This story, like many, begins in a front of a small PC in the front room of a modest home in a non-descript suburb. I say non-descript because while today it is somewhat popular, then it was the back end of a humble town.

A boy of perhaps 10 sits at the PC and is working at learning the ins and outs of a programming language. His world is a simple one: school, raising pets, family, household jobs, few friends, bullying, isolation, confusion. The PC is a refuge of order, predictability in a chaotic hurtful world. An unquestioning ally who challenges only a lack of logic, an error in syntax.

By 16 the scene is largely unchanged. The boy is more gangly, no less confused, no more in receipt of the guidance that would impart clarity, because in large part his elders are as ignorant as he. The world is, as they say, a big and scary place.

It’s to this boy that I glance when I, as a middle-aged man, see the unfolding mise en scene of the contemporary US. But while many are fixated on the precursors to National Socialism and fitting comparisons to Trump, it’s to the radicalised youth I find myself looking, and wondering how many are the same child, in the same dark world, but for whom fascism is a light, a magnet, acting upon their needs.

Consider for a moment the faces of the young men we’re seeing on our screens, but removed from the awfulness of their ideology. Richard Spencer just prior to being punched for the second time on that day, happy at being asked about the frog on his lapel.

spencer

The unnamed guy, still wearing his school backpack and Totenkopf hat, feeling like a tough guy.

nazi

Alexandre Bissonette.

bissonnette

Each of these men are nerds. Willowy weaklings. They sport none of the hallmarks of masculinity; musculature, fulsome beards, strong jaws. They are virgins of the sort to deride without irony inaccessible women – which by definition is near-all women – as femnazis. They are the sorts to have been the denizens of libraries and chess clubs, to have played Warhammer or DnD. They are Oedipal time bombs, a cliché of gender and control confusion.

And they are my people.

I have a macabre fascination with the radicalisation of these youths, and the path they have taken, because in the years of my own confusion I may well have been coaxed to the same path. My fascination in part rests on the realisation that these fools are only foot soldiers needing to be fought on the way to the real bosses, but also in the transformation of fascism from a street-fighting creed beloved of morons to a hastily-typed, poorly-spelled ocean of comments on bulletin boards. And further, that in light of Spencer’s attempt to foment a pogrom, and Bissonette’s massacre, that behind these words is a growing likelihood of action.

It’s that willingness to spring to action that is the real transformation in C21st fascism. We can debate endlessly concern on suppressing free/hate speech, and the contrary risk that inaction leads to the harm of innocents – witness the pearl-clutching associated with punching Spencer and the lack of a thread joined to Bissonette, a customer of hate speech who needed sense slapped into him a long time ago.

While online radicalisation continues unabated in an environment of easy access to guns there is the omnipresent threat of more lives being lost. Lives lost among people who have done little more than to offend the sensibilities of radicals by simply being: being something readily and easily characterised as offensive via a closed logical circuit of spittle-laden invective.

This change is concerning and confusing because the apparent underlying motivation, being a poorly socialised nerd, has never been easier. The culture in which that younger me invested himself is now ubiquitous. Console games are a must-have icon for young men of all walks (let alone women), and geekery has never been more in demand. Dotcom and gadget billionaires are the darlings of all-too-many political elites. Nerds are smexy. So from where does this hatred well?

If I learned anything in those days of long ago it’s that confirmation bias is a powerful influence. Back when Huntington published his essay on the ‘clash of civilisations’ we liberals argued as strongly as possible that to give substance to that foolishness was to merely fuel to the bonfire of the military. Then the concern was that the US would look to China as the great threat, and force an ideological stand-off in justification of military pork-barrels.

Little did we know then that the real bugbear would become Islam. So each year since 2001 I’ve watched the echo-chamber grow in volume, with voices of all sorts joining the clamour to condemn aliens and self-confirm their own fears. Today in 2017 I see people I consider rational proclaiming loudly a conspiracy by Islam and “international financiers” – read “Jews” – to overwhelm the West. We are past the wondering and worrying, and find ourselves watching to a shadow-play of action and reaction.

It’s into this maelstrom of misinformation, fear and exploitation that is see my weaklings fall. Small men of the sorts who could not defend themselves in a brawl. Men for whom there can only ever be strength in numbers, or arms. Protected by the rhetorical shield of an ideology belonging to what was once the strongest nation on Earth, they are now closing ranks against a paper tiger.

And I wonder, what next? If the Coalition of the Frightened succeeds and the rhizome of fascism spreads within our own state will my weaklings be safe? Will they be able to hide behind their rhetoric and screens? Or will the real brutes assume the mantle?

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.