Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Night of Knives

The story of how Steven Erikson and Ian C. Esslemont came up with the world that their Malazan books inhabit is fascinating enough that I am going to repeat it here, perhaps with a little bit of jealousy. Erikson and Esslemont were pen-and-paper role game players, and they created the entire background of their novels—one of the most complex and deep worlds I have experienced in speculative fiction—as a locale for their games. My jealousy arises from either the desire to have played in that kind of world when I did play tabletop RPGs, from wanting a game master as brilliant as that when I played (although I did have some darned fine GMs), or perhaps from wanting to have taken the seeds of ideas for game locales and coming up with something as massive and brilliant as Malazan.

It must be daunting to write a new entry in a milieu that has been so well established. Esslemont has the advantage of having been a creator of that world and so has a better grasp on it than just any ol' writer. Yet the Malazan books have become a tremendous international success, thus increasing the weight of expectation for anything set in that world.

Fortunately, Esslemont's first book is successful on a number of levels. Like Erikson's books before, the characterization in Night of Knives is particularly strong. The plot is primarily carried by just two characters, a roguish young woman named Kiska and a veteran warrior named Temper, and the point of view shifts back and forth between the two of them with a very few exceptions. With their perspective, the reader witnesses the arrival of strangers to Malaz and hears the rumors of the mystical Shadow Moon, a night when the boundaries between the natural and supernatural are their thinnest. Both Kiska and Temper are compelled by a sense of something beyond themselves; Kiska wants to leave the backwater town she has grown up in and figures the best method is to show off her rogue skills: stealth and espionage. Temper, on the other hand, has long served in the military and his suspicions are raised when he recognizes some of the visitors to Malaz and, while investigating, promises to perform a service in order that friends are permitted to survive. Their paths cross once or twice through the night with some comic effect, but mostly their stories are their own. Kiska is continually pointed forward, trying to make a better future for herself no matter the cost, and she trips over events and other people continuously on this magical night. Temper is clearly more important than his appearance would indicate, and the plot provides flashbacks in order that we can know him and his life better. But neither of them have any idea what is going on around them as factions and magics collide in the dark.

As a result, the reader doesn't know either. If the reader is familiar with the earlier Malazan books, they may recognize this night as the foundation point upon all of the stories are based. If the reader doesn't know the earlier novels, there is no indication within the story itself how important this night is, and the motivations for what happens are not apparent at all (in fact, the only explanation comes from the blurbs on the book's covers and in the introduction by Erikson). This creates an implied dichotomy that reflects the two main characters in Night of Knives: some readers are like Kiska, intent on getting through the night but not understanding all of the struggle going on around them, and others are like Temper, with a history that helps explain what is happening while leaving some questions unanswered. In either case the storytelling is powerful, with powerful action scenes and thoughtful character development, and more than a hint of the supernatural.

The final product feels in many ways like an extrapolation of the great weird pulp tales of writers like C. L. Moore. Those pulp stories often make the reader feel minute in a titanic struggle which can only be partially grasped due to an implied ignorance and weakness. While the human point-of-view character struggles to survive the supernatural circumstances in which he or she finds herself in, the narration keeps the plot moving from conflict to conflict, with little time for thought on the part of protagonist. And the reader is carried along pell-mell as well, perhaps coming up for air long enough to ask themselves what the conflict is about or how these things can happen, but without the story ever delivering an answer. Ultimately, the protagonist survives, often through some sort of mystical intervention rather than any effort on their own part, or if their own effort saves them, the protagonist again rarely knows how their actions worked.

Night of Knives works in this same way, but instead of being restricted to a short story or novelette, Esslemont works in the space of a novel, giving him the room to develop Kiska and Temper beyond the often flat characters in the great weird pulp stories. Even the side characters have some development, further enriching the earthly activities in the novel. But even the reader most familiar with the Malazan books would have difficulty identifying all the factions in play across the island, and Esslemont compounds this difficulty by introducing entirely new characters and factions and by moving some of the action into worlds strictly composed of magic. For example, in one of the few scenes not involving Kiska and Temper, puissant magic-users (not magicians…sorcerers? Wizards? Practitioners of the magic arts? We're never really given a name for them) argue amongst themselves as they defend Malaz from some sort of invasion from sea-based wand-wielding cold creatures. Esslemont's writing conveys the danger and necessity of the scene, but we have no idea who these creatures are or their plan, just that they must be withstood. It's also not clear what their relationship to the rest of the events of the book are, only that they must be fought back—one of the most powerful scenes in the book is the failure of just such an attempt. So the scene is compelling, but we are given no indication of its effect on the rest of the story.

The result is a book that will infuriate some readers while delighting others. For myself, having some knowledge of the events in the Malazan stories until now, I found that it really didn't matter other than the occasional recognition of a name. When the story is over, we still never really see the specific events that make this night important to the series. But the story-telling is compelling and I enjoyed it, especially given my recent readings in the pulps. But I can imagine someone not familiar with the pulp tradition, or having no knowledge of Malazan, would be extremely frustrated by the book if they were not carried away by the story itself. Perhaps their ire would be saved until the action is finished when, upon reflection, they realize that they really don't know what happened beyond the survival of the protagonists. But, if the reader can set aside the bigger issue of knowing how it all fits together, Night of Knives is a powerful read, made up of elements of what makes for good story-telling.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Transition

Speculative fiction has something of a tradition (though not an incredibly rich tradition) of political commentary. Perhaps the reverse is what usually happens—political commentary and satire are disguised as speculative fiction rather than a speculative fiction novel containing elements of commentary that are tangential to the thrust of the plot. 1984 and Brave New World come to mind; I suspect that Orwell and Huxley didn't start writing these classic works by saying to themselves "I've got a great idea for a science fiction novel." Fortunately, Iain Banks's Transition is a solid speculative fiction novel firmly grounded in theoretical physics, which in turn allows him to comment on current events because he's provided himself a framework by which he can step outside those events.

The premise of Transition is fairly standard speculative fiction fare—physics demands that there are an infinite number of parallel universes, and a group of people figures out a way to traverse them. That group calls themselves the Concern, or sometimes l'Expedience, and is created with the high-minded goal of making things better in those universes without, as it turns out, any sort of definition of what "better" really means. And so long as the Inner Council are made up of like-minded individuals, the group performs its mission well: an agent appears and distracts a brilliant poet long enough that he doesn't get into an elevator that subsequently plummets to the ground floor, killing everyone within.

But not everyone agrees on what "better" means, and so factions arise amongst the Concern and with them internecine politics that drive people to do horrible things in the name of a good cause. There are fundamental issues with how the members of the Concern are able to do what they do: basically they jump into the bodies of people in the other universes, but they don't think very much about the repercussions—what happens to the personality of the body they inhabit when they jump in? How do the reconstituted individuals deal with the effects of whatever action the jumper performs while in the borrowed body? What happens to their own body when their personality leaves it?

This is the complex background upon which the action of the story is based, told in another of Banks's thoughtful narrative experiments. The novel contains several points of view, sometimes delivered in first-person and sometimes third. Sometimes those narratives take place in the "now" of the story and sometimes in the past. And it becomes apparent that some of the points of view might be the same personae in different circumstances.

Banks populates Transition with more of his iconoclastic characters, giving them full personalities and making them enjoyable to read, even when they are not necessarily the best people. Madame d'Ortolan has been a member of the Inner Council for some time and is drawing those within the Council to her opinion of how things should be run, a policy which includes members of the Council being allowed to jump into young beautiful bodies as their original bodies grow old, giving them a kind of immortality. Against her stands Mrs. Mulverhill, who recognizes that not only does this cross the line from general betterment of a culture to an act of personal selfishness (despite arguments that immortality preserves the wisdom of the beneficent Council) but also that the growth and sustenance of any organization is based in part on the ideas and strength of new members. Mrs. Mulverhill also witnesses the Concern-backed research into the nature of this ability to cross universes become an effort to militarize those powers as "researchers" become torturers in order to drive those powers to extremes.

Between these two is Temudjin Oh, an operative for the Concern who reports to Madame d'O (as she becomes known) and was trained by Mrs. Mulverhill. Madame d'O tries to use him to infiltrate Mrs. Mulverhill's rebel organization while Mrs. Mulverhill tries to get information about Madame d'O's plans from him. As the book starts, the tension is already mounting and Oh is going to have to land on one side or the other very soon.

Banks uses this organization to talk about how groups that desire to do good can be perverted because of changing perceptions of what "good" is. Extremists are active in the Concern and while they may have begun with the best intention, it's difficult to overlook their methods. It's a nice commentary on the raging political war in the United States, where the words and deeds of those on the furthest right grow more and more violent without comment from the more moderate centrists. It also speaks to religion as well, reflecting on ongoing questions about Islam and what the tenets of the religion say about those who perform violence in its name. Mrs. Mulverhill acts because extremists can only continue to act in the name of an organization if no one speaks up or acts in ways to refute them. Madame d'O is a believer; she truly believes she is doing the right thing, but that some sacrifices must be made for the greater good. Eventually she also comes to believe that speaking out against her actions is actually speaking out against her, making the struggle within the Concern personal, further removing them from what their original charter.

Banks can also be rather pointed in his commentary rather than just letting similarities between his fictional organization and our world speak for him. For example, we discover that the Concern is not actually based in our universe, and in fact they desperately dislike our Earth, calling it "greedist": capitalism has gone way too far. On the world the Concern has arisen, they too had a period of international terrorist unrest, but it was caused by Christian terrorists acting out in the name of their god. Banks's description of the beliefs of these terrorists is chilling precisely because their beliefs are the same that many Christians in our world hold, but extremism takes them over so that they become something else.

The resulting novel is delightful. Banks is an artist at plots: while there are few individual sentences that leap out of the page and stick with the reader, his narrative and the structure it takes are delightful. His characters are fully realized. Their interactions feel very real, even when they are based on some of the biggest speculative fiction possibilities or on the very personal and bizarre. While the ultimate destination of the plot is the same for similar novels, what happens to the individuals we come to know and how they get there is not so generic. There are moments of humor and moments of real horror. Though I have concentrated on the book's political overtones, they do not dominate the story unless the reader wants them to; instead they provide some flavoring to the events of the story. And because of Banks's mastery of nuance, in plotting, in characterization…and in commentary, this is the best Banks novel I have read in some time.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

The Dark World

I have been pretty effusive with my praise for Paizo Publishing's Planet Stories imprint and its reprinting of some of the great pulp stories that are pretty much impossible to find in a decent condition. I've thrilled to C. L. Moore and Leigh Brackett and looked forward to each new announcement of titles from Planet Stories. In my previous reviews of these books, I've talked about how they dance along the line between the stereotypical pulp and fine writing. Moore especially uses an exquisite writing style that separates her from the stereotype, evoking writers like Poe and Lovecraft while telling compelling stories about heroes and near-heroes dealing with threats both literally and figuratively unearthly. And because of their relationship, Moore cannot be discussed without Henry Kuttner eventually coming up as well.

Planet Stories has been thoughtful (I almost said "lucky") in their choices for reprints, but while Kuttner's the Dark World clearly has ties to Moore's work, it falls short of the standards that her stories have set for the publishing house. The Dark World has what could be a fascinating premise, that of "twins" from parallel universes switching bodies, and it goes a little way to develop the idea by twisting expectations around several times. The narrator of the story is Ganelon, a master of a parallel Earth where science has been only slightly developed but magic and legend hold sway. Mutations also affect the inhabitants of this other Earth such that werewolves and vampires are real and threaten the human population of the planet. Ganelon himself has a reputation as a ferocious warrior and oppressor of the lower classes as he consorts with the mutated species, but as the story opens, he has no recollection of who his history. Instead he remembers a life on our Earth as Edward bond, a veteran of World War II and relatively normal man. But as the story goes on he realizes that his enemies on the alternate Earth have switched him with the real Edward Bond, and now his allies have brought him back. It's not often in speculative fiction that a story is told from the point of view of the antagonist, but Kuttner takes this path in his story, with the caveat that Ganelon spends a great deal of time torn between which persona he really is. And when both sides of the battle between mutations and humans seek to use him as a pawn, the conflict is established: Ganelon has the unique opportunity to decide who he wants to be, both in name and in action. The Dark World follows his decisions and his actions to a somewhat satisfying if a little clichéd conclusion.

The weakness of The Dark World is not so much in the plot, but in the writing style. All of the stereotypes seem to come to life in Kuttner's ham-handed writing, such that one wonders if he was paid extra for each exclamation point. Looking back at his wife and writing partner, C. L. Moore, it's important to remember that she allowed her storytelling to build tension, and her fine craftsmanship is revealed in the haunting descriptive passages and the events that take place in them. Kuttner is not telling the exact same kind of story that Moore does, but there is plenty of room for descriptive work and mood-setting. Instead, the mood is set by repetitious acts of shock and awe, usually unwieldy two or three word sentences that serve to distract more than to compel. And while Moore's characters sometimes rise above the stereotypes and clichés that repel readers from pulp speculative fiction, Kuttner's never do; his women are there for adornment and the threat or promise of incipient evil or overwhelming good. Moore's Jirel of Joiry is deeply complex in comparison to Kuttner's Medea and Arles. But then, Kuttner's male characters don't possess tremendous depth either. Of course, space was limited in the original publications of these stories so development is difficult. It's unfortunate that the Dark World suffers so, especially in comparison with the other samples that Planet Stories has made available.

The Dark World is an entertaining, if fluffy, read. It falls just short of the line that other pulp reprints from Planet Stories cross, failing to show that the writing from that time was capable of rising above the stereotype of escapist literature. There's nothing wrong with escapism, but if I am going to pay extra to dig back into the archives that Planet Stories offers, I want a little something for the effort beyond the standard fare.

Monday, November 2, 2009

Peter and Max: A Fables Novel

Recently, Mrs. Speculator and I were in an electronic gaming store, buying a gift for our nephew. Mrs. Speculator was wearing her Star Sapphire (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Star_Sapphire_(comics)) t-shirt, and I was perhaps wearing the latest Comic-Con tee. Since we were buying Batman: Arkham Asylum, the manager of the store logically assumed we were comics fans, and a conversation about comics followed. He was fairly knowledgeable and apparently had few people to talk to, or perhaps he was feeling us out to find out how fanly we really were. I felt like I was back in the local comics store in the late 80s when he asked the second most often-asked comics question (the first being "Who would win in a fight, X or Y?"): "Who's the best writer in comics right now?". Grant Morrison's name was tossed out, and the store manager opined that it was clearly Geoff Johns, if only for quantity. Mrs. Speculator also pointed out that Gail Simone was kicking butt with Wonder Woman and Secret Six. I thought about it as the two of them talked and then suggested that my favorite writer going right now is Bill Willingham. Mrs. Speculator nodded enthusiastically, agreeing readily that he is delightful, but the store manager had no idea who I was talking about. Such is the price you pay when your audience is in their 20s or reads nothing but superhero comics, although since that conversation Willingham has started writing Justice Society of America. Willingham has been writing for more than two decades and just won the prestigious Inkpot award for his career contributions to the industry.

While his earlier work was groundbreaking superhero fare, Willingham's most recent work is far more fascinating and has gotten a great deal more critical acclaim, not only because of the increased critical reception of comics in the mainstream audience, but also because he has taken a relatively simple idea and built a gorgeous multi-faceted universe that is comprised of delightful and compelling story-telling and thick with characterization and tantalizing plots. Fables is an ongoing series from the DC imprint Vertigo, and this month will mark 90 issues, a creditable lifespan in any circumstance and particularly impressive given the current market. The premise behind Fables is that the childhood stories we learned growing up are all true, except that they took place in a parallel universe, such that people like Snow White, Old King Cole, and the Big Bad Wolf (Bigby) really exist. Unfortunately, their home worlds are under attack by an implacable foe, and so the Fables (as they call themselves) have immigrated to Earth, where they live in a section of New York City, their magic spells hiding them from interaction with mundane humans (like you and I). At first, this seems like it could be childish, but Willingham did two remarkable thanks in his creation/re-imagination of the characters: first, he didn't limit the characters to the most famous. Little Boy Blue is joined by others like Mowgli, Sinbad, and Prince Charming in their battle against the Adversary, adding more "mature" characters to the childhood mix (in one of his graphic novels, he used Britomart from The Faerie Queene, so he has cast his net wide). Second, Willingham has based his characterizations on the essence of the stories about the characters, but then gave those characters tremendous depth and, dare it be said, humanity. They remain recognizable, but they are far more than the mono-dimensional characters we loved as children, giving them depths and facets to rival the best written characters in adult literature. In essence, he has created what I believe to be the most immersive comics world I have ever had the privilege of reading. I suspect Willingham would attribute a great deal of his success to the talented crew he has been able to put together (such as Mark Buckingham and James Jean) and how they have all stayed together through most of the issues. Such familiarity has carried over into the creation of a complex and entertaining continuity that draws readers deeply into their shared world. And it is apparent that Willingham and crew have a tremendous fondness not only for the stories but for the characters as well.

Willingham has stated at various conventions that his goal is to do something special each year—a hardback graphic novel or a collection of Jeans's covers. This may not really have been his idea, but given how he presents himself and his obvious pleasure at entertaining his fans, it feels more likely than some sort of marketing ploy. This past year, he announced the first Fables novel, Peter and Max, the story of the Pier Piper of Hamelin and his brother Peter Piper. In this novel, Willingham has offered up to non-comics readers a distillation of what makes Fables such a prototype of not only good comics but decisively great storytelling. If you were to flip through the novel in a bookstore, depending on how you feel about the relatively new genre of young adult (YA) fantasy/sci-fi, you might be put off by the childlike illustrations that grace many of the pages. It seems to say that this is not a book for adults, unless they are adults who have yet to put away "childish things" (as a former professor of mine used to say to me). Similarly, skimming the story, it feels very childlike as well, dealing as it does with fairy tale characters and written with the same sort of voice that fairy tales are told in. But appearances, as usual, are deceptive; the story of Max and Peter Piper involves patricide and worse, dementia and powers as dark as those imagined in the earliest Grimms' fairy tales. It also details love and compassion and what it means to grow up under horrible circumstances.

The result is a compelling story easily as worthy as Gaiman's The Graveyard Book but without nearly the acclaim Gaiman has garnered through continued success. And yet anyone familiar with Willingham's career, especially Fables should not be surprised by the storytelling chops Peter and Max puts on display. Even though many characters are only on stage briefly, they never feel trite. And even though the narrative voice is childlike, it works on an adult level as well, revealing a cynical humor surrounding the things we take for granted as adults that remain new and wonderful to children. And it is the loss of the happy things of our childhood that the novel centers on: the love Peter has for Max is rent by his brother's sociopathy, to be replaced by a different kind of love and understanding for his eventual wife, Bo Peep. The parallel lives that Peter and Max live as they work to survive in their war-torn world and eventually make their way to Earth are fascinating, and not since China Mieville's King Rat has the Pied Piper seemed so terrifying. Unlike the aforementioned The Graveyard Book, however, actions taken in Peter and Max have repercussions that must be dealt with. And perhaps other readers can foretell the climax of the novel, but even though I knew what was going to happen in broad strokes, Willingham took the story to a place I couldn't have imagined, interweaving a horrible fate with dark comedy with the effect that it is only that much more compelling.

The result is that Peter and Max is a tremendously good read. Fans of Fables will enjoy the story as it fills out another corner of the comic series. Fans of good fantasy and good "young adult" writing will appreciate the novel's solid place in those genres, an icon that newer books will have to live up to. To those readers, it also serves as an introduction to the Fables universe, a place I strongly urge people who love to read to visit. And for everyone else, the novel takes characters that are familiar just because of the length of our association with them, turning and twisting them to force light into crevices we might not have considered until now. In other words, Peter and Max is a powerful book, on the exterior simple and childlike but containing depths that show off Willingham's talents and leaving you wanting more.