Written in 1939, The Voyage of the Space Beagle reads like the prototype for Star Trek. A multinational crew of scientists and the military embark on Written in 1939, The Voyage of the Space Beagle reads like the prototype for Star Trek. A multinational crew of scientists and the military embark on a ten-year mission to explore the galaxy, seeking out new aliens and almost being killed by them (they even have 'shields).
Grosvenor, our protagonist, is in many ways reminiscent of Mr. Spock: both are awkward, intelligent men mistrusted by their emotional shipmates because of their cool rationality. He also shares the standard characteristics of Van Vogt's heroes: he is a master of a superscience unknown to other men, capable of predicting them and controlling them through crystals and hypnotism.
As in Slan, Van Vogt is not above resolving plot conflicts through convenient introductions of supertech, but here, those resolutions are often secondary to the protagonist's interpersonal relationships and moral quandries. While in Slan, the hero lives an isolated life, working against invisible enemies, Grosvenor is constantly embroiled in social interaction.
At first, I found the character intriguing, a portrait of a strange, off-putting man trying to survive in close quarters on the long mission. Early on, we see him making many small, manipulative moves, reading and weighing those around him.
Eventually, Van Vogt gives in to the sci fi author's vice of overexplaining, and reveals that Grosvenor is acting this way because he is a student of a new, unproven science, a superscience that combines all the other sciences and relies on hypnotic sleep-learning. Soon, the majority of his thoughts revolve around philosophical discussions of how this science came about and what its purpose is, and his actions are chiefly to promote it (when he isn't saving the stubborn crew from certain death).
No matter how many times Grosvenor's new science proves him right, he always finds himself struggling to convince anyone around him to believe him. There are some amusing asides about how this happens, psychologically, since no man aboard is in a position to double-check Grosvenor's unique methods, and his assuredness makes others resentful.
But he still manages to overcome (did we ever doubt?) a series of unconnected episodes, again, evoking Star Trek or other 'monster of the week' serials. The first plot parallels the film Alien, and so does the third; the others are familiar to any sci fi fan.
Though this series of related short stories means that the book has less of a grand arc, it also allows the author to explore a number of different themes and styles, while the less differentiated Slan tends to drag on a bit. I've noticed that, for a lot of authors, especially pulp authors, their short story collections are much more thoughtful and complex than their novels.
That being said, it also often makes for a rather swift, neat ending, and we have the same here. For all that the final story builds, its resolution is rather abrupt. It seems that Van Vogt was able to produce greater depth by relying on psychological interaction, but once the interpersonal conflicts are resolved, the huge, galaxy-threatening problems that caused them are mere afterthoughts.
Van Vogt hardly overcomes his limitations, but he is able to mitigate them with deeper character exploration and more variance in plotting. As usual, he demonstrates a vivid, creative mind, combining many concepts to create his stories, but his science is shaky, his writing sometimes inelegant, and so he can't be said to outstrip earlier authors like Verne or Huxley....more
In the late Victorian, an eighteen-year-old Edith Hamilton graduated from Bryn Mawr College. Enraptured by the spirit of Classical Antiquity, she did In the late Victorian, an eighteen-year-old Edith Hamilton graduated from Bryn Mawr College. Enraptured by the spirit of Classical Antiquity, she did what any academic would and traveled to the center of Greek and Roman studies, Germany, to continue her education. She was the first woman to attend classes in these great European colleges, though she could not pursue a degree, instead she had to audit, watching lectures from s specially-built booth that screened her from the view of her classmates so they would not be scandalized by female intrusion.
She was not allowed to ask questions, but soon began to tire of the German method. The professors were always distant from the material, discussing in the greatest depth which verb cases Pindar used while never once acknowledging that he was a poet, or a human being.
It recalls one to the scene in Forester's 'Maurice' where a group of young students are reading aloud, translating as they go, on the topic of the glories of male love, while at every other paragraph, the professor instructs them to omit the 'unspeakable vice of the Greeks'. They must study and translate the text, but never once consider its content or meaning.
So Hamilton returned to the United States, and to her alma mater, where she became headmistress, continuing her studies and teaching the classics for the next twenty-six years. It was not until her early sixties that she wrote her first book, The Greek Way, which stands in opposition to the German style, seeking to understand and explicate the Greek mind.
This compilation of considerations, assembled at the end of a lengthy career, might be seen as a series of lectures on related topics, each chapter tackling a different author or concept, giving an introduction, facilitating understanding, and gradually, producing an overarching theory concerning the Greek mind and the Greek, himself.
It is a most unusually personal look at the Greeks, from someone who spent her life growing near to them, and it is entirely full of extraordinary theories and observations, all backed up by quotes from the great thinkers, not only of Greece, but of all ages. Hamilton seeks to connect us to Greece, to bridge the gap of time and thought and allow us to think of the Greeks as authors, artists, and people. She removes them from their pedestals and proffers them to us, though not without care, respect, and passion.
There is something of a worship for Greek thought and ways here, an attempt to convince us that, despite all we have achieved, we cannot equal or excel the Greeks. Hamilton by no means grudges us our growth, our change, our recognition of the importance of the individual, but implores us to learn something from the ways of old Greece.
Her encyclopedic use of quotations, her deferring to those who have, for all posterity, 'said it better' is charming, and also connects Greece to the thinkers and artists she inspired, inviting us to understand them by comparison. For any scholar of Nietzsche, as an example, it is easy to see how Hamilton plays with the many themes he drew from Greek thought, including the Apollonian/Dionysian split and the arete which defined both the best Greeks and his notion of 'Superman'.
I have always been partial to arete, myself; there is no reason we cannot all strive to be wise, sociable, fit, and knowledgeable in every field, from philosophy to history. The idea that the strong man can afford to be a dullard or the knowledgeable man a scatterbrained outcast is to accept that we should be less than we are.
Her comparison between Kant, who was as detached from the world as his theories, and Socrates, who developed his ideas while talking and laughing with friends, shows that a passion for the mind need not make one withdrawn or unpleasant. After all, Chekhov wrote at his desk at parties, taking characters and ideas from his guests, and has yet to be matched as a psychological realist.
I was also tickled that she used a passage from Tacitus in her definition of 'Tragedy' which I have used as a similar example since being taken by it. That chapter is the weakest in the book, at turns ingenious and unsure. Her observations remain insightful, but are not as polished or convincing as the rest of the book. She may be right in what she says, but her arguments are incomplete.
Hamilton would go on to write two more books, a similar volume on Rome and her 'Mythology', the definitive classroom text. Though she was, throughout her life, kept at arm's length from academia, and is still criticized for being insufficiently scholarly, this book is an achievement, insightful and wide-reaching.
Her conclusions may sometimes be grandiose, but never naively so. Her personalized, holistic style prefigures much of modern academia, and though it took some time, the world has, at last, caught up with her notion that there is nothing unspeakable about seeking a more personal relationship with our past....more
History is full of faltering heirs, of legacies that died with fathers. Some subsist on their fathers' names for a time, spending his honor like coin,History is full of faltering heirs, of legacies that died with fathers. Some subsist on their fathers' names for a time, spending his honor like coin, but lacking the necessary traits to add to the capital. Others squander all at once, consumed by enemies, or by incompetence. Rare is it for the son to possess all that is required to further what was started. Some others, blessed with such a character, were not born into a position to use it.
Money, armies, and position Crassus had, and died in Parthia. For students of Greek and Roman history, Parthia is a graveyard for audacious generals. When Xenophon wrote an account of his greatest military achievement it was not a battle won or nation conquered, but escaping that desert alive.
But Alexander crosses it. His only precedents for such a campaign are the gods themselves, Dionysus and Hercules, who often failed in myth to do what Alexander achieves in life. Arrian, himself, points out that authors often attach Hercules' name to impossible tasks, so that the hero's failures could be said to mark the limits of reality.
But they are not Alexander's limits. Plato imagined the Mediterranean as a pond, the Greeks as frogs squatting at its shore, a symbol equally fitting for the Romans, so that whenever we hear of 'The World' and of its limits, our exotic locales are Egypt, Libya, Ethiopia, Spain, or another Herculean limit, 'The Pillar of Hercules' at Gibraltar. After some centuries, Caesar alights briefly at Britain, but it's nothing to match the scope of Alexander.
There is a certain shock when reading the ease at which Alexander overcomes these legendary lands, as if he were a hero of Lucian's and vaulting to the moon. One almost expects him to return bearing a phoenix and a cynocephalid (he doesn't, though there is one bucephalid). To conquer Parthia would be impressive enough, but to lay low all of Persia, the ineffable shadow over Greece, seems a dream. Then Scythia, Bactria, and all the way to the Indus.
It is the sort of achievement, like Genghis Khan's, which seems superhuman, inexplicable, unrepeatable, and so it was. One is left wondering whether Alexander would have achieved more had he lived past thirty-two, whether the Greek world would have met India and China, what sort of a history might have resulted. But such speculation is mere fancy.
Truly, Alexander seemed to have everything needed for success: high birth, loyal troops, a tactical mind, a generous nature, unassuming charm, political acumen, a tireless spirit, and unlimited vision. Though Arrian's history is primarily militaristic, we do get a portrait of the man, and come away understanding the unique character that allowed his achievements. He was also a man of flaws, dying a reveler, sometimes losing reason to passion, and with an obsessive desire which would not have stopped at the Indus without the near-mutiny of his troops.
But there was one thing he did not have: a writer worthy to record his exploits, either in history or epic. He had no Thucydides or Herodotus, not even a Xenophon. Though many tried, none succeeded in capturing the man, and so, all the works of his time, whether of history or romance, disappeared, not worthy to recall. Arrian's own was compiled some time after events transpired, a combination of sources of varying veracity. His legacy was one of dissolution, leaving both his empire and his story fragmented.
But we are not entirely destitute, and I, for one, am glad for the opportunity to enjoy what remains of a story too large for the histories to hold....more
In Slan, Van Vogt (say: 'vote') combines a number of popular sci fi themes, some intriguing, others silly, to create a work that is interesting and inIn Slan, Van Vogt (say: 'vote') combines a number of popular sci fi themes, some intriguing, others silly, to create a work that is interesting and influential, if sometimes ill-conceived.
The political tone of the work, focused on dictators, secret police, and shadowy struggles for power mark this as one of the earlier Dystopian works. Slan is a decade before 1984, though Brave New World and It Can't Happen Here are earlier.
Van Vogt's Dystopia is much more fantastical than most of the genre, relying heavily on telepathy and 'Tom Swift' gadgeteering. The use of super-gadgets is so pervasive that there are few situations our protagonist can't get out of with the use of lovingly-described technology.
There are some twists of the plot that are beyond the powers of his machines, but happily, all of these are solved by coincidence. The author has no trouble placing his protagonist in sticky situations, but can't get him out again without contrivance or . Despite being told of our hero's brilliance and will, he remains passive, drifting where the plot carries him.
The writing itself is alright, but not impressive. Occasionally, Van Vogt tries for a flowery passage, and these do not serve him well. Likewise, his technobabble serves only to justify things that we, as sci fi readers, have already taken for granted. We understand that his use of Atomic Power allows him to make impenetrable steel, we don't need a speech about 'super bonding'.
Van Vogt is lost somewhere between the overt fantasies of pulp sci fi and the more reasonable predictions of harder science, like Heinlein's. When an author tries to justify a fantasy, all it does is cause the reader to question his own disbelief.
This especially evident in Van Vogt's explanation for telepathy, where he drags out that old gernsbackian chestnut about the evolution of the Future Man. Van Vogt demonstrates ably that the chief difference between hard and soft sci fi is whether the author has the least grasp of the science he's attempting to predict.
The use of evolution as 'magic plot fixer' is always laughable, and it's no wonder the layman has no conception of what the Theory of Evolution actually refers to (it has nothing to do with Nietzsche's 'Superman', and neither does eugenics).
His use of telepathy also highlights another of Van Vogt's authorial weaknesses. We often get long description of how characters feel, of how they are reacting, and of what they are thinking, which is usually a sign that the author feels a need to tell us what he is incapable of demonstrating with plot, character, scene, and dialogue.
At first, I thought that it made sense to live in the heads of telepathic characters, and was looking forward to seeing how Van Vogt would use telepathy to give us different insights into the characters and their interactions. Unfortunately, he rarely uses it this way. Indeed, most of the people have 'mind shields' which prevent the protagonists from having any such insights.
What I appreciate about sci fi is the greater scope and variability the author has to explore humanity and possibility. When a sci fi author fails to find all the interesting nooks that his alien world suggests, it is all the more disappointing.
I can also appreciate sci fi as a pure, tightly-plotted adventure, taking science as magic. Unfortunately, Van Vogt is stuck between these extremes, neither as psychologically interesting as Huxley nor as imaginative and unpredictable as Burroughs.
He does a fair enough job holding up both ends at once, but combines not only the strengths but also the weaknesses of both styles. He hits a lot of promising points here, and there is something unique about how he hybridizes ideas, but he never takes advantage the possibilities lying everywhere beneath the surface....more
An unexpectedly delightful book, one of the first I've read that really captures what I've come to think of as quintessentially British humor, the sorAn unexpectedly delightful book, one of the first I've read that really captures what I've come to think of as quintessentially British humor, the sort later typified by Wilde and Wodehouse. The pointlessly loyal teller of this tale is one of the best examples of the 'Unreliable Narrator' that I've seen in fiction, and seems to be a prototype for a similarly humorous servant in Collins' 'The Moonstone'. Add in the political and social satire concerning Anglo-Irish relations and you've got quite the solid little novella....more
Saberhagen's creation of a vast fleet of self-replicating killer robotic ships has proven very influential over the years, different from the small waSaberhagen's creation of a vast fleet of self-replicating killer robotic ships has proven very influential over the years, different from the small war machines of Dick's 'Second Variety' or the human-controlled weapons of Van Vogt's 'Space Beagle'. The pure alien menace of the Berserkers makes for potent stories, though some of the sketches in this first volume are rather rough.
I appreciate the way Saberhagen connects these shorter tales by frame story, which works better here than in many similar collections, since the stories often share characters and events. It's also nice to get the many smaller arcs, moods, and ideas of each story, building a picture of the setting much more effectively than the simple exposition indicative of a continuous, repetitive arc. There's something to be said for hitting the high points and moving on.
That being said, it doesn't always work so well. Some of the connecting stories are weaker and, while we are provided many smaller concluding arcs, the longer arc of the collection never really delivers a solid conclusion, though Saberhagen aims for one.
I also often wished he would push more with the ideas and themes of his stories. He was able to push the boundaries here and there, but couldn't match conceptually with the likes of Dick, Ellison, or Bradbury.
He does gain some verisimilitude by his retelling of the Battle of Leponto as a space conflict, but lacking the vivid characterization of other Speculative Fiction writers, he falls a bit flat....more
If, in reading a passage of Greek or Roman history, you find yourself growing bored, chances are, it is because you do not really understand what was If, in reading a passage of Greek or Roman history, you find yourself growing bored, chances are, it is because you do not really understand what was going on. While pages of troop movements and the names of officers might seem dull to you, I can assure that to some people, these things have meaning. In fact, they can be downright fascinating.
In hopes of becoming more easily fascinated, I was glad to find an edition of this book came free with my burger at (along with the Odes of Horace, and I'm always happy that the taste of the clientele there means that the potboilers move like hotcakes but there are always histories and the scant copy of 'The Sadeian Woman' waiting for me).
I was excited to learn all about flanks and cataphracts and cavalry manouvers, but before we even get to that, Warry always gives a list of major sources, which couldn't please me more. I always enjoy having someone in the field let me know what it is worth my time to read, as it saves a lot of searching.
Nor was I disappointed when at last, the cataphracts appeared. This took several chapters, since the book is nicely laid out by period, which makes it helpful as a companion piece. Whether you're about to tackle Caesar's 'Conquest of Gaul' or Thucidydes account of the Pelopenesian War, just turn to the chapter of interest and you'll find a rundown of events and analysis of the units, equipment, and tactics involved.
Warry even throws in a few jokes here or there, and some of those amusing historical anecdotes which no scholar can resist. His style is clear and entertaining, and while he admits that this book is little more than a primer, sometimes, that's what I'm looking for.
Apparently, the original version of this book was illustrated, but the cheap Barnes & Noble edition I happened upon was not, even though a lone reference remains guiding the reader to a figure which does not exist. And that's not the only typographical problem with that particular edition, but I'm hardly complaining. Even without the pictures, the book is a useful and informative companion piece to studies of Classical Rome and Greece....more
This final fantastical outing by horror great Chambers is amusing, but pale compared to his earlier works. Nestled in-between his once-popular parlor This final fantastical outing by horror great Chambers is amusing, but pale compared to his earlier works. Nestled in-between his once-popular parlor romances, 'Police!' continues the fantastical stories of Dr. Percy, ever searching the world for zoological discoveries and love, and doomed never to find either. Chambers apes Twain more than Bierce in these comical tales, and while he hits some high points, these stories are, altogether, more amusing than intriguing....more
A lot of fun, much like the stories that inspired them. Though Chaykin's pacing is sometimes choppy, his use of the language is delightfully in-characA lot of fun, much like the stories that inspired them. Though Chaykin's pacing is sometimes choppy, his use of the language is delightfully in-character. It's unfortunate that the series didn't catch on, it could have been a more humorous compliment to the many successful Conan comics.
As usual, Mignola is a delight, though it's amusing to see him at a much earlier stage, where his lines are more sketchy and his angular shading has that definitively early nineties 'edgy' look so favored in comics and Vampire roleplaying books. I love his draughtsmanship, particularly the buildings and statuary, which manage to be intricate and mysterious without relying on the obsessive miscellany of a Bachalo or Darrow.
It's always interesting to see how artists characterize Fafhrd and the Mouser, since they are not as narrowly-defined as Conan or John Carter. The Mouser, in particular, has always been a shifting, undefined figure in my mind, with the sort of average, forgettable face that lets a thief lose himself in any crowd.
Mignola's Mouser is a little more beefy and heroic, with sharp, Eastern-European features, which I found an interesting vision, and fitting for the character. I also appreciated Mignola's range of expression and the pure personality of his characters, something all too rare in comics, where wooden faces scream with an unsettlingly even mixture of joy, hatred, pain, and sorrow.
In the end, there's no replacement for an inspired artist....more
There's something so indulgent about French stories, which is at the same time their strength and their downfall. They lilt along, laughing and provokThere's something so indulgent about French stories, which is at the same time their strength and their downfall. They lilt along, laughing and provoking, never shying away, but there is also a lack of self-editing there that tends to leave them a bit silly and unfocused.
Sometimes, I think it's a problem of translation, and this translation is so unusually literal from the French, as if it were meant for primary English readers who understand the French language and culture, but who are unable to read in the language on their own. This is certainly one style of translation, but for a story like this, I tend to prefer a translation of idioms, emotions, and speech into the new language; but that requires a new writer just as creative and interesting as the original author.
But I also know it isn't entirely the problem of translation, as I've seen complex, intriguing stories that are delightful and deep even in translation, such as the works of Kurosawa or Charlier's 'Blueberry' comic. Then again, they are both familiar with the same Western traditions I am, so perhaps it's an easier shift.
Nikopol shows some of those indulgent tendencies, but also has an undercurrent of satire for overblown space operas like 'L'Incal'. Between engaging in indulgence and mocking indulgence, we get some fun, ironical, self-aware amusement, but there isn't a very strong plot to hang it all on. Perhaps it's my problem, but I tend to feel that nothing can really replace a good story.
The art was good, but the stylization was rather extreme. Everyone had the same cheekbones and the range of expression was disappointingly lacking. The world design was fun and detailed, though it all became similar rather quickly.
The colors were surprisingly straightforward, showing little dynamic exploration, especially when compared to the Moebius works that inspired it. The soft colors were pretty, but Bilal wasn't exactly pushing the boundaries. People were pinkish and the backgrounds were washed out browns and blues. When people were blue or green, it wasn't a mood choice, just some aliens.
It's always interesting to see the sci fi influence of Jodorowski's failed European Dune, from Blade Runner to most of Moebius' sci fi, but Nikopol is just another entry, not particularly revolutionary in its own right, though it was the inspiration for the sport of , which is amusing enough, as legacies go.
There's something so indulgent about French stories, which is at the same time their strength and their downfall. They lilt along, laughing and provokThere's something so indulgent about French stories, which is at the same time their strength and their downfall. They lilt along, laughing and provoking, never shying away, but there is also a lack of self-editing there that tends to leave them a bit silly and unfocused.
Sometimes, I think it's a problem of translation, and this translation is so unusually literal from the French, as if it were meant for primary English readers who understand the French language and culture, but who are unable to read in the language on their own. This is certainly one style of translation, but for a story like this, I tend to prefer a translation of idioms, emotions, and speech into the new language; but that requires a new writer just as creative and interesting as the original author.
But I also know it isn't entirely the problem of translation, as I've seen complex, intriguing stories that are delightful and deep even in translation, such as the works of Kurosawa or Charlier's 'Blueberry' comic. Then again, they are both familiar with the same Western traditions I am, so perhaps it's an easier shift.
Nikopol shows some of those indulgent tendencies, but also has an undercurrent of satire for overblown space operas like 'L'Incal'. Between engaging in indulgence and mocking indulgence, we get some fun, ironical, self-aware amusement, but there isn't a very strong plot to hang it all on. Perhaps it's my problem, but I tend to feel that nothing can really replace a good story.
The art was good, but the stylization was rather extreme. Everyone had the same cheekbones and the range of expression was disappointingly lacking. The world design was fun and detailed, though it all became similar rather quickly.
The colors were surprisingly straightforward, showing little dynamic exploration, especially when compared to the Moebius works that inspired it. The soft colors were pretty, but Bilal wasn't exactly pushing the boundaries. People were pinkish and the backgrounds were washed out browns and blues. When people were blue or green, it wasn't a mood choice, just some aliens.
It's always interesting to see the sci fi influence of Jodorowski's failed European Dune, from Blade Runner to most of Moebius' sci fi, but Nikopol is just another entry, not particularly revolutionary in its own right, though it was the inspiration for the sport of , which is amusing enough, as legacies go.
There's something so indulgent about French stories, which is at the same time their strength and their downfall. They lilt along, laughing and provokThere's something so indulgent about French stories, which is at the same time their strength and their downfall. They lilt along, laughing and provoking, never shying away, but there is also a lack of self-editing there that tends to leave them a bit silly and unfocused.
Sometimes, I think it's a problem of translation, and this translation is so unusually literal from the French, as if it were meant for primary English readers who understand the French language and culture, but who are unable to read in the language on their own. This is certainly one style of translation, but for a story like this, I tend to prefer a translation of idioms, emotions, and speech into the new language; but that requires a new writer just as creative and interesting as the original author.
But I also know it isn't entirely the problem of translation, as I've seen complex, intriguing stories that are delightful and deep even in translation, such as the works of Kurosawa or Charlier's 'Blueberry' comic. Then again, they are both familiar with the same Western traditions I am, so perhaps it's an easier shift.
Nikopol shows some of those indulgent tendencies, but also has an undercurrent of satire for overblown space operas like 'L'Incal'. Between engaging in indulgence and mocking indulgence, we get some fun, ironical, self-aware amusement, but there isn't a very strong plot to hang it all on. Perhaps it's my problem, but I tend to feel that nothing can really replace a good story.
The art was good, but the stylization was rather extreme. Everyone had the same cheekbones and the range of expression was disappointingly lacking. The world design was fun and detailed, though it all became similar rather quickly.
The colors were surprisingly straightforward, showing little dynamic exploration, especially when compared to the Moebius works that inspired it. The soft colors were pretty, but Bilal wasn't exactly pushing the boundaries. People were pinkish and the backgrounds were washed out browns and blues. When people were blue or green, it wasn't a mood choice, just some aliens.
It's always interesting to see the sci fi influence of Jodorowski's failed European Dune, from Blade Runner to most of Moebius' sci fi, but Nikopol is just another entry, not particularly revolutionary in its own right, though it was the inspiration for the sport of , which is amusing enough, as legacies go.
There's something so indulgent about French stories, which is at the same time their strength and their downfall. They lilt along, laughing and provokThere's something so indulgent about French stories, which is at the same time their strength and their downfall. They lilt along, laughing and provoking, never shying away, but there is also a lack of self-editing there that tends to leave them a bit silly and unfocused.
Sometimes, I think it's a problem of translation, and this translation is so unusually literal from the French, as if it were meant for primary English readers who understand the French language and culture, but who are unable to read in the language on their own. This is certainly one style of translation, but for a story like this, I tend to prefer a translation of idioms, emotions, and speech into the new language; but that requires a new writer just as creative and interesting as the original author.
But I also know it isn't entirely the problem of translation, as I've seen complex, intriguing stories that are delightful and deep even in translation, such as the works of Kurosawa or Charlier's 'Blueberry' comic. Then again, they are both familiar with the same Western traditions I am, so perhaps it's an easier shift.
Nikopol shows some of those indulgent tendencies, but also has an undercurrent of satire for overblown space operas like 'L'Incal'. Between engaging in indulgence and mocking indulgence, we get some fun, ironical, self-aware amusement, but there isn't a very strong plot to hang it all on. Perhaps it's my problem, but I tend to feel that nothing can really replace a good story.
The art was good, but the stylization was rather extreme. Everyone had the same cheekbones and the range of expression was disappointingly lacking. The world design was fun and detailed, though it all became similar rather quickly.
The colors were surprisingly straightforward, showing little dynamic exploration, especially when compared to the Moebius works that inspired it. The soft colors were pretty, but Bilal wasn't exactly pushing the boundaries. People were pinkish and the backgrounds were washed out browns and blues. When people were blue or green, it wasn't a mood choice, just some aliens.
It's always interesting to see the sci fi influence of Jodorowski's failed European Dune, from Blade Runner to most of Moebius' sci fi, but Nikopol is just another entry, not particularly revolutionary in its own right, though it was the inspiration for the sport of , which is amusing enough, as legacies go.
I've always been fond of the Britwave movement, not that I'm alone in my appreciation. The great blossoming of American comics after that infusion of I've always been fond of the Britwave movement, not that I'm alone in my appreciation. The great blossoming of American comics after that infusion of European style created some of the most legendary comics and writers of the modern age, like Moore, Gaiman, and Morrison.
But there are a lot of other, lesser-known authors who are part of the same movement, some of whom are remarkable and unique in their own right. So, when I heard about Robinson's 'Starman', I was surprised I hadn't heard of it before. Then again, Robinson's story is very late in the movement.
But another late entry by a lesser-known author, Peter Milligan's Shade, The Changing Man is one of the best comics I've ever read, even when compared with Moore or Gaiman. So I felt excited to come across another recent entry.
Unfortunately, this one hasn't snagged me yet. Though he has some interesting ideas, Robinson seems to lack the literary sparkle I expect from Britwave or Vertigo. The book is similar in tone and concept to what Milligon, Gaiman, and Moore were doing, but lacking the same verve.
I hope that, given time, he'll come to distinguish himself with an original voice. After all, even Milligan took an arc and a half to get into his groove.
The dark, artsy, angular art is very cliche 90's, right out of a Vampire roleplaying book, but it's fun and well-executed, despite its dated style. Luckily, Tony Harris wasn't left behind when comic art changed, as his more recent art in Transmetropolitan and Planetary attests.
Well, I was hoping that if I kept on with the series, I'd get used to the art, but unfortunately not. Giant chins and tiny, lipless mouths everywhere.Well, I was hoping that if I kept on with the series, I'd get used to the art, but unfortunately not. Giant chins and tiny, lipless mouths everywhere. And everyone looks like a pallid corpse thanks to the questionable choice of shading all fleshtones with an unsaturated grey. It's just not pretty.
And I don't think it's some deliberate attempt at disquieting horror art, either, because low-saturation isn't the way to make unsettlingly corpselike characters. There's a whole palette of greens, blues, and yellows out there that have been used to great effect in horror comics, and that's not what we're getting. It's not realistic, nor is it stylized, which seems to be my problem with this book in general.
We've got more and more plot unfolding everywhere, but no small story or character arcs to keep us entertained in the meantime. If Hill isn't going to give us small payoffs as we go along, the one at the end is going to have to be gobsmacking to make up for it. Too many good authors have dug that hole and proved how daunting it is to escape.
So far, the main impetus for the plot is watching the fox in the henhouse and waiting for them to stop him. It's about as dynamic as a car wreck in slow motion. You see everything coming, and there's a kind of unpleasantness as Hill slowly brings about the inevitable, but I'm not sure that it constitutes 'horror'.
Horror has to surprise us, not just make us squeamish, and there aren't going to be any surprises unless they start with the characters. So far, they're mostly archetypal: tools for facilitating the plot. Hill is all about pacing and getting the plot moving, which is impressive, but without the depth, voice, and character to back it up, what's the point? It's all getting a bit tedious.
It's unusual to see someone who has polished the structure of his writing so much but who is so otherwise lacking in subtlety and style. Usually, these aspects develop in tandem, but sometimes you find authors who work to perfect one aspect of their craft so much that the rest suffers.
It's those little things that make characters stand out: turns of phrase, emotional reactions, hypocrisies; things that indicate that the character has a past and an existence outside of the story (including plot-revealing flashbacks). I'm just not getting that from Hill and it's disappointing, because I want to like this story, I want to connect with it, I want to see its ideas explored, its influences nodded to and twisted around, but so far it's all too convenient, too plainly artificial.
And yet, it doesn't save itself by relishing its own artificial nature; a strong cliche can be a lot of fun, a weak, degraded cliche rarely is. It's neither realistic, nor an adventure, and I feel like this story is really losing itself between the extremes.
The background art is still far and away the most impressive part of the comic, but unfortunately, it never becomes the focus for longer than an establishing shot. It could be very effective if the comic quietly lingered on it, shifting through scenes and places and letting them become real, like in Hellboy. But we've got a lot of expositionary dialogue and flashbacks to get through if we're going to get to the good vs. evil climax any time soon, so we march on.
I can't stand a villain without a motive, and if ours has one, there's no indication of it in his one-track personality. So far, he just feels like a tool, in more ways than one, and the way the camera lingers on him, I'm starting to think the author has an unhealthy passion for his villainy, since we see it demonstrated over and over. We get it, he's the bad guy, now make us care!
Not a bad little book, but it didn't really stand out. It takes a lot from Lovecraft (such as the name of the series and the town where it's set) but Not a bad little book, but it didn't really stand out. It takes a lot from Lovecraft (such as the name of the series and the town where it's set) but most people probably wouldn't recognize Lovecraft's influence in this story, since it doesn't come from the more popular Cthulhu mythos, but from his stories.
These stories really touched me as an adolescent, with their depiction of an eccentric, ancient family line with magical connections to a world of fantasy. It's an appealing and rich story, but unfortunately, I don't feel that Hill has improved upon the idea. The 'Magic Key Family' with symbolic name also evokes Gaiman's Neverwhere, though whether that was deliberate, I couldn't say.
The plotting wasn't bad: fairly straightforward and with some good suspense, but it also didn't feel like a self-contained arc. It's fine to have a story that leads to something bigger, but it's always been my experience that a long story should be made up of solid, smaller stories that work well on their own. This one was too much mystery, not enough meat, and those kinds of stories usually end up like Lost: rambling, always suggesting, but never really going anywhere
We don't even really get character arcs, which are one way to create a satisfying subplot in a longer story. The characters do have internal conflict, but they don't progress very far. They tend to stall in their archetypal role, which wouldn't be a problem if Hill was content with archetypal characters, but they don't really fit with his story. Horror archetypes tend to be pretty thin on the ground and Hill keeps reaching for more.
So he keeps nudging the characters, trying to dislodge them, aiming for realism, but never quite getting there, which leaves the story in limbo. I guess that's what I felt was lacking, in general: a strong authorial voice to tie things together and drive the story along. There were some good ideas there, but not enough thrust behind them.
Another reason it was hard to connect to the characters was the art. Rodriguez draws extremely stylized people in the sort of cartoon/manga style I associate with graffiti sketchbooks. It was at once cutesy and ugly, which didn't match with the book's genre or themes, at least for me. The colorist also didn't seem able to find the planes of the cartoon faces, so we got a lot of murky dodge/burn skintone that wasn't helping anything.
My favorite part of the series was easily the background work, which was precise, detailed, stylistically interesting, and beautifully colored. As Scott McCloud mentions, having a detailed, moody background can do wonders for a comic book, really transporting the reader to Another Place. Combining this with simple characters which the reader can identify can be doubly effective, as evidenced by Tintin or Cerebus, but I'm afraid the awkwardness of the character art and the lack of subtlety in their personalities prevented me from getting lost inside them.
In the end, the book feels rather conflicted, with the art stylized to the point of affectation, but the writing plain, with little style to speak of. I guess it goes to show that an author needs more than the rules of plot, structure, and suspense to excel. Not much good rushing to a suspenseful plot when you haven't made interesting, sympathetic characters to people it.
Another solid story by Milligan, and a bit more unpredictable than the last two volumes, though it ends on a rather silly note. More than anything, I Another solid story by Milligan, and a bit more unpredictable than the last two volumes, though it ends on a rather silly note. More than anything, I was glad to have a new artist on the series. While Chiang's style was simplistic and blocky, like Pulido's, Chiang had a less cartoony style, with a greater focus on anatomy and dimension.
Though I was just as appreciative of the switch in colorists, going from rather light, predictable color to a lot of depth, and chiaroscuro. It's nice to see a comic that isn't afraid to paint people in colors other than light pink.
Milligan keeps an even keel in this series, but there's just not enough variety the stries. Same problems, same themes, same insights about identity. Milligan keeps an even keel in this series, but there's just not enough variety the stries. Same problems, same themes, same insights about identity. I don't feel like we've gotten anything that wasn't covered in the first, much more interesting arc. As in Shade's 'American Scream' storyline, we get another glimpse here of Milligan trying to come to terms with things that are quintessentially American; namely, baseball.
His take is amusing, and Chance's distance from the national pastime feels a bit European, though interestingly, the series itself feels more Japanese. I've never been fond of Pulido's work on this series, too flat, not enough flair or style. He's not pushing any boundaries with the art to match Milligan's scripts so I keep downgrading the books.
Whether it was intentional or not, Pulido is evoking Japanese baseball Manga and for once, he's actually experimenting with the form. I didn't feel like the experiments really went anywhere, they were just unfocused attempts to break the frame and do something more 'Vertigo'. Mere difference never makes for strong inspiration.
In his aping of Manga, we get some rather out-of-place art decisions, such as changing protagonist Chance from a classic Hollywood Clooney-lookalike with a lantern jaw to a young, slender, pointy-chinned bishonen (Japanese 'cute boy' stereotype). It was fairly inexplicable to me, but at least Pulido is trying.
Not a bad story, lots of twists and flashy language, but Milligan seems content to coast, or perhaps he's just not sure what else to say. Not every setting inspires every writer. Again, he's tackling the quintessentially American: Noir. But if Charlier and Leone can outdo us for Westerns, it shouldn't be beyond Milligan to bring a new perspective to it.
Comics have been going through a very public struggle with maturity for some time now. They were well on their way until they were hit with the 'ComicComics have been going through a very public struggle with maturity for some time now. They were well on their way until they were hit with the 'Comics Code' in the fifties. The code was an outgrowth of reactionary postwar witch-hunting a la McCarthyism, and succeeded in limiting the content of an entire medium for thirty years.
For example, all crime had to be portrayed as sordid, and no criminals could be sympathetic. There goes any comic book retellings of Robin Hood. Good always had to triumph over evil and seduction could never be shown or suggested. In trying to write around these and other rules, it's not surprising that code era books got a little weird in their search for original plots.
When they finally did shake off the yoke, following trailblazers like Steve Gerber and Alan Moore, authors were a bit over-enthusiastic, full as they were of pent-up stories and themes. What followed is colloquially known as the 'Dark Ages', where all heroes were bad dudes, everyone had guns, and Wolverine guest-starred in twelve comics a month.
The release of all that pent-up violence and sexuality hit the industry like a ton of bricks, and soon, anyone who was anyone was penning stories of decapitation and prostitution. They seemed to assume that the inclusion of mature themes made for mature stories, when in reality, they were about as mature as a high schooler's marginalia.
And this struggle is still going on, to one degree or another. At the low end, Liefeld is still out there writing the same action plots, and somewhat better is Ennis, whose Preacher is a love letter to swearing, gross-outs, and bromance. Transmet (for brevity) also has its share of sex, violence, and puerile humor, but for Ellis, this is more than just an exploitation romp, it's a means to an end.
Though underground comics were rife with subversion and political satire, mainstream comics have shown up rather late to the party. Moore's comics are often political, especially his early works, Watchmen and V for Vendetta, but these were rather serious takes, coming from the school of post-modern realism.
In Transmet, Ellis is coming at the issue from a later vantage, that of subversive culture-jamming, most evident in his nods to Hunter S. Thompson's 'Gonzo Journalism'. In the sixties, writers of varying stripes adopted this style in rejection of the repressive fifties, but it took longer to spread to comics.
We can see the same form in action in Transmet, in Ellis' protagonist, Spider Jerusalem, a post-cyberpunk stand-in for Thompson. Most of the time, Spider is following a spiral of madcap self-destruction, doing ridiculous, violent, amoral, childish things in order to break people out of their daily ruts. The first step of this kind of subversion is always to break through assumptions, refusing to play within the system because house rules favor the house.
There is a good deal of humor and adventure in these romps, and their childish unsophistication is part of their charm, and their power. He's an unpredictable, moving target, and though all his actions are focused on specific goals, he makes sure that he is dangerous and entertaining enough to make his mark.
This is where the second step comes in. Once you have grabbed their attention and torn down their expectations, your audience is primed to listen to you with fresh ears. This is the whole point of bombast, wit, and humor. Comedians and Court Jesters are funny because it command attention and allows them to approach issues obliquely, sidestepping the usual thought-terminating cliches.
When Ellis gets these moments, he doesn't put them to waste. As a writer, he is capable of a biting vibrancy that few other authors can match, in comics or sci fi. He hits some of the high points of his impressive career in this book, but then, perhaps that's not so surprising.
This book is relying on two very powerful writing traditions: Gonzo and Cyberpunk, which both use similar methods of witty, idiomatic information overload to communicate their message. What saves this book from the cartoonish violence of a book like Preacher is what always saves cyberpunk: the pure strength of writing.
Both styles share an obsession with synthesis: creating a complex mix of disparate social elements and theories without growing too focused on any particular element. That is why the baroque high-water mark of revolutionary psychadelic writing shares the same location as the birthplace of cyberpunk: Philip K. Dick and Illuminatus!
Gibson really blew everything else out of the water with Neuromancer, and the attempt to pick up the pieces is called 'post-cyberpunk'. It's a collectio of disparate writings sharing a theme and a setting, but widely disagreeing on most everything else. Gibson's book was so prescient (and still is), that everyone else is trying to prove themselves the next technological and social prophet.
There have been a lot of people jumping on the bandwagon, but Neal Stephenson's Snow Crash stands out as one of the most interesting, complex, and purely enjoyable of the lot. Consequently, I spent a lot of time trying (and failing) to find another book that could match it, but with little luck. Not even Stephenson's been able to live up to it.
But there is a lot in Transmet that meets that desire for another Snow Crash, and maybe that shouldn't be so surprising, since Snow Crash was originally scripted to be a comic. It's almost as full of ideas, it's as unpredictable and enjoyable, and the writing has that precise mixture of intellectual and pulp action.
That being said, sci fi is not Ellis' strong suit. This is a soft sci fi if there ever was one, and Ellis' society doesn't hold up to the originality and perverse plausibility of Stephenson's. Ellis gives us sentient nanoclouds next to still frame cameras activated by button. It's not as bad as Star Trek, where you can disintegrate and remotely reintegrate people but can't fix a broken back, but it's not a hard sci fi built around the changes technology brings.
Ellis is more concerned with his characters and his politics, but luckily, he tends to hit his mark with them. Spider, like most of Ellis' protagonists, is a black-hearted, cynical bastard who lives by his own code and leaves a swathe of destruction behind, but as usual, he still manages to make him sympathetic. At his best, Ellis manages to remember that Spider's flaws are flaws, though sometimes, and particularly as he wraps the story up, Spider gets to be too much 'crotchety hero' and too little 'amoral force of nature'.
But it's a good comic, and more than that, it's a good piece of sci fi, though more on the 'Speculative Fiction' end, since it's more concerned with exploring the question of 'what makes us human?' rather than 'what makes travel above c possible?' It's sad and unfair that it never got an Eisner; it surely deserved it.
In fact, it's a crime that this great sci fi series ended in 2002, and that same year, the Nebula and Clarke awards went to a rewrite of 'Flowers for Algernon' whose sci fi elements were superfluous to the story. But then, it's usually too much to hope that a book will both be well written and get accolades.
Robertson's art is also solid, though I'm hard-pressed to think of any interior artist who could match Darrow's covers, but Robertson does admirably. His vision of the future is amusingly detailed and unusual enough to transport us away, and his sense of pacing is strong.
It's worth noting that it took the world twenty years to catch up with Neuromancer, with the premiere of the first Matrix, and that this series predates that landmark social event by several years. As we move closer to The Singularity, and technologies are developed more and more quickly, predicting the future will become more and more difficult. Already, sci fi is shifting to predicting next year instead of next century.
But Transmet looks further than that, because like all great thinkers, Ellis recognizes that to look forward, we must look back. His update of the dystopia to revolutionary politics post WWII is inspired, especially as it is twisted with Gonzo Journalism and Post-Cyberpunk. The best ideas are never one idea, and though Spider's politics sometimes grow to dominate the series, Ellis still contrasts them with a multitude of concepts, leaving us with a pleasing depth of insight.
I can only hope that more comic authors will realize that sex and violence--even at their most over-the-top--can be vital, complex parts of a story, but only if they have a point. There is no story element too outrageous for the arsenal of a talented, driven author.
As usual, it's a joy to see Ellis' madcap style, as he plugs the dangling cords from the cyberpunk machine into the rusty dystopian engine until the whole thing lights up like a 500-channel cold-fission laser-guided Christmas tree. You could do worse.
The characterization was weaker in Milligan's second outing in this series. There was more narration and exposition, but not a greater psychological dThe characterization was weaker in Milligan's second outing in this series. There was more narration and exposition, but not a greater psychological depth requiring it. We were told too much and shown too little. The themes explored in Chance's character didn't cover any new ground when compared with the first series, though the dialogue and pacing were strong and there were moments where Milligan's flair for honest little moments and realizations showed through.
Pulida's art did not impress. Its simplistic, cartoony style was a poor match for the violence and drama of the story. Sometimes, an artist can get away with simple art through stylized action and a focus on color, layout, and chiaroscuro, as shown in Powers or Hellboy, but Pulida didn't have the idiomatic strength to pull it off.
All in all, a solid book, but with little to set it apart. But perhaps I do Milligan a disservice by comparing him to himself, he did set a rather high bar of expectation.
J.G. Keely
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