review


Having more than a passing interest in history this book jumped out at me as part of a peruse of the interweb. Meso-American and Andean cultures seem to be something many people are interested in, but finding books that move past the usual tropes are hard to find.

Mann really lifts the game in relation to enabling greater understanding of what the Americas were like before European intrusion, primarily by addressing the greater myths and demolishing them in order. The concern with this type of book is that the mythbusting can sometimes stray far too close to explanations that end in “because aliens”. For example, “how could nomadic, semi-conscious tribes build the step pyramids?” Answer – aliens did it.

1491 uses the latest research to demonstrate that the Americas were home to a succession of advanced urban civilisations, demolishes the “population by land-bridge” argument, undermines the “Western wilderness” fallacy, and brings a detailed, but not obsessively undue amount of attention to the scale and number of cultures displaced by Europeans.

All in all, it’s a fascinating read, and highly recommended.

As we move further and further away from the decade that was the War on Terror it becomes easier to view the madness as an aberration, and harder to view the surveillance state legacy as something normal. Personally, this difficulty is compounded by my experience of being a 20-something in the golden decade of freedom that followed the end of the Cold War and the long peace it delivered for most.

Incendiary is set at the edge of our current surveillance state, with a terrorist bombing profoundly effecting change in the life of our highly nervous protagonist. The cascade of events comes fast, and sweeps up the characters in a colossal and irresistible wave of action and reaction.

What I liked most about the novel was the incredible likability of the main character, and, in fact the characters in general. The people are in equal measures both human and unbelievably inhumane, a bizarre mishmash of the profoundly beautiful and intensely ugly condensed almost effortlessly.  You find yourself both understanding and despising some characters in equal measure, and all are inclined to work their way under your skin.

Recommended for: any occasion. Light enough to read on a plane, but deep enough to compel you to switch off the idiot box and read instead.

Ganymede is apparently the fourth book in a series, and I think I may have made a mistake reading it. While on the whole Cherie writes very well, this novel reads like an appendix to whatever books came before it.

The story revolves around New Orleans and two characters apparently drawn from the Priest’s earlier novels. They need to rescue a new bit of tech, a ‘submarine’, from the evil clutches of the Texan army and deliver it to the Union, thereby potentially ending the war. But! Before this can happen there are zombies to battle, sneakiness to be sneaked, and some of the most disjointed action you’ve ever read to tackle.

As I say, Priest writes well. I connected with the characters almost immediately, and bought into the altiverse she proposes. But the plot and story itself are disconnected, haphazard, and most probably churned out by an author who has moved into the “words per day per hour and let’s make money” stage of their career. I think that if she’s taken time to read back over what she’d written, and perhaps actually turn it into a coherent narrative, this might actually have been a great read, instead of an OK one.

Recommended for: Airports.

I think we’ll all need to agree that steampunk is now approaching its use-by date. I’m not meaning this in  spiteful way, more that steampunk has settled into that comfortable middle-age of genres – there are still just enough newbies out there who don’t think it’s old hat yet, but in itself it’s widening around the middle and becoming all-too-predictable.

So let’s compare it to true sci-fi. Back in the 1950s science fiction was brand-spanking new. It was crazy aliens, rockets, flying cars and keen-as-beans astronauts. Today it’s pretty much settled into a series of familiar tropes. Things like warp drives and hyperdrives, giant spaceships and wars with unknown powers. The genre is driven best by people who understand things tech, and 9 times out of 10 you’ll be getting the same old space opera with inter-changeable characters and predictable narrative.

And there we say welcome to The Falling Machine. While Meyer writes well, this is pretty familiar stuff with ever-so-slight twists on steampunk canon. I’d recommend it for reading on a holiday, or perhaps on the bus.

I persevered with this book because the author is a Kiwi and I wanted give him a fair go, but for the life of me I’m still not entirely sure what in the hell Burnt Ice is. And that fact pretty much sums the novel up.

This is a spoiler alert.

I’m suspicious that burnt ice refers to a period the crew spend inside a comet travelling between star systems. The galling thing is that the chain of events that get them to this point are strange. Wheeler has an impressive imagination, but the plot of this novel is non-existent. The chapters are a series of vignettes strung together without any real semblance of continuity, the characters appallingly one-dimensional, and the emphasis almost exclusively placed on “nifty ideas” that are sprinkled through the pages like leavening.

As an example, the first chapter or so is centred on introducing a critical, all important star system that our soldier heroes are transported to. So far, so good. But then, as if out of the blue this base is assaulted by sentient squid that are barely mentioned except as back-drop for the remainder of the “story”. This leaves the reader asking, “wtf?”, “where did they come from?”, “what was their beef with the humans?”, “if they’re attacking us, are they the bad guys?”, and “why did a couple of them sample the tissue of one of our characters, but this is never used in the story?”. The entire chapter could have been dispensed with and covered with the line, “after the attack of the squidlings was repulsed, they sent some heroes out to the galaxy to get answers.”

And… that pretty much sums up the whole novel. Where there should be action, there is a paragraph and we’re done. Where there should be tech that makes up the background and adds colour to the story, we have extended descriptions and pointless blather.

Two-word review: End already.

Remember that feeling when you walked out of the Phanton Menance, and thought, what… the fuck… has Lucas done to me… and the great Star Wars was forever ”made dirty’ somehow?

This film was as bad as that feeling.

So awful…

To put this newfound drive to type into context, let’s take a step back for a second and think about The Hobbit the children’s story. This timeless tale has a what can perhaps accurately be described as a “middle-class” chap living by himself. I say middle class because he’s well-off, but not ostentatiously so. He’s soft-handed, literate, and gentile. THEN! Into his comfortable life intrudes a wizard and a mess of bumbling dwarves. These interlopers weave a tales of an unknown and terrible evil resident on the other side of the freaking world, and somehow, miraculously, this wee man finds himself on an adventure to defeat it.

In a nutshell, it’s awesome. The hobbit finds himself up against all kinds of unknown horrors, fighting and fleeing in turn, and all the while being sheparded by Gandalf the Grey. The dwarves are hopeless, and constantly getting themselves in untold troubles. But, somehow, it all ends up OK. The wee hobbit proves himself to be something of a hero, and everyone pulls through.

Now… Peter Jackson takes this timeless tale, one that I loved as a child, and does cynical, unspeakable things to it. The tale is distorted, which you expect in a screenplay, but distorted to the point that it has an only passing resemblance to the mood and myth of the original book. In a way, he has taken this piece of my childhood, and twisted and wrung every last drop of blood from it, with every microgram of that blood being converted to cash for his masters at Time Warner. This charming, subtle tale becomes an empty vessel, a simulacrim of a story; a bombastic, over-directed, ham-fisted, over-and-just-plain-poorly-acted, overproduced, awkward, frankenstein of a movie that is little more than an excuse to drape scenery against a cinema screen.

And somehow, hidden within this 3 hour abomination of a movie are some gems. The scene in which Bilbo contests with Gollum is fantastic. Gollum is incredibly engaging, scarey and sympathy-inducing all in one. The Goblin King is actually not so bad.

But the rest… the rest is nothing less than outright ridiculous.

Some specifics:

  • The Dragon. Smaug is, as stated, an unknown evil. A tale to scare children at night. The story leaves this monster until the very end, when our hero must face it entirely alone. The story arc is a slow climb to meet this immense horror. But… BOOM! There he is in the very first scene. One great-big fuck-off dragon right there. Ignore that the back story of the dwarves should be something of a mystery. Ignore that their true natures should be gradually revealled. No. Just drag that money shot right out front, because that’s what will keep the punters coming back for another 6 hours of this unadulterated tripe.
  • The Dwarves. One of these doesn’t even look like a dwarf. In fact, he just looks like a short, handsome bloke like one you’d see slightly over dressed in town. The remainder scale all the way upwards from what a cartoon dwarf should look like, to a dude with nothing more than a groucho marx nose, to a King who looks nothing at all like his father or grandfather. Then there’s them all being kick-arse warriors. Seriously, what? Half the time their goofing off being swept up by trolls or falling through walls, and the rest they’re performing feats of magical strength against Orcs than weren’t actually in the book.
  • Radagast the Brown. What can only be described as the pod-race of this embarrassment of a film.
  • The White Orc. The most impossibly gratuitous character in the history of cinema. The sole reason this albino freak exists is to drag out the length of this movie, and eventually enable Time Warner – and Jackson – to make more fucking money. He adds nothing to the story. Nothing. Nada. Zip. There are some scenes with his running about and doing things – even the back-story on Thorin Oakenshield is tenuous at best – but mostly he’s a great big critter running around in daylight when every Tolkien Fanbois worth his mithril knows that ORCS DON’T GO OUT IN THE DAY. And the fanbois are what this abortion of a film is supposed to be about.
  • AND HE’S A FUCKING ALBINO. AN ALBINO ORC. AND HE DOESN’T HAVE LOTION ON. The burns must be terrible.
  • The scenery. I know the intention was to showcase some New Zealand, but… in one scene where the company is running from the impossible outdoors orcs the cast runs through something like 3 entirely separate bits of scenery-featuring-rocks. They don’t even resemble one another except in passing… and this is all over the space of a few hundred metres at most. It’s crazy…
  • The soundtrack. Good lord I was glad I wasn’t in an actual cinema being bombarded with that crap. So, so, suicide-inducingly-awful. It was like someone locked a small symphony in a smaller room, and wouldn’t let them out until they made something, anything. A testiment to an attempt to make this dog bark.
  • But, it was very pretty.

And that’s about it. I say don’t see this film. Don’t go to the cinema and piss away >$20. Don’t hire it from the video store. Don’t talk about it with friends because you’ll get “that look”.

My advice? Someone told me once not to give money to bad buskers, and don’t clap for unfunny comedians, because it’s like giving bread to seagulls: you only encourage shit. If you really must see this “then borrow it from a friends collection”. The studio doesn’t deserve a cent more money that what New Zealand has already given them.

I came to The Iron Heel from a list of “Dystopian Fiction” I found on the interweb, a list also including such classics as 1984 and A Handmaiden’s Tale. It was interesting then to later discover that The Iron Heel is cited as an influence on Orwell, because the similarity in the authoritarian nations that emerge in London’s alternate-history USA and the industrialised world of Oceania is obvious, despite the two authorities being respectively Fascist and Communist.

The similarity in the nature of the authoritarianism depicted by London and Orwell reinforces for me the ease with which any imaginer can foresee their own system of government slipping into a future distinguished most strongly by control, with the machinery of this control only differentiated by favoured contemporary political philosophies. The potential to garner authority (and its exercise by an oligarchy or plutocracy) imagined by these authors is also exhibited the recently-read Paul Auster, In the Country of Last Things (1987).

Of course, it is nothing new to claim that all dystopia are marked by authority-masquerading-as-utopia. What is interesting to me is the manner in which dystopia is so readily imagined to emerge as a consequence of contemporary events, and the suggestion that the here and now may, by virtue of being the opposite of that dreaded  future, in fact be the utopia we have long sought. This is especially the case when reading other contemporary fiction such as Atwood’s Oryx and Crake (2003, which I’m currently in the middle of) and by Marcel Theroux, Far North (2009), where the marvels of the C20th and early C21st are remembered as halcyon days.

The placement of utopia in the here and now, instead of placing it as a future to serve in contrast to a dystopia we need fear, a heaven and hell, is an idea in which I have become increasingly interested. In a manner of speaking, we do currently live in London’s  “wonder-city of Asgard”, and our capitalists do operate an oligarchy in which a great many wonders are possible. It was strange therefore to be reading The Iron Heel as the Occupy Movement began to unfold across the US, and to see the authorities in Oakland begin to come down on protest. Part of me wondered if what London calls ‘standing on faces’ might not have continued and expanded had there been a different President in the White House.

While The Iron Heel degrades into a fantasy of class-, or caste-based warfare, the initial exposition of the failures of capitalism are very interesting, presenting as they do a critique of an economy in which monopoly and resource exploitation are rife, and in which competition to smother smaller players is both necessary and acceptable. While reading of absorption of the petite bourgeoisie by the corporations I was easily able to see the expansion of the mega-malls across the US, and the migration of the small-business-owner into minimum-wage jobs, and in the transformation of farmers to serfs I was reminded of the growth of gigantic monoculture industrial farming.

So does this mean that I think the US is slipping into authoritarianism, with London writing a vague script to a gathering revolution? No more than I think 1984 is likely. As it is The Iron Heel sits alongside the great dystopian works as a reminder of the paths on which no rational humanist would want to find themself. Moreover, what The Iron Heel and 1984 have in common is an imagined world in which resource-exploitation continues to be feasible. If you contrast those worlds to more recent works such as the aforementioned Oryx and Crake, Far North, or even Bruce Sterling The Caryatids (2009), all of which feature the collapse of the nation-state system under stress from resource shortages and environmental change, things start to get a little more real.

With its main premise the inhumanity of mankind to man, Never Let Me Go is perhaps the most prescient scifi I can remember seeing since The Road. Sharing with that story a bleakness of human spirit, Never Let Me Go is the tale of three clones bred for their organs by a near-past Great Britain.

The story begins with the children growing up together  in a stately home that looks and functions much like a boarding school in any Western country. Of course, this is no ordinary school, but instead a place where the children are kept in peak condition, in much the same manner as are well-treated free range animals. And it is this that makes the story so horrifying. These are of course human children, but humans intended as nothing more than mobile organ banks. Accentuating this horror is the knowledge that man’s inhumanity has created such injustice throughout history, be it in the greed that created slavery, the malice that worked Jews to death, or the myths of superiority that saw British invade and slaughter thousands of Australians.

A society where clones are bred for purpose is so likely, the setting so familiar, and the drive for self-preservation so hard-coded within each of us that such as place as these children grow, and learn, and love before they are dissected to extend the lives of their gerontologic masters could be occurring right now.

It’s a compelling film, an extraordinary example of the social critique scifi should actually serve, and one I heartily commend.

In large part I felt compelled to review this book because it seems to have been written about my childhood. Pearson is of an age similar to mine, and experienced many of the same loves and hates in the world of toys. He writes for example of playing with that boy-doll ‘Action Man’, and loving Airfix toy soldiers.

Achtung Schweinhund is the tale of the boys own adventure, all written in a light, funny, and accessible style. Pearson has a wry sense of humour he deploys to full effect describing the characters he failed to grow up with in 1960s and 1970s England.

Of particular interest though, and the main reason I wanted to put up a review, is his description of the sorts of comics read by British boys in during his childhood. Where in the US comics were (and are ) populated with fantasy heroes and unobtainable women, Pearson states quite rightly that British comics were not. Where the US were colour and seemed obsessed with muscles, but the difference was more fundemental. In particular:

the nature of the heroes differed wildly. The American kids had Spiderman, Daredevil, Batman and Thor. British kids had the Second World War… The men who saved our world didn’t have extraordinary powers, fancy gadgets or bizarre costumes (though Keith’s dad sometimes wore his old jungle hat when he pruned the roses and Mr Maynard who helped sink the Tirpitz owned a colour telly). Our superheroes were our dads, uncles, and grandfathers, and there’s something rather touching in that.

Personally, never a more true word has been written about my own childhood.

A great read if you are of an age, and have hobbies you’d prefer not to share with the world at large.

While much of the focus on The Road is used to highlight the supposed ‘environmental message’ of the film and the novel on which it is based, I was left wondering if in fact the apocalypse levelled on the fictional world was not more akin to the great devastation we so nearly faced during the Cold War. During The Road I was often reminded of that icon of the 1980s The Day After, and left the cinema wondering what that the latter film might have been if shorn of it’s propaganda (“we’ll make it, though it’ll be tough”), and humanity. I’ve also made a note to try and find it on DVD.

The similarity between the two films is of course the nuclear winter, and the key difference the willingness of humans to band together in the face of catastrophe. My memory of The Day After – seen in the eyes of a teenager scared of the holocaust, as we all were – is of people who have barricaded themselves in a hospital removing the mattress-screens once the radiation has dropped, and of the gradual decline due to radiation sickness of some of the individuals unable to hide. These scenes are of hope, that some will survive once the danger has passed, despite the misery they’re victim to. The Road creates none of these pretences whatsoever, and instead drops the two main characters into a world without ethics, morals, or future. There is nothing that can save them, and instead we watch perhaps the last two vestiges of our humanity picking their way through the utter devastation of a dying biosphere.

The question I was left with circles around why the author chose this world for his vision of our future. And most often I see his settling on the natural selfishness of man. The looming environmental catastrophe he is attempting to warn us of is one of our own making, and one which we propel ourselves towards despite the warnings of experts. We are told again, and again, that that future is an illusion, and if it is not, it is too expensive to change , and so it is that we continue to push ourselves towards an abyss. Contrast this message with The Day After, where it more or less a momentary ‘accident’ that almost destroys us, one that can be averted by the awareness of people that this future does not need occur. To reinforce the message the main character in The Road, the Father, often looks backward to the days of plenty, a time when he was surrounded by items, luxury and comfort. Food was cheap, colours abundant, light falling upon the face of an angel, his wife. The author is in this way both allowing us to see what it is we have now, while creating a contrast to what will be if this present is not changed. There is no way to turn off and dismantle the rockets. To live, we must leave the Garden, or the Garden will be no more.

Utterly harrowing.

What made this gut-wrenching message more prescient is a TV series of the 1970s we were made to watch in school (by a lazy social studies teacher). Connections was a major influence on a younger me, depicting as it did the holistic intertwining of science, art, and industry in the history of Western Europe. In one episode Burke, the host of the show, presents a world without a key resource, electricity. He begins in a modern, post-industrial city, and works his way out to the rural hinterland, the source of our other need, food. In a very simple description Burke made it very clear that you and I are entirely dependent on the network we support, and which supports us, and clearly demonstrates how simple it would be to collapse it all, with the flick of a switch. The Road epitomises that collapse in the most horrifying way possible, by turning humanity on itself in the search for food.

So what did this leave me with? A mild depression? Yes. A fear for the future, and Chef Du Plunge in particular? Absolutely. While Left and Right equivocate about the impending natural disaster we face, I sit and read of the collapse of civilisations throughout history, and take comfort in the knowledge that collapse is normal. All civilisations end, and almost always due to environmental exhaustion. The only question is whether the end of the Oil Age will bring so much damage to humanity that we regress to the horror depicted in The Road, or whether it is something more akin to the optimism of The Caryatids. And only time will tell.

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