen minutes into them and sitting down to see what would happen next. I was delighted, and that delight buoyed me along until Star Wars did come out, and then the first Star Trek movie a couple of years later.

By the time I entered college, my appreciation for Star Trek had waned considerably. As I watched the episodes again and again, their flaws were magnified in my (perhaps overly critical teenaged) mind. Shatner's (and really DeForest Kelley's) acting is not very good. The writing can be somewhat overblown. The effects were sometimes laughable. And that music—oh my, couldn't they come with more than just two or three themes? And it really wasn't terribly science fiction at times. Some critic somewhere, or perhaps it was Roddenberry himself, described it as Wagon Train to the stars, and it was true. A lot of the episodes could have been written for different genres—it was only science fiction because the setting was a space ship. And I knew that science fiction could be so much more. And then there was the whole Trekkie phenomenon…it was such an embarrassment and distracted non-genre fans from what science fiction was really all about. This isn't to say that I didn't go to the movies as they came out; I just didn't talk about it with many folks.

(You'll notice that I am calling it science fiction up to here…the very idea of speculative fiction hadn't entered my mind yet. I knew there was something similar in science fiction and fantasy, but I hadn't really given it much thought or tried to quantify it.)

In my late 20s and early 30s, I had been to graduate school and begun my interest in genres—what makes them and especially what happens along the borders of the different genres. I had spent a great deal of time critically examining works of literature and, despite being mocked openly by faculty in some cases, began to perceive that those tools could be used for genre studies as well. It turns out that I was dancing on the fringe of pop culture studies, but I didn't know that as my scholarly interest was in Renaissance poetry, and pop culture people were…well…weird. My training, and the preferences of those who had trained me, had made it clear that those things weren't literature and not worth the effort to use the toolset I had been given to use. But fortunately, I also took some post-modern classes, which blew the door off when it came to bias in literature. Anything was fair game. (Not to mention I had taken a science fiction class from an award-winning author as an elective, and he allowed us to use those same tools as well.)

My reading had also grown more expansive—my mentor wasn't really interested in much after the early 1960s, but I had gone on to read wonderful works up to the present. And as a result, I was able to see how much more could be included in speculative fantasy, that there was room beside galaxy-spanning space operas for stories about computers or advanced biology. Sometimes the aliens were more interesting than the ships. And with this more refined and yet more expansive vision, I looked back at Star Trek and rejoiced again at the powerful elements of speculative fiction that lay buried beneath the dross. While I could still recognize that the acting was not so good and sometimes the effects were pretty shabby, I could also recognize that there was some powerful stories and ideas being used. Going beyond "The City on the Edge of Forever" which is rightfully recognized for the powerful piece it is, Star Trek often had episodes that dealt with the limits of being human. One of the first episodes, "Where No Man Has Gone Before," examines the effect absolute power has on individual humanity, and at what point humanity ceases to be human. "Devil in the Dark" deals with the nature of alienness, as miners are attacked by what they perceive to be a monster, but it is only a monster because it is so very different in appearance and make-up than humanoid life forms, and once the crew of the Enterprise begin to understand it, they recognize in it some of the emotions that make humans so wonderful.

And there are more. Of course, there are real clunkers in there as well. The show does veer off into other genres. Sometimes the reach exceeded the grasp. Everyone recognizes the silliness of "Let That Be Your Last Battlefield" dealing with two different races on the same planet, alternately striped black and white. And gosh, it was sure heavy-handed in its attempt to deliver its message, so much so that it has become something of a joke. But the idea behind it, especially coming out of its time period still gives it something of a relevancy, because nothing else on TV at the time was trying to make similar statements.

Star Trek hurts to watch sometimes exactly because it is on the small screen. It attempted to do things that needed more time to evolve, more effects to explore. But if you can get past that smallness, it's not so difficult to see just how groundbreaking the series was, and how important to both television and to speculative fiction. It made these ideas mainstream, so much so that what it attempted to do has been lost in the generic idea of cinematic science fiction. And now, I long to find TV shows and movies that cared as much about the genre as the creators of Star Trek obviously did, and regret those times when I wasn't so proud to say that I am a fan of the show.

Bone Song

Perhaps it is just coincidence, but I seem to be on a run of world-building novels of late. Bone Song, by John Meaney, offers a fascinating world for exploration with very little explanation of how it got to be that way or ho it actually works. The unnamed country on this unnamed world uses necro-energy from the dead as its primary power source. Detective Donal Riordan walks us through this world in a fairly noir fashion through the first quarter of the book, as he pursues the goal of protecting an opera singer from a conspiracy of killers. As he prepares for The Diva's visit (yes, that's what everyone calls her), we watch him wander through the unnamed city and talk to its elite. We discover that rather than elevators, for example, wraiths pick up and lift or lower passengers up and down shafts. When Riordan goes to a power plant to talk to a bigwig about his plans to protect the Diva, he is given a tour of the engines that run the city; we learn that the generators draw the energy of the dead from their bones and that energy is somehow converted to the power to run the city.

It poses an interesting chicken-and-egg question, since Meaney also takes the time to describe the city in its gothic darkness and the sort of guilty self-aware pall that hangs over the city as its inhabitants go through what would otherwise appear to be a normal urban life. Riordan jogs daily…through crypts and catacombs underneath the city streets. Buildings are protected by sentinels…near-sentient wolves that recognize threats and act on them. Meaney takes the time to describe the details and then subtly change them so that everything takes on a macabre cast. Even Riordan is somewhat spooked by the setting he lives in.

But after the set-up of the novel, and after Riordan's mission goes astonishingly wrong, the novel moves from a noir-ish tone to one of police procedural. Riordan is picked up by a task force investigating similar crimes, and it is there he meets his new commander, Laura Steele, an achingly beautiful woman he immediately falls in love with, only to find out after he consummates his passion with her that she is a zombie. The passion between them is fierce and so we are that much more taken aback when he discovers that Steele is really dead but kept alive through magical/mechanical means. Meanwhile, the various members of the task force spread out through the city to pursue their own facets of the case. The setting remains otherworldly, and the reader is given more tantalizing hints about this world through the different viewpoints, but the movement of the novel is one of a conspiracy theory being played out.

And here's the thing: fascinating as those initial passages are, the book becomes a thrill ride which I found really difficult to remove myself from. With widely varied personalities that feel based somewhat on the clichés of the police forces seen in mainstream entertainment but are actually nicely developed with room for much more, the novel provides nothing terribly predictable but all ridiculously fun. As the officers get more and more immersed in the conspiracy they are chasing, we dive deeper and deeper into this world until the alienness seems normal and unremarkable until characters begin to travel to other countries. And then things get even more strange.

Meaney's writing is not particularly powerful, but the story-telling in Bone Song is undeniable. To transport the reader from shocked witness to this world's strange make-up to accomplice in trying to solve its mysteries is a delightful feat. And even when events seem decided, those last two pages hold a masterful twist that I just did not see coming and which compels me to wait impatiently for the paperback version of the next book to come out.

If you like thrillers, you want to read this book. If you enjoy gothic fantasy, or even horror, this book is for you. If you appreciate solid world-building, you must read Bone Song. Meaney is now on my list of authors to look out for.

Star Trek

What an interesting development. On the one hand, the new movie, explicitly a re-imagining of the Star Trek franchise, is a worthy heir to the legions of fans. And yet on the other, it really isn't.

For those folks who pay attention to such things, the curse of the odd-numbered Star Trek movies is a factor in my review. Fans know that the best Star Trek movies are the ones that are even-numbered. I don't think I've ever seen anyone try to analyze this phenomenon. But it is the even-numbered ones that contain the most action and heroics (think Wrath of Khan), containing the most stereotypical elements of what is commonly known as science fiction (especially as it applies in cinema). It's in space. Things blow up. The odd-numbered ones are thoughtful, and perhaps there is action, but not with the overwhelming megawattage and scenery-chewing as the even-numbered ones ("Khaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan!"). And yet I think there could be a compelling argument that those thoughtful ones are the ones closest to what the original Star Trek series accomplished (whether intentional or not is an interesting question—I'm sure low budgets had a lot to do with not a lot of action…). And this new Star Trek definitely falls in to the category of heroic blow 'em up movie. But there sure isn't a lot of substance.

Slowly we're introduced to a range of characters that (usually) look like younger versions of the characters we've grown to love after 40 years of reruns and ongoing movies. And they seem to be written somewhat similarly: Kirk (Christopher Pine) is brilliantly instinctive, Spock (Zachary Quinto) is thoughtful and restrained, and so forth. But once the movie gets past the broad strokes of the characterizations into the details, these characters are subtly different. And yet the script is filled with passing references to the signposts of the cultural artifact that everyone is aware of one way or another. So while we have to deal with Spock having a girlfriend, we get the origin of McCoy's (Karl Urban) nickname, Bones. We also get him announcing that dammit, he's a doctor, not a physicist, to general guffawing in the audience. And while Uhura is a kick-ass heroine, unwilling to take guff from anyone, an away team of three shipmates dressed in individual uniforms of red, blue, and yellow go off…and guess which one dies. After a bit the winking acknowledgements of the previous history grow a little grating, at least to me. But then I also have spent years reading comic books where characters often get "reimagined" (the comics industry uses the term "retcon") but continue to use these allusions to the original subject matter in order to assure the reader/viewer that the franchise really hasn't gone so far from what made it great that we can't recognizes reflections or shadows of the original. And so the reimaginings have to walk the fine line between becoming something new and just a referential mess.

Star Trek balances on that thin line very well, generally. There is a feeling of unbound optimism about the movie that has been missing since the first movie back in the early 80s. These familiar characters, now freed from the weight of years of back-story have the potential to do new and interesting things. And yet, the writers and director have very carefully placed the movie in a way that makes it a well-built universe for new audiences to explore while remaining tied to the events of the original series (that's plural) and movies. And yet, it's still kind of hollow once you walk away from it, lacking the cultural and ethical considerations that helped the original series rise above mediocre fare. But, arguably, the modern audience hasn't the patience and savvy to appreciate that kind of thoughtfulness…at least not enough for the studio to recoup its expense (see The Fountain and Dark City for examples of thoughtful SF falling flat at the theatre). Face it, for modern audiences, going "BOOM" is part of the definition of science-fiction.

And truly Star Trek goes "BOOM" often and well, making it a fine action movie. The science generally hangs together pretty well, with only a few complete implausibilities, none of which are big enough to get in the way of the rocketing plot. And there really is no character development; the movie relies on the characters being recognized for their near-archetype, then entertains the audience by revealing the subtle differences, so the fans can feel smug in that they understand that there is a difference. Non-fans probably scratch their heads at the laughter that ripples through the audience at odd times, but nothing seems terribly out-of-place.

There's not much of a plot summary, the crew of the USS Enterprise comes together as an enemy with insanely powerful technology begins attacking first Federation ships and then important Federation planets. Eventually, they figure out that the enemy is from the future (the franchise timeline we have known up to this point) and has already begun changing the past (the retcon). None of this would be apparent to the characters in the story, or to the non-fans, if Leonard Nimoy didn't also travel to the past as Spock to give timely advice and a synopsis of what's happened off-screen. And then the disparate crew comes together, after Kirk proves his abilities as a leader, to defeat the enemy. The timeline has been mangled so far that it cannot be fixed and so everyone is starting over. Old stories never happened and may get reimagined, or the writers may decide to tell new stories. And the franchise gets what is probably a much-needed boost in activity and interest. And things go "BOOM" probably far more than they ever did in the series.

It's a fine new start and a fun, fluffy movie that costs more in admission than it does in thoughtfulness. It will be interesting to see in what direction the franchise now goes; reputedly a sequel is already in the works, and one can imagine a spate of new books. But like comic retcons, the true test is how long the new universe can remain separate from the one that went before. Lazy writers can easily recycle plots and ideas from the earlier versions, but that would slowly lead down a path where the product grows more and more inferior. It appears the creators are real fans of the franchise, so I hope they won't go that way. I'll surely see the sequels, but I really hold very little hope that the franchise will over grow as thoughtful as the original.

Matter

Usually, I just rip through Iain Banks's books like nobody's business. Rip-roaring from the start, filled with keen ideas and lots of action, I just can't put them down. This latest one, however, just dragged on and on for me. Granted, for a few reasons, I was limited to mostly reading only when I was about to go to bed, but that has not stopped me in the past; if it really grabs me, I'll find reasons to find other times to read, or be able to stay awake in order to read bigger chunks before bed. But nothing of the sort happened as I read Matter. I'm willing to admit the fault is all mine, but I do believe this is a weaker novel than earlier Banks works.

The premise is huge, a new kind of Big Dumb Object (at least for me; I don't think it has been used elsewhere) that has enormous amounts of potential. Imagine a manufactured world, made of concentric levels, all connected to each other and the surface by a series of towers that also act as structural supports to hold the whole thing together. At the center of this "shellworld" is either the alien that built the world or a usurper of that maker, known as the WorldGod to the inhabitants of the planet known as Sursamen. There are more than a dozen concentric shells, all with varying atmospheres from vacuum to a water planet, all with "stars", suspended nuclear reactors, embedded in their roofs to provide light and nourishment. And on the eighth and ninth levels of Sursamen, two different human races at was with one another, fighting from level to level with steampunk-level weapons.

For the first four chapters of Matter, Banks lets the natives of Sursamen speak about their home in the vernacular, using terms that are compelling (like "rollstar") and describing what life within such a structure would be like, but without actually telling the reader what the structure is. Thrown into this strange new world without any knowledge of how it is structured, the reader is forced to thumb repeatedly to the glossary at the end of the book, but without the source of the new terminologies actually being described. The glossary is comprehensive, perhaps overly so, containing information that seems to be extremely tangential to the thrust of the book itself. Does one really need a chart describing the number of years in "deciaeons"? I found that I didn't, even when the term is mentioned in the book—it's just a whopping long time. There's an interesting table describing the inhabitants of the various levels of Sursamen, but while it is an example of the breadth of Banks's world creation, since the story only ever visits about five of those levels, it really isn't that important. And then chapter five explains not only the mechanics and physics of the shellworld, it goes on to describe its place in the history of the galaxy and how it is one of thousands of similar artifacts. The chapter is exhaustive, and suddenly the terms used in the first few chapters have context and make sense.

The story begins with regicide; the king of the eighth level is murdered at the close of a pivotal battle with the ninth level. The story-telling is much like a fantasy novel, what with the opaque terms mingled with the familiar story of battle and politics. Fermin, the heir apparent to the throne witnesses the murder of his father but has been assumed dead from battle himself. Noting it would be him against a collection of soldiers and courtiers if he fought, he watches the slaying and then escapes to try to figure out what to do. Fermin recognizes that the murderer, tyl Loesp, has a vast conspiracy behind him, he decides to seek assistance from beyond his medieval-ish world, out in the far more advanced galaxy where is unwanted sister has been sent.

What follows is an interesting back and forth between the sister, Djan Seriy, who was cast off as being valueless in the medieval culture she came from but finds herself part of the most elite in the galaxy at large. The portions of the story that deal with her are travelogues of that hyper-advanced galaxy, which will be familiar to readers of Banks's Culture novels. But he doesn't go into very much depth at all in comparison to earlier stories, so a new reader would be fairly lost as high-flown concepts are tossed at him. And Banks's focus seems not to be so much on the Culture, so the ideas go by pretty quickly. Juxtaposed with Djan's story is Fermin's story as he attempts to escape Sursamen and is slowly introduced to the much larger galaxy. These pages contain an epic version of the fish out of water story since Fermin progresses from steam-driven medieval weapons to intelligent ships and thousands of alien life forms. The result is more of a primer for the newcomer to the Culture than the rest of the book. Finally, interwoven with these stories is the story of Oramen, Djan and Fermin's remaining brother on Sursamen, now Prince Regent and unwittingly caught up in the conspiracy of tyl Loesp. His is the most interesting of the stories being told, again alluding to fantasy stories as the politics rage about an adolescent young man destined to become king.

And here is where the entirety of the novel falters a bit, especially in comparison to other Banks books: these three different plotlines are kept entirely separate for more than 400 of the 570 pages. None of the three storylines are enough to really maintain my interest over long periods: I know the culture stories well, and since nothing new is introduced in Djan's story and I don't need the primer in Fermin's, there's not a lot there. Oramen's story has potential, and Banks does spend some time dealing with the physical and geographical oddities of the world of Sursamen, but never really enough to effectively use the blockbuster idea of the shellworld itself. The reader knows that eventually these folks are going to come together, but they spend most of the book separated by large quantities of light years. And then when they do come together, the plodding pace is evaporated and the reader finds himself hurtled through Sursamen—and details in the explanatory chapter suddenly have importance. And finally, in those last few pages, we begin to see the twists in plotting that have made Banks so respected and, for me, so enjoyable. But by that time, I just want to get through the last pages of the book and move on to something else.

Combined with a not-very-revealing interview at the end of the book, the result feels like an introduction to the worlds of Iain Banks and perhaps even to the genre of speculative fiction. If that is the case, clearly I am not the intended audience, which is somewhat of a disappointment. It remains a powerfully written book but that power is in service to a goal I have trouble appreciating. The last 150 pages are classic Banks, reminding me of his best work, but by the time I got there, I was tired from the first 400 pages. What's ironic is that such an introduction has never been necessary in the earlier Culture novels; Banks uses strong storytelling to introduce and then slowly surround the user with the Culture in those books, which I find to be a more evocative and interesting path to take. So, being a completist, I'm glad to have read Matter, and perhaps I'll reread those last 150 or so pages. But ultimately, I feel this book makes a great introduction to the works of Banks rather than a satisfying extension of it.