Ceremony

A reader of the blog got in touch with me upon my review of The Sword-Crossed Blonde, and a short conversation about the noir/detective genre ensued before I took off for San Diego. During the conversation, I realized that my knowledge of the genre comes from reading Chandler and Hammett, and from seeing the great movies, so I asked my correspondent for some recommendations. He turns out to be a fan of Robert B. Parker's Spenser series and so suggested I check out Ceremony.

When I set the book down after finishing it, my first response was that it was very simplistic, as signified by my finishing the book in about three hours' time. There really is not much of a mystery, in the sense of something that Miss Marple or Sherlock Holmes would solve; Spenser is hired to find a missing girl, April Kyle, and he follows his leads in a pretty straight line to her. Things get a little twisted upon her discovery when Spenser and his girlfriend learn that April is happier in her life of petty crime than she was at her home. And then there's the suspicion that someone wants him to stop pursuing the case, and he has to find out why. None of this is to say that I didn't enjoy the book, but when I realized how much I had enjoyed it, it seemed at odds with my feeling of the simplicity of the book.

One of the great strengths of the novel, typifying the genre, is the strongly defined character. Spenser, despite the many unanswered questions about him from a single novel, feels tremendously alive in his narration and actions in the course of the novel. He never describes himself physically, but his personality is carefully shaped through the course of his narration and actions in the novel. He is street-wise but clearly educated, able to move about Boston and its suburbs pretty freely while appreciating (and quoting) literature and practicing gourmet cooking. When confronted with people he doesn't like, he seems to constantly battle against his own violent urges, barely tolerating the interaction while awaiting the release of his hair-trigger temper. He is devoted to the people he does like, a stalwart friend who would do anything he is asked. He is also incredibly perceptive, allowing the narrative to fully describe the people he does interact with. Again, generally, the physical descriptions are far less important than the impressions of motivation and personality that Parker is able to plant in Spenser's words. It would be tempting to describe Spenser as the tough guy with the heart of gold, but such a facile description really doesn't do justice to the depths Spenser has. He is complex and multi-faceted, a fascinating personality that pulls the reader into the novel and makes it difficult to escape. He is, put simply, an adult.

And as a result he has adult relationships which are a delight to take witness. The most important is with his girlfriend Susan Silverman. Although their love for each other is deep and obvious, their relationship has conflict, in part because they both have such strong personalities and opinions. They don't agree on everything, and so they have mature conversations to define their differences and seek compromise. And yet they are passionate about one another, accepting each other for their strengths and weaknesses and establishing a powerful foundation for their life together. Spenser even goes so far as to describe how Susan is integral to his life and happiness, which feels unusual for "the tough guy with a heart of gold." And because Spenser is so mature, Susan must be as well.

The second most important relationship is with Hawk, the mysterious figure that appears angelic but can be as violent as needed when called upon. Spenser uses Hawk both for his knowledge about the underside of Boston and as muscle when Spenser doesn't want to act alone. There are hints of the camaraderie they feel, and their relationship frankly puzzles Susan. Hawk and Spenser share a bond that is not explained in the novel but often discussed and which feels hypernormal. Men do place a great deal of trust in one another, and that trust can grow apparently without bounds, but Hawk and Spenser apparently live the archetype—they communicate almost without speaking and share a wry view of their world that readers can only admire. Part of what stretches the credulity of this relationship for the reader is that we are given absolutely no basis (at least within this one novel) for such a strong relationship to exist. Theirs is the friendship of soldiers fighting together in war, which makes an interesting metaphor for the kind of work that Spenser does, but since Spenser and Hawk do not discuss its origin, it feels almost magical in nature. However, this is forgivable since Hawk is such a fascinating and mysterious character, puckishly stealing nearly every scene he is in with sharp humor or barely contained action.

Considering these facets of the novel, I was forced to take a step back and recognize that the narrative is in first person. As a result, the powerful impressions these characters make are based solely on their description by one of their own number. The narrator can't use flashbacks or omniscience to describe why a character is who he is—instead all of it must be filtered through the lens that is Spenser. Spenser is simply spoken, generally using short declarative sentences without much sophistry. And yet, Spenser and the other characters sparkle with life. To succeed so wildly at making the characters stand out despite the handicap of only seeing what they see is the signature of a powerfully good author. Parker has created a set of characters that would be a delight to return to over and over, no matter what they are doing. Given their personalities and their relationships, watching them discuss politics over the dinner table would make for a fascinating read.

Another sign of the skilled writer is to take a step beyond the tropes of the genre and use them to his or her advantage. While the plot is relatively straightforward—good girl goes bad and has to be saved—Parker confounds the trope by having April actually enjoying the prostitution she performs, even if it is only in comparison to her abysmal home life. Spenser and Susan uncover a particularly unsavory prostitution ring, which in turn leads to an even more unsavory pornography ring. Spenser makes it clear that he is all for live and let live—that the greatest gift a person can be given is to make decisions for themselves—but he and Susan discuss April's ability to decide, even if they free her from the world she is in. Past episodes make it clear that April will return to the life she has made for herself if taken from it, and Spenser is torn between Susan's compassionate determination that April deserves better and his own cynical realization that April couldn't care less. So while the "crime" unfolds and is resolved in a relatively straightforward fashion, this puzzle of what happens after the resolution sits in the background. And how Spenser and Susan resolve the question, their conversations leading up to their solution and how it is enacted just rip the trope to shreds. There is power in facing up to the hard decisions and making the best of them, and there is readerly delight in not accepting the rote answer…of going beyond the trope.

So this skillfully written story, realistic in its portrayal of its characters and in dealing with the way life really works, is wrapped up in a deceptively simple package. It's obvious why the Spenser books have such a huge following; even if the reader doesn't feel the need to take the time to examine the literary merits of Ceremony, those merits will move the reader in powerful and unexpected directions. I don't know how much of Parker I am going to read—my reading stack of speculative fiction is already huge and adding detective stories, even short ones, to the stack pains me—but I would not be unhappy to find myself with time and another one of the books in hand. Parker's writing makes me care about these characters, and so I want to spend time with them when I can. Be warned, I suspect that most readers even slightly inclined to the genre or appreciative of strong writing may end up getting pulled into that happily sad circumstance: so many good books to read and not nearly enough time.

Comic-Con 2009

The following are just general observations and impressions of the Comic-Con International, July 22-26 in San Diego. They are in generally chronological order.

Preview Night was nearly unbearable. Although there were sneak previews of movies in other halls, the convention floor was packed horrifically. Moving through the aisles was unpleasant and cramped. If we return, Mrs. Speculator and I may skip out on Preview Night in the future since no one we knew was in Artist Alley and the booths we most wanted to see were in the center of the frenzy. It was far easier to do what we wanted on Thursday morning, including getting our con T-shirts. We had no interest in the Preview Night exclusives. It was no help that it appeared that the con had a very small staging area for people who picked up their badges and wanted to hang around the convention center until the doors officially opened. I say "appeared" because we got different stories from pretty much every security person we asked. Some said there was more staging space elsewhere and directed us through the convention center, and yet when we reached a certain point, we were turned back and told that the area did not exist. I was lucky enough to find a quiet corner inside so that when the shout went up from what staging area there was when the doors opened, I went downstairs and in the front door, beating most of the people in the staging area to the floor. But then, although the con was supposed to open at 6pm, some of the doors opened at 5:30. And yet I stood inside and watched a set of outside doors be held shut until 6, with the people outside looking at me and trying to figure out why they were being held back. A few bright folks moved down the convention hall 50 feet and came in other doors that weren't being held closed. And then at about 6:15, someone announced that the interior doors were being shut, and pulled them closed in the face of incoming crowds, but the next set of doors on either side remained wide open. It was all very confusing and I was glad to be inside watching, but as it turns out, the security inconsistencies just presaged general chaos through the course of the whole weekend.

Quantum Quest (http://www.qqthemovie.com/) seemed like it would be a fluffy animated movie with a lot of talented actors providing their voices. But it turns out that it has getting kids interested in science as a goal, and to accomplish that, the movie will use footage from exploratory craft to all of the planets out to Saturn. The clips they showed of the animation looked okay but the footage of the planets was spectacular. This promises to be a really fascinating movie, if only to see footage and animation of planetary voyages on IMAX.

The panel called Wonder Women discussed strong women characters in genre movies and television. Included in the panel was Sigourney Weaver, who had some insight into the filming of the movies in the Alien franchise, including the nugget that Ripley originally was supposed to be a male character. But more revelatory was Zoe Saldana (http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0757855/), Uhura in the recent Star Trek movie. For someone apparently so young, she had some really thoughtful opinions about the role of women in Hollywood in general, also taking the time to point the parallels with the struggles of non-Caucasians in cinema as well. She was a pleasure to listen to, and I expect we may hear more from her in the future, and not necessarily as an actress.

If you want to pack the audience in for your panel and make sure that everyone hangs on the edge of their seat, not knowing what is going to happen next, be sure to include Bruce Campbell. The Bruce was at the Burn Notice panel and was at his manic best. He began with a thoughtful meditation on why Burn Notice belonged at Comic-Con since it didn't seem to fit into any of the genres usually represented. But he pointed out that his character on Burn Notice is named Axe, so there is horror. The show takes place in Miami, which has lots of aliens, so that makes it science fiction. And his character goes out with a lot of attractive Miami women, so fantasy is also included. Paired with Matt Nix, the drily funny creator of Burn Notice, there really was no reason for anyone else to be on the panel as the two of them could have gone on for the entire day. To no one's surprise, The Bruce was hysterical throughout.

Thursday night, Mrs. Speculator and I went to a fine eating establishment across the street from our hotel. The wait staff was fantastic and the food amazing. For entertainment, we looked down at the bar from our balcony seats and listened to a San Diego native rail against the waste of the convention. His math told him that the con cost more money to put on than it took in for the city (apparently, he's never rented a hotel room in the Gaslamp Quarter). I considered going down to tell him that Mrs. Speculator and I spent half of what he thought the average food budget for attendees would be for one meal at that restaurant. In his mind, the city would be much better off using the money spent on the convention instead on infrastructure. He also had a very stereotyped view of convention-goers, mocking the convention by describing the 20 Klingons that patrons newly entering the restaurant had just missed. In reality, the numbers I hear for the economic impact are staggering: millions of dollars into the city coffers. However, it became clear over the weekend that the con has outgrown its facilities, and for the first time, panels were being held off the convention center premises. There were lines for pretty much everything and hours-long waits. The local stations picked up on the general unhappiness and made the possibly departure of the convention their top stories. Authorities were quick to point out that the convention has a contract until 2012, but the annual rumor that this would be the con's last year in San Diego was louder than ever before. Pretty much everyone can easily admit that the con can't be held in San Diego at these facilities beyond 2012 without substantial growth. Though no one suggested that the con admit fewer people, which would cut down on the huge numbers….

I passed a fairly incognito Kevin Sorbo (http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0001757/) when I went out for a bathroom break. Good lord but he is a big man.

The Big Bang Theory panel featured the five primary actors for the show. Jim Parsons was congratulated a number of times for his Emmy nomination for the role of Sheldon, and one eager fan asked if Parsons would wipe his mouth on a napkin so the fan's sister could have DNA to clone him from. If you are a fan of the show, you would recognize the reference to the Christmas episode and Penny's gift to Sheldon, and of course the audience ate it up. Delightfully, so did the cast, who it turns out, seems to be just a huge family. I don't know how much actors from a series hang out together off the set, but these folks vacation together. The chemistry that is so integral to the show was abundantly apparent in their panel.

At the Dollhouse panel, Joss Whedon showed the "lost" thirteenth episode from this past season. Fox has decided they will not show it on their network, and I can understand their thinking. It would have been, by far, the best science fiction episode on TV in the past year, and probably incredibly offputting to a non-genre audience. I think it even takes tremendous risks for a genre audience. Whedon has extrapolated the core conceit of the first season, the ability to transfer entire personalities between people, into some pretty harrowing and thought-provoking areas. Given his general concern with the abuse of power by authorities, Whedon of course imagines that unscrupulous people get hold of the technology and begin to use it to their own benefit. And then, like most other new technologies, it gets hacked but with far more nightmarish results. And as this story is revealed, we get flashback scenes of what is happening in the "present day," pushing already rich characters into new places. It was perhaps the most intense viewing I have done since I last watched Children of Men, and I enjoyed every second of it. Fans of thoughtful speculative fiction need to see this episode, and it makes the first season DVD set something of a must-have for hardcore fans of the genre. I am so very looking forward to the second season which will still have this episode at its heart even if it will never be broadcast.

Several times, the convention had scheduled panels back to back without any break. And in every case where I attended them, the panels built in a 15-minute break as they switched around on the stage. This had the unfortunate effect of shortening the panel, such that the panel for Bones was shortened considerably by the previous panel running over and then the non-existent fifteen minutes between panels. As a result, the Bones panel was only 30 minutes long instead of an hour. The convention just has to stop planning this way since it just doesn't work.

It turns out that Doc Hammer, part of the creative force behind the supremely funny and irreverent Venture Brothers, is pretty much insane. Once he got on a roll, he could not be interrupted. It was apparent where the energy of the TV show comes from, and his wit was sparkling and cutting all at once. Clearly a fan, he traded jabs with questioning attendees and had the room rolling in laughter. It was only after about 30 minutes that they read the placards that suggested that there may be folks in the audience under the age of 18. Fortunately, they realized that anyone who was attending the panel had already heard similar things on the show, and so they laughed it off and kept going. But it was also clear from the highlight reel from the other Adult Swim shows that I am just not in their core audience. Nothing struck me as being very funny outside the things the Venture Brothers brought to the table. Go Team Venture!

As we were waiting in line to get into the Fables panel, I made my way to the restroom, which I was soon sharing with a security guard, J. J. Abrams (http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0009190/), and Michael Emerson (http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0256237/). My geeky Lostness warred with my manliness such that I forbore attempting to greet either of them as we stood in a line in the urinals or to shake their hands after our ablutions were done. Besides, I think the security guard would have pinned me most uncomfortably between urinals if I did anything beyond recognize who I was there with. When I went back to the line, I told Mrs. Speculator who I had peed with (careful not to cross streams), and the people around us were very impressed or totally clueless about who I had seen. I guess we all geek about different things.

The Fables panel was again a delight. Writer Bill Willingham recognizes the treasure he has in his devoted fanbase and so greeted the fans with yet another convention exclusive—another one-page story. The creators really do seem very much a family and they are as excited by the stories they tell as are their fans. In many ways, that panel typified what the panels are really supposed to be like.

On Sunday, I had two very esoteric moments before breakfast. On the way down to breakfast, Mrs. Speculator and I shared an elevator with the legendary Chuck McCann, who everyone knows but don't know they know. The IMDB page shows his very long career (http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0564841/) but I'm pretty proud of myself for not asking him to do the voice for which he is best known—Sonny the Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. And then, as we ate breakfast, Ted Raimi (http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0001646/) came in the restaurant and was greeted by enthusiastic fans (not the Speculator family though).

All in all, it was a pretty good weekend. Mrs. Speculator and I are tremendously torn about going again next year; the convention has lost a great deal of its charm to the media turnout. The exhibit hall was torture to work through, and that press of people extended pretty much throughout the entire building. Comics felt even more of an afterthought, and we fell prey to the media panels instead of doing as much in the comics and science fiction areas as we might have liked. The convention used to be a celebration of all things comic, but now it feels more like a giant publicity opportunity for TV and movies, with a little comics thrown in for old times' sake. And we like those media things, but it just feels more and more like a good part of the heart of the convention is missing. We're still talking about going back; Sunday was a delightful day, a throwback to the experiences I had when I started going a decade ago. It saved the entire weekend for us. But now that I've been home for a day, I've gone out and done a review of what the major comic Web sites have done regarding the convention and realize I can get all the same information there without having actually been in California. I think that we are mentally making our lists for and against going back. It's no help that the preregistration was $100 per person, up from $65 last year and $40 a decade ago. If we don't go back, it'll feel like we wasted the money, but if we do go back, we need to find the things that make all the effort and cost worthwhile. There's grumbling everywhere, from exhibitors to attendees to, apparently, native San Diegans. Tensions are rising at an accelerating rate: I foresee some huge changes down the line. And as one person being interviewed on the local news said, "I'm not sure it's worth coming back if it's not in San Diego…".

The Sword-Edged Blonde

There have long been attempts to meld the noir genre with speculative fiction. One of the most notable examples is Larry Niven's Gil Hamilton series, and a great deal of cyberpunk fiction fit very well into the noir genre. More recently, Jon Courtenay Grimwood's Arabesk series placed a detective of sorts into a future Arab world. Even Andre Norton's Witch World starts off with a noir setting and tone. Most often, the subgenre chosen for these attempts is some form of science fiction, because those technological future societies seem to be the most conducive to the kind of writing that one associates with noir. Or perhaps because the golden age of science fiction was very close to the golden age of detective pulp fiction and the more literary noir stories that arose from them.

There have also been some attempts at melding noir with fantasy. The books that leap to mind most quickly are Steven Brust's Vlad Taltos series, concerned as they are with a member of the criminal underworld and his place in the complex culture he lives in. The books are narrated in strong first-person point of view with Taltos as the narrator, typical of the noir style. More recent books along similar lines include Scott Lynch's Locke Lamora books. Both series have a lot of fun with the noir genre but are firmly rooted in the fantasy tradition.

Even the title of Alex Bledsoe's novel, The Sword-Edge Blonde: An Eddie LaCrosse Novel, is evocative of all the stereotypes of noir. And in a lot of ways, Bledsoe delivers on this promise, touching the various tropes most often associated with the genre. Our protagonist, Eddie LaCrosse, has an office above a bar with a separate waiting room. And into it walks the emissary of a member of the upper class, since no one of any repute would dare be seen in such horrible straits. Eddie is hired to find the missing daughter of King Felix and return her home as surreptitiously as possible and with no questions asked. Eddie accepts the job and goes down to the bar, where he cracks wise with the serving girl—Callie, a good kid who is too dull or too happy to understand how much she entices the men around her—and Angelina, the bar owner with a heart of gold and a ready bottle to poor. And all of this within the first chapter! Bledsoe's style is spare and fast-moving, and while the prose is enjoyable, he ticks off the checkmarks on his List of Noir Cliches in good fashion, causing the reader to assume familiarity with what is about to happen because of the expected style while introducing the reader to a world he is only just discovering.

Of course, as Eddie works on this assignment, we meet some of his less-than-reputable friends and he discovers someone on his trail. And as the missing daughter is found and the job that sets the rest of the events into motion, Eddie finds himself face to face with unwanted adversaries and assisted by an unexpected ally. And all of this acts as prelude to the real story in Sword-Edged Blonde, the one that begins to show us who Eddie really is and shed light on his troubled history. A healthy portion of the rest of the book is Eddie working on his new case, a baffling locked room mystery, while flashing back to Eddie's earlier life and what led him to the circumstances where he is a sword jockey, a knife for hire. Bledsoe nails all the details of the genre.

It is the novel's setting that twists expectations: it turns out that gods walk among the inhabitants of this world, and Eddie has had some very personal dealings with the one involved in the mystery he is asked to solve. Bledsoe just mixes those gods into his story as if they were just more characters, giving them very real foibles and weaknesses. And the further forward Eddie moves in solving his mystery, the more he has to deal with the ghosts of his own past, ghosts associated with gods and goddesses, as it becomes clear that solving one issue involves solving the other.

Like other great noir characters, Eddie is by no means perfect. He's a good fighter, either with his hands or with his sword (a lovely twist is that Eddie's swords all have brand names, like his Fireblade Warrior), but he also knows when he is overwhelmed by superior numbers or skill. Eddie wakes up from being beaten a couple of times and has to start over or plan his escape, much like Mike Hammer. He is also pretty good with the smart alecky quote, and he seems to know just about everybody worth knowing…and they all owe him favors.

If there is a weakness to Sword-Edged Blonde, it's that perhaps too much is revealed. We are told the major conflict in Eddie's life and he resolves it completely in the course of the novel. I felt like it happened far too easily, and would have appreciated letting that mystery dangle into subsequent books or at least letting its resolution be delayed for a while. But in the face of it, that's really a minor complaint, as I found I just couldn't put the book down (I finished it in a day). Eddie is a likable cur with a heart of gold, even if he can't ever let his friends see it. The noir elements are dead on, and the fantastic elements just enough to keep the story from becoming totally predictable. It's an enjoyable read, but not one that takes tons of concentration or explanation. I find that I am looking forward to the sequel, Burn Me Deadly, to see if Bledsoe can build off this delightful start. And even if he doesn't grow, maintaining the same level of storytelling, those books will be just fine for a light, quick read.

Resurrection Man

This novel by Sean Stewart is a coming-of-age story that combines elements of magical realism, alternate history, and urban fantasy. Dancing as it does along the borders of several genres, it's natural that it also has some traits of so-called "literary fiction." With all this critical weight behind it, one might think that Resurrection Man is a difficult read; instead is a thoughtful and thought-provoking story in a setting that cries out for more development. The hints and glimmers of how Resurrection Man's world is subtly different than our own usually lead to novels about epic history-changing events. Sean Stewart goes in a completely different direction and provides a homey little story about how those changes are manifest in the everyday lives of the people who live with them. The resulting story is relatively quiet and assuming in comparison with what other authors might attempt, but beneath its surface is a churn of emotions and conflict that unsettle the reader.

Dante Ratkay has returned for a Thanksgiving at home with his family of Hungarian-Americans. Stewart throws the reader into the middle of the family and this strange world with little hesitation as Dante is called upon to perform an autopsy of a suddenly discovered corpse, a doppelganger of himself that has been growing on his dresser as he has been away from the family home. Assisting him is Jet, a similarly aged man whose relationship with Dante is not clear for some time but who grew up in the same home, and Sarah, Dante's younger sister. The first few chapters jump back and forth through time, using the memories of the trio to more fully describe their relationship and their family (made up of them, Mother, Father, and Aunt Sophie) while drawing out the operation in horrific eerie fashion that still leaves the reader unprepared for the results of the autopsy.

The first hints—beyond the doppelganger corpse—that something is different here is the catalog of the three magical items that reside in the house: the dresser on which the corpse is found, a fishing lure, and Grandfather Clock. Not much detail is given about the magic they hold, but the reader is given stories of their puissance to confirm that something is decidedly different. We're also told that Aunt Sophie reads the future by throwing coins. We meet Dante's neighbor, Laura, who practices what appears to be extreme feng shui at an architecture firm and creates charms to ward herself from evil and to commemorate her dead father. These episodes can be seen as the actions of strange individuals until Sarah practices a comedy routine that is rife with cultural and historical allusion. This may be the most heavy-handed moment in the book: it's an original way to describe this strange new world we have found ourselves in, but it really fails as a comedy routine. What it tells the reader, however, is that this is a world where magic works and has only started to do so fairly recently. As a result, for example, Robert Kennedy is never assassinated since the authorities take seriously the oracle they previous ignored when she told them about JFK's impending assassination. But this anecdote is really the only manifestation of the magic that separates this world from our own on a macro scale; the rest of the novel is more concerned with what is happening on a personal level.

We find out that Jet is not as human as he appears to be; he is distant and feels himself to be different from the Ratkays, not least of all because of the strange butterfly birthmark on his face. He's Puckish and whimsical with more than a hint of malice in his actions. He's also a photographer and his long descriptions of his photos provide deeper insight into the members of his family as well as into him. We also find out that Dante may be more than human—an "angel," someone with the magical powers that are present in this world. Unlike most fantasy magic, which gives the user power over all sorts of activities, this world's magic appears to give each angel skill in only one area, such as telekinesis or precognition. Dante's power, which it turns out he has been avoiding using for most of his life, is somehow associated with death. And so the results of Dante's autopsy propel the novel forward in two similar directions; convinced he himself is about to die, Dante promises Jet he will do everything he can to find out Jet's origin, even if it means learning to use own latent power.

I recently wrote about The Gate of Ivrel and the problem of familiarizing the reader with a world they don't know anything about or, in this case, one they know a great deal about but whose discrepancies are unknown. Uncovering those discrepancies are often the great "reveals" of alternate history novels and the primary motivation for reading them, but the task of acquainting the reader with the setting is universal to speculative fiction. Stewart solves this problem in Resurrection Man by having his characters chase these two mysteries, Dante's and Jet's true nature. As a result, the reader learns very little about how this world differs from our own, and what is learned is through the effect of the mysteries, rather than their cause. Most of the research is turned inward, into the lives of their family and how much they don't really know about the people they thought they knew so well. The magic really is a background to the main action of the novel and adds a frisson of the fantastic in what could otherwise be a standard coming-of-age story.

The relatively regular macro plot—coming home to discover who you really are—pushes Resurrection Man towards literary fiction. The different narrative techniques that Stewart uses also add to its feeling of "literariness." But unlike many genre novels with pretensions of something greater, there is not the feeling of art for art's sake, which ultimately is a fine gauge of the artfulness of the writer. The narrative shifts and moves about, but for reasons related to the plot rather than any external forces. And there are moments of weird horror worked in, especially when Dante and Jet go to visit what is essentially the guild hall for local angels.

I really enjoyed this book, and once I found time to read through it for an interval of more than 15 minutes or so, I found it to be very compelling and strongly written. Resurrection Man does take patience and time to read, but where it ends up is tremendously rewarding. Jet's origin is nowhere near what anyone thinks it might be, and Dante's power turns out to be more terrifying than he might imagine. But the proof of the success of the novel lies in this: when I was done reading it, not only could I read more, I wanted to actively find more. Stewart shows delightful craftsmanship in Resurrection Man: it not only acts as a page-turner of a novel whose ending was a delight, it also is a fine starting point for discussion of the different literary aspects of what makes up good writing.

Public Enemies

Somehow I walked into this movie without knowing (or perhaps not remembering) who directed it. I was attracted to it by its inclusion of Johnny Depp as John Dillinger and Christian Bale as his pursuer, Melvin Purvis, and what appeared to be some gorgeous cinematography in the trailers. After the movie ended, I wasn't surprised to see that Michael Mann directed the movie, since it contains so many of his little touches.

Johnny Depp once again throws himself into his character and is solid as Dillinger. He's not given much opportunity to chew the scenery as he does in most of his recent movies, but he seems totally immersed which proves a better showcase for his acting ability. Dillinger proves to be enigmatic, a gentleman robber at times—clearly a folk hero to some—and utterly ruthless when angry. His relationship with Billie Frechette (played by Marion Cotillard) can be seen similarly; as Dillinger woos Billie, he is simultaneously touching in his belief that they will be together and somewhat terrifying as he comes close to stalking her. Depp plays these mood swings without a trace of irony with the result that Dillinger becomes a terribly smart force of nature, difficult to predict but usually exciting to behold.

Christian Bale's Purvis is not given nearly as much screen time as Dillinger. Mostly he serves as the focus point for the efforts to capture Dillinger, acting as a hard-working government agent following orders. But the film forces the viewer to compare these two men, and while they would seem to be different men, they have several similar traits that the movie takes advantage of. It takes a little bit more to make Purvis lose his cool, but when he does, he's just as deadly and unpredictable as Dillinger. Unfortunately what pushes Purvis the most are the failures of the forces of law in their pursuit of criminals. Blowing an arrest sends him into a rage as the gangster drives away. But unlike Dillinger, Purvis has nearly limitless resources and is able to use his unhappiness to force changes in the methods of law enforcement.

Dillinger and Purvis are also men caught on the cusp of changing times. Purvis is a member of the Bureau of Investigation, a nationwide network of law enforcement that J. Edgar Hoover (Billy Crudup) wants to legitimize and formalize. As a member of this team, Purvis has access to the latest in law enforcement gear, including wire-tapping. Hoover's directions seems to be enforcing the law at any cost, and some of the methods that he uses do not appeal to Purvis's sense of right—arresting the family of suspects makes him uneasy, though he gives in to it. But when Billie is arrested and basically tortured for information about Dillinger, Purvis makes it clear to his men that they don't work in that way. And again, since he has far greater resources than Dillinger, he can adjust to the changes. Dillinger on the other hand is cut off from his resources. Although a good strategist, he still needs access to doctors, suppliers, and money launderers for his string of robberies to succeed. The criminal underground is well established with a framework provided by the mob, but the mob is beginning to move their focus to gambling. There is a wonderful scene where Dillinger storms into a gang headquarters to find out why he is unable to get any help, only to find a bookie den, with dozens of men answering phones and taking bets while the local capo gives Dillinger a lecture in economics. It's clear that the nearly deified bank robbers who have a cult of personality are going to have to survive on their own.

The cinematography that I admired in the trailers turns out to be something of a mixed bag. The film is lovingly crafted; the attention to detail is wonderful, and the viewer feels like a member of the society of 1930s Chicago. The soundtrack is made up of the music of the time, more fully immersing the viewer in the setting. However, this detail is offset by the introduction of a new technology, the handheld camera or, as I like to refer to it, the "shakycam." I understand the artistic merit of using the shaky frame popularized in the recent Bourne movies when there is action o the screen—chase scenes or shootouts make sense. But I'm at a loss as to why it is necessary for quiet moments, such as conversations in a restaurant. Most of the movie appears to have been shot with this technique and it really does distract from the movie itself (it's ironic that there was such a hue and cry over the use of this in Cloverfield, for which it made sense, but I'm hearing very little about its use in Public Enemies where it often makes no sense at all). The sets and the atmosphere are often gorgeous, even in the bleakness of homes in the Depression, but often it is ruined by the shakycam.

I really enjoyed the movie, shakycam notwithstanding. It feels so historically accurate that it prompted me to find out more about Dillinger's life. As expected, the story appears to be true mostly in broad swathes, but the details are often wrong. And it is a long movie—there were a few times I wondered how much further it was going to go, but not in any sort of sense of boredom, but uncertainty about what point in Dillinger's life we had reached and how the lushness of the film was going to come to an end. The one thing that the length of the movie did not offer up, which is why the revelation that the director was Michael Mann was obvious to me, is that like his wonderful movie Heat, there is only one scene in which Dillinger and Purvis appear together. Purvis looks in on Dillinger in a jail cell after he has been arrested in Phoenix and they have a very short interaction (I nearly said "conversation" but that would imply both taking part in it). Dillinger taunts Purvis and tells him that he is going to escape. It is an iconic moment in the portrayal of these two men: Dillinger is brash and gregarious, even behind bars, while Purvis calmly looks on without much response. It's obvious that the plot of the movie can't allow the two men to interact more than this, but it still makes the movie seem just a little lacking—you really do want to see the two of them act together.

Public Enemies is a fine film, one that should get some notice come Oscar time. I think over time it will be remembered much like Heat—an interesting story told well—and as something of a period piece. I would definitely recommend seeing it on a digital screen, as big as you can, because it will lose some elements when viewed on television or even in the smaller movie houses.

Isle of the Dead

Another from the now-questionable "forgotten classics" list, this Roger Zelazny novel proved the worth of the list. I couldn't put it down. Between the brisk pace and the characterization, I didn't want to stop reading, and when I was done, I wanted to find more about this character, this setting.

In many ways, this novel felt like the best of Iain Banks, making me wonder how much influence Zelazny had on such works as Against a Dark Background and Player of Games. The setting is a universe of the far future with an apparent easy intermingling of humans and other races. Technology is very advanced, so much so that it generally sits in the background and just provides whatever is necessary to advance the plot. Thus it is the characters and their interaction which drives the story, as well as the tour through the distant future. Unlike Banks's works, however, Zelazny's use the voice of the protagonist, offering even more insight into the mind of the inhabitants of the future as well as providing a source for humorous moments based on the character rather than just on the action. This subtle difference provides a wealth of depth to the story even though the plot is fairly simple.

Francis Sandow is perhaps the oldest human in the galaxy, though this has little explicit effect on the story other than providing an even deeper foundation for crotchety humor. Having a twentieth-century narrator in the 32^nd century also gives the reader a familiar accessibility point. Part of his longevity comes from his study as a worldscaper, a group of artists apparently able to craft worlds from scratch. Due to his skill, he joins the Named, a group of alien worldscapers and is somehow given the power of one of the divinities of that alien race. Along with the potency comes a longer lifespan, but it also brings him tremendous amounts of money, such that he is one of the wealthiest sentients in the galaxy and thus also one needing the tremendous security of that future technology. Zelazny does not really spend much time talking about power and process of worldscaping, though it seems an exciting jumping-off point for speculative fiction. Instead, Isle of the Dead concentrates on danger of wealth and the use of godlike powers. For Sandow appears to sometimes be the incarnation of the Thunder Rouser, able to call down storms.

The novel begins as Sandow receives the latest in a series of photographs (in some ways the technology of the novel is awfully dated—here they are in a place where people can create worlds, but they still use photography. I note this while adding that such a discrepancy did not occur to me as I was reading but only now; the story moved too quickly for me to care about "datedness"), a provably recent photograph of yet another of Sandow's long-dead friends. It just so happens that this photo is of his first love and wife, Kathy. The series of photographs only intrigues him somewhat until he receives a visit from a bureaucrat from an investigative agency on Earth, who informs him that the life-tapes—downloads of the personality and memories of people—and genetic samples of several of his dead friends and enemies have been stolen, which explains the photographs he has been receiving. Unworried when receiving an abstract threat, the knowledge that colleagues of his have been brought back to life, apparently solely to harass him and lure him into a trap, is enough to force Sandow to start his own investigation.

Sandow's extreme wealth and power allow the investigation to move quickly. Some time is spent investigating part of the culture of the Pei'ans, the race of worldscapers that has adopted Sandow and trained him. We see their culture as Sandow goes to visit his mentor on his deathbed, from which he tells Sandow that his hunter is Gringrin, a Pei'an who is extremely jealous of Sandow becoming a worldscaper and becoming one of the Named. Gringrin does not believe that humans should ever take the positions, especially when Sandow has taken the last vacant one, keeping Gringrin from receiving a Name for himself. Sandow knows from the photographs that Gringrin is on a planet named Illyria, one that Sandow himself has designed and built, so he takes precautions before voluntarily walking into the trap.

It turns out that there is not a lot of depth to the themes of this Isle of the Dead: jealousy and intolerance are what drive the story, though Sandow's advanced age actually provides him with a fair amount of wisdom that causes the reader to reflect on the decisions that Sandow makes along the way. Sandow does not lecture his contemporaries, like Heinlein's Lazarus Long, but he does take some time to lecture his audience, including a particularly crotchety ramble about the unfairness of tipping service staff. The plot mostly provides the opportunity for a quick jaunt through a fascinating setting, not taking time to alight and examine any one thing fairly closely. It is in this informal and fast-moving style that Banks most reflects this kind of writing. Both authors provide the reader with a tremendous sense of wonder at all the things that are passed rapidly by without detail. The biggest differences are that of voice already noted and the sheer size and complexity of Banks's plots. The reader gets to see a lot more of the future with Banks and the plots are usually fascinating, sometimes even experiments in form and function.

Nonetheless, I have long enjoyed Zelazny's works and am pleased to have read this one for the first time. It further delights me to see reflections of it in another favorite author. However, the end result is that I want to go back and read more Zelazny, reviewing some of the things I read before I ever knew about Banks…and I also want to go back and reread Banks as well. Not very long, Isle of the Dead is a great summertime read, though it seems to me to offer a significant waypoint for the issues and ideas of some of the best contemporary writers: Banks, of course, but also those who do similar things with post-Singularity novels. Taken lightly or seriously, I really recommend taking a few hours to enjoy this significant novel.

The Goblin Reservation

Sometimes, stretching outside your comfort zone can be a good thing. A lot of the new books being released I pick up based on the recommendation of a couple of trusted Web sites or the suggestion of friends or trusted readers. This has led to some wonderful finds that later turned into big deals, like China Mieville and Charles Stross.

And then sometimes, you find out there's a reason it's called a "comfort zone."

Clifford Simak's The Goblin Reservation has, at its core, a really wonderful idea that plays havoc with the idea of genre. What if all the legendary creatures of Earth—goblins and dragons and trolls—really exist? And further, what if they were colonizers of an ancient civilization that found a foothold on Earth but never got very far once human rose to dominance? It seems such an obvious idea that I'm sure someone else has carried it out more fully, but it's the first time I can remember encountering it in a novel. It also is just one of the many ideas that inform The Goblin Reservation: instantaneous matter transmission, time travel, and social ghosts. Any of these could make for a solid book if treated somewhat seriously. Instead, these ideas merely form a setting for the action of the novel and are never explored with any depth. And on the rare attempt by Simak to describe the social ramifications of these ideas, his extrapolation doesn't make a whole lot of sense—time travel is a failure because it doesn't lead to any income for the institutions that control it. Despite having rescued the scrolls at Alexandria before the library burnt, there is apparently not enough interest in them to recoup the cost of getting them. A museum of rescued artifacts has no visitors and the time travelers have to resort to stunts like plucking William Shakespeare out of the timestream and giving lectures on how he passed off the greatest literary fraud of all time. While I can't understand the logic behind assuming such discoveries would not pull in large audiences and numbers of researchers, it is a fascinating idea that I would like to see expanded. But it resides only in the background of a story that is nowhere near as interesting or compelling.

Peter Maxwell, a professor of the Supernatural, has returned from a trip to another planet and discovered that his doppelganger returned some weeks ago and has since died. While his friends are happy at his apparent resurrection, they and the authorities are puzzled by how the seemingly uncopyable matter transmitter waves have been duplicated. Slowly, as the story goes on, Simak reveals where Maxwell had been during his time off of Earth, and we are led into a conspiracy the parts of which are not really clear, especially since Maxwell is missing crucial information as well. So, for the course of most of the novel, Maxwell appears to wander fairly freely through the hills of Wisconsin as he tries to solve his problem…which rapidly becomes trying to complete his mission. But Maxwell has no personality, especially in comparison to the characters he is surrounded by—a Neanderthal who has been brought to the present and has become a lifelong student, a Ghost who cannot remember who he is the ghost of, and a young woman who while fairly normal has a pet saber-tooth tiger na whom she has named Sylvester (she even calls him her "putty cat"). It is pretty clear early on that these friends would do anything for Maxwell, and yet he never really confides in them about his adventures while off-planet.

Into this mix Simak adds a fairly hostile race of individuals made up of a hive mind and the container that holds each hive, a painter who has apparently travelled in time for the subjects of his art, and an impenetrable Artifact that the time institute has brought back from the Jurassic. Simak stirs all these ingredients into a mishmash that ends up being accidentally and coincidentally related, and in no way that the reader can figure out from the clues given in the story (some metafictional thought makes it obvious what the relationships are going to have to be—Simak must have introduced character A for some reason and the only place he fits in is that plot hole…). Oddly Maxwell can figure them out in leaps of intuition and logic that come very close to deus ex machina; his acting on those leaps is what propels the story forward. It reaches the state of a screwball comedy when all of the principle characters are gathered together in a single office, each telling their little bits of the over-arching conspiracy that drives the whole novel.

Perhaps that is the way to approach The Goblin Reservation after all, to forget about any sort of plot that holds it all together and instead concentrate on the goofy characters that inhabit the world, with Peter Maxwell as the Cary Grant straight man, trying to make sense of it all. If that's the case, it turns out that screwball comedies are better done in cinema than in novel form.

Saturn's Children

The latest Locus Awards were announced and this novel by Charles Stross finished fourth for best novel of the year. The reviews of the book had been spectacular since its release, so I had been looking forward to the book, especially since I find myself a fan of pretty much anything Stross writes. I was delighted to find the book dedicated to Robert Heinlein and Isaac Asimov, and so expected to find touches of homage to them. And, in fact, the epigraph at the front of the book is a recitation of Asimov's three laws of robotics and the cover, for some reason, just cries out Friday.

And so Saturn's Children goes: Stross has imagined a solar system after the human race has died out, leaving in its place the robots that man had built. Those robots have become their own culture with their own stratification, based on how much autonomy they were given in the tasks their extinct human masters demanded of them. It turns out that building robots with a sense of duty towards humans and there not being any humans to serve leads to what would be considered psychological conditions in the robots.

This is especially true of Freya, the narrator of the story, a pleasure robot that was designed to imprint itself and serve a human master in all ways, including sexually. Since Freya has no human to imprint on, she goes about her "life" performing menial tasks, knowing that she can never fulfill her real purpose. And as a result she grows more and more depressed. The story opens with her contemplating suicide.

You'll notice here that I am ascribing emotions to the robots. Although Stross says that humans and their robot descendants never created an artificial intelligence, it turns out that the robots act as though they have a wide range of emotions, including falling in love. I had a difficult time with this background because the robots themselves, and the culture they have established, seem to be acting under a great deal of free will and with emotion, and I could not rectify this inconsistency. It wasn't much of a problem to ignore the issue because of the narrative style of the story, but when Freya brings up aspects of it in her narration, especially in explaining the different factions she deals with, it became a real obstacle to my enjoyment.

Freya (note the similarity to Friday, again) is saved from her suicide attempt by an upper class robot threatening to kill her for not looking like "decent" robots. And as she escapes, Freya is catapulted into a escapade much like a spy novel, couriering important parcels between the planets and interacting with the many facets of opinion about attempts to use human genetic material to attempt to bring humans back. The similarities with Friday are numerous: a young "woman" discovering the story behind her existence is much larger than she could have imagined and performing covert activities while indecisive about which side of the conflict she truly supports. The novel, then, is the story of her coming of age and finding her place in the world based on her own decisions rather than wherever fate pushes her to. Freya takes more and more control over her "life" as the novel goes on. Along the way she faces danger from hidden adversaries, intent on sabotaging her missions, even if it means killing her.

Stross has written more than one homage to spy novels in the past (notably The Jennifer Morgue and the books that follow), so there is evidence that he is adept at them. But Saturns' Children doesn't work out so well, in part because his earlier "spy novels" only deal with one faction against another and with the sides clearly delimited. This novel has many factions and characters appearing to switch sides regularly. In addition, there are unknown players in the mix, and due to the nature of the portable personalities of the robots, a character that you know to be "safe" suddenly turns out not to be. As a result, the "spy" part of the novel gets twisted so far, it is difficult to follow the meanings behind the actions taken by the characters, further diluting my enjoyment of the novel.

But Stross is also clearly writing an homage to Heinlein with robots, and in this he has more success. While not quite catching the style of Heinlein in his later works, he comes very close, and the pacing and dialogue are very good. There is also the sense of wonder about this solar system inhabited by man's own creation and the sardonic description of how man caused his own downfall. In fact, Freya despairs of the intelligence of man—letting the reader know that man was poorly suited to living on his own planet, let alone trying to colonize others. Not having met men, her narration sometimes includes snips of legends and stories often repeated, and as human readers, while we may laugh at their absurdity, Stross has put enough truth in them to make the serious reader pause and consider the questions those stories raise. And yet, while despairing of man, Freya desperately needs them, as she cannot ever be complete without a human to imprint upon. This is not to say that Freya doesn't have sex—and she does, a lot—but she needs to be needed, or at least feels she is. And regarding the sex…no, I don't really get it either. Why would robots have sex…to "feel good"? Such a path of reasoning leads me back to the quandary I mentioned before, just how sentient are these robots?

Also underlying the story telling is a fascinating philosophical question about Asimov's laws and how the robots who are designed to fulfill them would be forced to live without humans to apply them to. In some cases, the robots strive to bring man back, and in others, they just ignore the first law since it can no longer be applicable. Stross rarely has Freya explicitly discuss this question, but it does inform the movements of all the characters and most of the plot.

As a result, I'm left with a really mixed bag. I wanted to like the novel for a number of reasons, but when I finished it, I felt unfulfilled in just about every way I can imagine. All of the things that the novel could have accomplished feel unfinished, though the plot reaches a suitable stopping point. I'd really like Stross to do more work in this setting to begin to fill out these empty spaces, but if you are new to Stross, there are, I think, much better and satisfying books to start with.

Wednesday Comics

Let the grand experiment begin!

When I first learned of Wednesday Comics, DC's weekly anthology series printed in newspaper format on newsprint, I was dubious. DC's last two weekly series started n a high note and completely collapsed, ending up feeling like a complete waste of a year's time and money. However, Wednesday Comics is intended to run for only 12 weeks, so perhaps a limited lifespan would encourage cleaner storytelling. Also, each page of the 16 would have its own story, with its own character (or characters), writer, and artist. So if one story was not to my taste, there would be plenty of other opportunities for storytelling goodness.

Issue #1 came out this past week, and while Wednesday Comics is not a smashing success, it is not a failure by any means. In fact, the issue has really excited me from what had been the doldrums for the last couple of years, epitomized by how much I couldn't care less about the poorly handled death of Bruce Wayne or the universe-shattering implications of Final Crisis. Other than the few things I was really enjoying—Green Lantern and pretty much anything Paul Dini was writing—everything felt like it had been treading water and my pull list at the local store was getting smaller and smaller as titles either got cancelled or I dropped them. But I had seen the names associated with Wednesday Comics and had some interest in the characters, so I decided to give it a try…even though my well-founded cynicism had caused to me have a few doubts.

The first thing that leaps out at you as you open Wednesday Comics is how big the art is. Expecting something like the size of the newspaper Sunday funnies section, I was startled to find that each page does contain exactly one story, and so the artist has to work with about four times as much space as a regular comic page. That large a canvas gives the good artists a brilliant opportunity to show their craft, but it also gives the poor artists more rope to hang themselves with. I actually took far longer to read this comic than any I have read in a long time (allowing for sheer confusion like in the case of some of Morrison's work). Details jump out at you, and even the amateur critical eye (such as mine) has plenty of art to work with. But along with the art, this large format puts a premium on page layout. With this much space, artists can do some fascinating things with the pages or just make brutal fatal mistakes. As you unfold the comic, the first image that leaps out at you is a pair of eyes, taking a large chunk of the space above the fold, looking up and reflecting the Bat-signal. It is striking and stops the reader's movement, drawing them to investigate further. IT is a really strong beginning.

The Batman story, written by Brian Azzarello, represents some of the risk-taking the writers can take as well. Most of the page is a conversation between Batman and Commissioner Gordon, with the real "Action" only taking place in the last four panels along the last row. And even then, the action consists of the point-of-view moving closer and closer to the subject, a pair of fingers moving, and a pair of eyes closing, all without any dialogue. And yet those images are some of the most evocative I have seen a very long time. Between Azzarello's scripting and the art of Eduardo Robins and Patricia Mulvihill, I found myself going over that single page a number of times, trying to drink in what is not at all a complex story. What a fantastic start.

The second page, a Kamandi story of all things, is another fine achievement, but this one is a paean to the old Sunday comics days, filled with extraordinarily clean lines and vibrant color. Dave Gibbons' script is a quick retelling of the origin of Kamandi, because a lot of contemporary comics readers probably have no idea who he is (and if this pulls in new readers as it should, they will never recognize the name). The story is workmanlike, but Ryan Sook's art just leaps off the page. For me, that art is the very best in the whole book, showing strong craftsmanship while rejoicing in the tradition that the story takes part in.

The Deadman story by Dave Bullock and Vinton Heuck mixes in the origin story with the beginning of an adventure that calls for Deadman's unique talents. While the individual panels owe a great to Darwyn Cooke, their layout is delightful, with the head and shoulders of Deadman leaping out of the center of the page. Paul Pope's "Strange Adventures" also is a masterful use of layout. While the art is rough in some stretches and someone else should have done the lettering, the layout looks like a reproduction of a Williamson Flash Gordon page, dripping with a sort of art deco retro-futurity that hearkens back to the golden age of comic strips. The work of Jose Luis Garcia-Lopez, Kevin Nowlan, and Trish Mulvihill on the Metal Men is also fine, especially clean and crisp and recalling the pop art of the 60s, the era from which the Metal Men arose. Also compelling is Joe Kubert's return to Sgt. Rock.

However, there are a few clunkers in here as well. Sean Galloway's art on the Teen Titans is a sort of Westernized anime, one I would not say is carried off very well. In addition the colors are washed out and the panels cluttered, making for a difficult and not very enjoyable read. The writing in Kyle Baker's Hawkman really thuds; while the art is somewhat compelling, the narration is overblown and hyperbolic, making me grateful that the strip is only five panels long. But by worst, by far, is Ben Caldwell's Wonder Woman. Not only are the panels cluttered, there are far too many of them, cluttering the page itself. The art is difficult to follow, making the action in each panel, let alone throughout the panels, a puzzle. And the layout is a nightmare: there are panels the size of my thumb with art and three word balloons as well as a caption…it's just impossible to figure out what's happening. And the drawings themselves verge on childish, adding to the difficulty of sorting out what is going on.

And yet, despite these failures, I applaud every co-creator for taking the risk. Wednesday Comics #1 is a breath of fresh air, shining light both on the history of the medium and potential for its future. What these storytellers are doing is exciting, and I look forward to the next issue very much. Based on this first issue alone, I'd push DC to consider making this an ongoing rather than a mini-series…so long as they can keep up the high standards they have set for themselves with #1.

Warehouse 13

SyFy gave away some of their intent by showing National Treasure before the pilot of the new show. It feels like it wants to be quirky yet friendly with serious undertones like the popular Eureka, and with names like Jane Espenson attached to the show, it's an attainable goal. However, it must rise above some serious flaws to maintain any interest. The dialogue was just clunky, and I'm not sure if that was the result of poor writing or poor delivery. The mechanics of the artifact that the team is chasing in the pilot just don't make sense, or are not made very clear. And the plot also hinges in some part on apparently smart people doing really stupid things: the designers of the gargantuan Warehouse 13 have devised methods to quickly move people from the office to various points in the warehouse, but they didn't figure out a way for those same people to get back quickly? And the caretaker forgot his communication device when he suddenly figured out that the rest of his team might be in danger?

The premise of the show has a lot of possibilities—this is the storehouse where magical artifacts are stored; think of the final scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark or the warehouse in Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. The idea of Houdini's wallet somehow facilitating contact with the dead is a fascinating one. But I'll be darned if I understand why the non-powered painting of Lucrezia Borgia sits in an extra secure area of "America's attic" instead of in a museum.

The acting is a mixed bag, but again that may be an effect of the writing. Saul Rubinek has been typecast into the role of the manic genius, and he plays that role with aplomb here. The male lead, Eddie McClintock as Pete Lattimer, is somewhat believable as the Secret Service agent who relies on instinct and is somewhat easy-going. Joanne Kelly's Myka Bering is his partner and so plays the stereotypical staid, no-frills career-oriented partner. But there is no real life to the character; her issues before being assigned to Warehouse 13 are clichéd and there is nothing in the pilot that makes her remotely likable. Even the final scenes and their promise of her loosening up a little are countered by ads for the next few episodes where she seems just as stick-in-the-muddy as in the pilot. Clearly, she needs to talk to Dana Scully about how to deal with strange governmental tasks as quickly as possible.

Warehouse 13 has a lot of potential, but nothing in the pilot indicated that it would live up to that potential, and really nothing in the pilot makes me want to come back and find out more about these characters. I will probably give the show another couple of episodes to sell itself, but if my only interest after the first episode is to ask "What's the deal with the magic football?" then the show has an uphill battle to win me over.

Gate of Ivrel

This will necessarily be a shorter post than usual since this is a selection of my book group.

For most of my reading career, I have thoroughly enjoyed the works of C. J. Cherryh. I have nearly all of her science fiction and am particularly delighted in her character interactions and the very nice future setting she generally uses for those novels. But for some reason, I have avoided the fantasy novels; I'm not sure if there was a conscious decision on my part or if circumstances just led to their exclusion. And so I enthusiastically recommended her when a book group member wanted to select Gate of Ivrel, the first in a series known as the Morgaine Saga.

Cherryh's more recent novels, especially the Foreigner sequences, have been difficult for me to read, given that almost all of the action is internal. A great deal of time is spent with the humans trying to first figure out the alien species and then represent that species to other humans. Later novels in the Foreigner sequence apparently become more complex as more alien races are introduced. Cherryh did some tremendous work developing the alien race in atevi in the Foreigner books; I'm not sure any alien race has been more fully thought out. However, I gave up reading the books after the fourth or fifth one; on the one hand, there are tremendously long passages where nothing happens—just internal dialog as the lone human tries to figure out what is going on while dealing with his own doubts and insecurities. No doubt this is a real state for diplomats, but for me, it makes uninteresting reading since there is no way I can unravel the mystery of what's going on and the human character becomes more and more whiny as he does nothing and complains about his inability. On the other hand, this pattern is repeated over and over in the novels, is actually the focus of the novels. I found it relatively interesting going through it the first time, but even if the character grows, when they go through it again and again, it's difficult for me to maintain empathy or eve interest. Again, this might be a realistic portrayal of what such a career would be like, for which I applaud the series. But that doesn't make it good reading for me.

Sadly, Gate of Ivrel has similar problems for me. I find the narrative character, Vanye, to be pretty much unlikable; despondent about his own state of affairs and doing very little to change his circumstances. The world that Vanye moves through is a foreign one, which other authors could (and have) made interesting. But Cherryh doesn't use the narrative trick of having an outsider come to this land and allowing us to see it through those eyes; instead, the narrator is well-accustomed to his environment, and we only see what he sees without actually knowing what he knows. When he discovers something, the reader discovers it also, but if Vanye already knew it when the novel started, it is assumed the reader knows it too until the narrator has to call on that piece of knowledge. A little reading about Cherryh indicates that she does this extensively, though I don't recall its use so much in the science fiction novels. And if it is used in those novels, it isn't nearly so unhappy an effect, perhaps because it is easier to live inside the head of a likable character than that of the morose (though justifiably so) Vanye.

So while I give Cherryh all the credit in the world for creating and succeeding with a difficult narrative structure, the result is not something I particularly enjoy. I'm reminded of LeGuin's Left Hand of Darkness, but at least LeGuin offers us an outsider's point of view through which we can try to parse the alien culture. Left Hand of Darkness is a triumph of narrative form, though an artistly one that requires examination to perceive the entirety of it. In fact, LeGuin's narrator makes what appear to be some stupid decisions, but he is constrained by his knowledge which is surpassed by the reader's own. Once you realize the character can't know what we know, the novel merely becomes frustrating because of what are apparently poor decisions. Other genres, such as suspense and mystery, thrive on this sort of dramatic irony, but it is unexpected and not always used well in science fiction. And in Gate of Ivrel, there is no irony at all—the reader knows nothing more than the narrator. And living inside the head of an unhappy narrator, in this case, doesn't make for good reading. I don't think I'll be reading any of the other Morgaine books, especially since the narrator appears to be travelling to different worlds—worlds he has never been to before. IF that is the case, it sounds too much like the Foreigner books for my comfort.