>>Nostalgia For Infinity

As I sit down to write this review in mid-August, 2011, the riots that have erupted across Britain over the past week have begun to subside, the energies that drove them dissipating in the face of a coherent police response and that most British of demotivators, the weather. But the anger, social exclusion, vanishing economic possibilities, lack of faith in police relations and sense of political betrayal that initially produced this eruption among Britain’s poorest urban communities remain.

Gary McMahon’s The Concrete Grove plumbs the fertile ground of such forgotten areas, its dark tale derived as much from the existential horror of hopeless or wasted lives as the natural and supernatural forces that prey upon them.

Lana and Hailey, single mother and daughter, have been forced into a life on an estate – the eponymous Concrete Grove – which surrounds the Needle, a derelict and sinister Brutalist block of flats. The Needle pierces the heart of a community racked with poverty, desperation and accompanying social issues like drug abuse, violence and entrenched petty criminals with a penchant for cruelty. One such ambitious thug is Monty Bright, a loan shark obsessed with the history of the Grove. Monty takes an interest in Lana and Hailey, using Lana’s debt to him as leverage while he tries to understand the growing connection between Hailey and the Grove.

A few roads over, just outside the estate, a middle-aged man named Tom supports and cares for his bed-bound and clinically obese wife. Tortured by his own demons and a sense of being trapped in his own life, Tom finds himself drawn to Lana and Hailey and by extension involved in whatever plans Bright and the Grove have in store.

The Concrete Grove’s most interesting conceit is its fusion of old mythologies with present realities. The backstory describes how the Needle and surrounding estate were built over an ancient Pagan site of nature-worship. The power of the old Grove remains but it has been corrupted by the pathologies of the human community that now surrounds it. Forces bleed out into our world, and not all of them are as ambivalent as those the Pagans once worshipped.

Although the actions of McMahon’s characters may not always convince – Hailey in particular makes a few leaps of faith and illogic that I struggled with – and Tom is one of those frustratingly frustrated middle-aged characters whose internal monologue is dominated by a desire to fuck anything with a blouse and a pulse, they are on the whole a sympathetic bunch who draw us into the worlds he has built around the iconic Needle. The thematic juxtaposition on which the novel is based is maintained throughout: England’s past and present, the powers produced by suburban sickness and health, all revolving around by the ambiguous forces of nature. The novel’s conclusion reflects this state of thematic balance well, although it’s also possible to read in a much more traditional horror motif.

The Concrete Grove itself clearly has more stories to tell. By the book’s close it remains a source of substantial mystery, and the desperate poverty and anti-social behaviour that surrounds it remains unaddressed and ignored by the wider world.

384pp paperback, published by Solaris Books.

[This review originally published in Vector #268, the critical journal of the British Science Fiction Association. This version of the review precedes the published version being reformatted for printing but is otherwise identical.]

“DON’T TALK TO HIM ABOUT THE WAR!!!”

As the discerning reader might observe from the opening line of this book’s blurb, quoted verbatim above, this is not a novel trading in subtle and elegant prose. No, Major Karnage is a shameless throwback to the days of pulp SF adventure.

Gord Zajac is a fiction editor for the Chiaroscuro webzine and writes for TV, including numerous cartoons for Cartoon Network. These two roles feed into Major Karnage in a very obvious way: the novel benefits from its author’s obvious versed familiarity with genre fiction and it is informed by a cartoonish sensibility. To whit: after a war to end all wars, the multinational Dabney corporation seizes global control of Earth and locks away all its war heroes. Fast forward a few years and the planet is a very different place, with odd flora and fauna spreading and a secret alien invasion underway.

The eponymous Major Karnage is incarcerated in a mental institution alongside a squad of soldiers with whom he shares an intense loyalty. Karnage is a soldier driven by rage and instinct and part of his rehabilitation involves a ‘sanity patch’ at the base of his neck. This device is rigged to explode if Karnage’s temperament escalates too far. This is something that happens a great deal after Karnage’s soldiers are alien-napped and he sets out to defeat the ‘squiggly’ menace from beyond the stars.

Zajac obviously revels in his thoroughly pulpish, tongue-in-cheek narrative and there’s a playful attitude throughout. Unfortunately, whilst humour is a major aspect of the novel, Major Karnage suffers from the problem of not being that funny. Mileage will always vary when it comes to jokes but the novel rarely drew out more than the wry smile of a shared joke. There are also weak long-running jokes, such as the colour-coded ‘sanity levels’ of Karnage’s patch: the penultimate level before his head is blown off being “Strawberry Shortcake”.

Structurally the novel is predictable, clinging to Karnage’s viewpoint with a few brief asides to see minor characters being written off. Whilst Karnage’s motives drive him forward convincingly, he spends a lot of time being knocked out or captured in order to get to where he needs to be. Although the book is pacey I found the first half significantly less interesting than the second, with too much time devoted to getting the plot moving and dropping a few guns on Chekov’s mantlepiece. And one last criticism should surely be pointed at the global dominance of the Dabney corporation: Disney doesn’t reflect the modern zeitgeist of controlling corporate greed any more, surely? We’re past the idea of an entertainment multinational controlling every aspect of our lives; nowadays it’s the internet giants lead by the mighty Google.

I found Major Karnage a moderately enjoyable read and as a first novel it’s a competent enough outing. Unfortunately it’s not a novel I would have persisted with were I not reviewing it. Had it proven funnier, more satirical or more gonzo then my conclusions might be different.

[This review originally published in Vector #265, the critical journal of the British Science Fiction Association. This version of the review was edited by Martin Lewis.]

In the near future, ARGs (Alternate Reality Games) get big. Some – such as those produced by Dagmar, lead writer and planner for Great Big Idea and fondly nicknamed “the puppetmaster” – are so big that they are played by hundreds of thousands of people across the world. As the book opens she is in Jakarta for the climax of one such game. She is trapped when Indonesia’s currency abruptly collapses; the government soon follows leading to widespread civil disorder.

Dagmar’s story is at the heart of this novel but is also interwoven with the tales of her college acquaintances, friends who bonded over pen and paper role-playing games. Foremost among them is Charlie, a self-made billionaire who funds Great Big Idea. The first act describes Dagmar’s escape from Jakarta, a story in which Charlie’s limitless funds and a professional mercenary group are pitted against the contacts and ingenuity of Great Big Idea’s thousands of players. It’s a tense thriller with a well-envisioned setting, juxtaposing the precarious luxury of the Royal Jakarta Hotel with the poverty and violence outside. The hotel soon becomes a prison and Dagmar is forced to choose whether she should follow the instructions of a military professional, or put her life in the hands of individuals who may believe her plight is only a game.

The book has an interesting premise and it’s pleasing to see a thriller engaging with relatively new technologies and concepts like ARGs, social networking and cloudsourced knowledge. This also represents its Achille’s Heel: technology enthusiasts and players of ARGs may not find some aspects of Williams’s novel wholly convincing, exacerbated by the fact the novel is self-consciously imprecise about when it is set. For example, the first chapter describes laptop “turbines” which supply power and extend battery life; this sits anachronistically alongside a custom-made PDA that sounds less impressive than the latest iPhone.

Similarly the design of the ARG that is entwined with the novel’s other narratives feels dated and claustrophobic. Aspects of this game, supposedly played by hundreds of thousands, operate on a first come, first served basis. Thus only one player gets to participate, under the assumption that they will then share what they have learned with other players. It’s understandable that the game design is structured this way in order to work within the book, but it doesn’t convince as a game that would be played by more than a few hundred devotees. Williams does attempt to justify this by stating that many of the ‘players’ are observers rather than active participants, but compared to ARG projects like Superstruct the fictional game design feels lacking in imagination.

This Is Not A Game is a novel that is somewhat let down by its lack of intimate familiarity with the concepts that underpin it and this will be obvious to readers who are drawn to it by way of these concepts. However, it remains a highly entertaining speculative thriller that attempts to engage with the modern world, rather than ignoring the aspects of it that are inconvenient to plotting.

[This review originally published in Vector #264, the critical journal of the British Science Fiction Association. This version of the review was edited by Martin Lewis.]

There is an argument to be made that it is a difficult time to be writing action-packed fiction with a pulpish bent: more modern forms of entertainment media continue to grow in popularity, and whilst videogame narratives struggle to claw their way out of the ghetto of barely-coherent melodrama and machismo it seems probable that it will be the game, not the film or the novel, that will retrospectively define the youth of this generation.

There is also an argument to be made that this trend need not be relevant: there will always be space for novels that build themselves around action and adventure, and there will always be readers. The young are not the only demographic worth pursuing, and nor are they the only demographic who, to put it hyperbolically, enjoy having their adrenaline raced.

John Trevillian’s first novel, and the first of a trilogy, is what I would consider pulp fiction for the modern SF reader. It’s full of ideas, many of them – as is inevitably the case in a culture saturated with media production – familiar. It picks and chooses from sub-genres; the decadent megalopolises and megacorps of cyberpunk, the iconic villains and heroes of the more light-hearted end of post-apocalyptic fiction (an oxymoron, yes, but a highly entertaining sub-genre), the gun-porn and gung-ho attitude of MilSF, plus a smattering of satire.

» Read the rest of this entry «

Although it was originally released in 2004, and I bought it in 2005, it was only this year that I finally read this book – which courted some controversy when it originally shot up the bestseller lists. The short summary is that this purports to be an autobiography which focuses on some of the most significant events of the author’s life in relation to US foreign and economic policy. In Perkins’ college years he was put under observation by the NSA, who felt that he fit the psychological profile of an economic hitman, EHM for short; a combination of intelligence, patriotism and manipulable weakness. He joined the peace corps for a spell in South America after which he was recruited by an organisation known as MAIN, a US engineering and consultancy firm which specialised in overseas contracts for states the NSA wanted to bind together with the USA in a mutually beneficial economic arrangement. This meant that these nations would either accept development loans from the IMF and World Bank or utilise their own wealth, which funds would then be funnelled into US corporations who would modernise private and public infrastructure in the client states.

The general facts of these relationships are not particularly controversial these days; it’s common knowledge that the IMF and the World Bank are institutions in which the USA has a lot of power, and that states which accept development funds are obliged to adopt certain neoliberal doctrines (primarily privatising state assets and infrastructure and opening them up to bids from international, often US, corporations). It’s also common knowledge that this process of ‘modernisation’ often does as much bad as it does good. Where natural resources are opened up to exploitation indigenous peoples see their lifestyles destroyed; where hydroelectric dams are constructed tens or even hundreds of thousands of people find themselves forcibly relocated. Serious health risks can arise as a result of pollutants or disease; funds often find themselves funnelled into the pockets or pet projects of elites in client states at the expense of those who are worst off.

» Read the rest of this entry «

It’s a while since I reviewed anything from British genre publisher Abaddon Books (see here), and indeed since I read anything from them. I’ve got a certain measure of admiration for what they’re trying to accomplish but the fiction I’d read from them to date had not exactly blown me away. However, I didn’t count on a friend pressing this book into my hands and insisting that I must read it. “I thought it would be rubbish,” she said. “But it has zombie elephants!” She did, originally, pick it up on the basis of the barely-clothed “barbarian” woman on the cover (check out that underboob – now that’s what I call a literary quality, phnarr phnarr).

I think these two facts tell you just about all you need to know about the unique selling points of Anno Mortis.

Oh, sarcasm aside it’s fun enough. Here’s how it goes: in the age of Emperor Caligula (casual mass murderer and serial fucker of all things with holes), the barbarian warrior Boda (as in Boudica, get it?!) is brought to Rome to fight in the coliseum as a gladiator. She quickly gets caught up in some shady business involving dark rites and the bodies of dead gladiators. Around the same time, the feckless playboy and wannabe playright Petronius is forced into the apprenticeship of the Senator Seneca, who it turns out is involved in some shady business involving dark rites and the bodies of dead gladiators. I hate to spoil it for you, but they toootally end up sharing some adventures and unlikely chemistry!

» Read the rest of this entry «

A recent collaboration between new genre imprint Angry Robot and the British Science Fiction Association saw all BSFA members sent a free copy of Colin Harvey’s new novel, Winter Song. Vector (the BSFA’s critical journal) editor Niall Harrison and reviews editor Martin Lewis organised a reading group for the novel, and the end of April saw a swathe of bloggers and reviewers sharing their thoughts on the book. I’ve missed the boat on this one – I’ve missed a fucking  flotilla – but what the hell, I’ve read it so I may as well add my two pence.

Winter Song is set on a partially terraformed human colony that is structured around the emulation of old Icelandic cultures (the novel, in fact, is inspired by the old Icelandic Sagas as well as contemporary Icelandic fiction), with the planet’s scattered population gathered into small clans under the leadership of “Gothis”. The clans exist in a perilous and freezing environment in which scraping out a living is a challenge that occupies every waking moment, to which must be added the danger of local fauna. The terraformers who once oversaw the planet’s development are long gone, political and economic factors leading to abandonment of the colony and its inhabitants. The novel’s protagonist, Karl Allman, is plunged into this world when his starship is ambushed and destroyed by a faction of humanity that opposes modified Radicals like him.

For much of the novel Karl is nursed back to health by the clan that found him. Principally he’s cared for by Bera, the unmarried mother of a dead bastard child, under the watchful eye of the Gothi Ragnar, a harsh and pragmatic man prone to fits of rage. Ragnar is determined that the stranger pay his dues and work off his debt to the clan. Karl is eager only to leave the planet and return home, where his wife is expecting a child. Bera, desperately unhappy among her adoptive clan, first transfers her mothering instincts to the wounded Karl and later develops more complex feelings for him. Ultimately Karl and Bera set out to find a shrine known as Winter Song, a relic of the colony’s murky past that may be the only way Karl can find his way home.

» Read the rest of this entry «

“In the circus, acrobatics where one person lies on the floor balancing another are called “Icarian Games”. Considering the fate of Icarus after he flouted his father’s advice and flew so close to the sun his wings melted, perhaps some dark humor is intended.

“In our particular re-enactment of this mythic relationship, it was not me but my father who was to plummet from the sky.”

Fun Home, by Alison Bechdel

So begins Alison Bechdel’s groundbreaking work of memoir and comics, Fun Home. It’s an apposite beginning: at once literary, darkly humorous, and reservedly dramatic. Here, as throughout, Bechdel’s father is centre-stage, for this is a story of the last twenty years of his life, and the first twenty of Alison’s.

Bechdel’s artwork is fantastic; stylised and thorough with a wonderful eye for detail, and often playful. Sometimes she points out her small flourishes of authenticity, like part of a Halloween costume worn well after the event is passed. A fine example of more subtle detail is in a panel that follows several pages discussing the Gothic Revival house Bruce Bechdel has restored and in which the family live;  below the caption “Yet we really were a family, and we really did live in those period rooms” is a scene of the family in their 1860s living room. The children are playing and the parents are watching television whilst sharing a bucket of KFC. The anachronistic nature of the scene speaks for itself.

As any honest work of memoir must be, it is at times brutal in its depiction of events and character. Bruce Bechdel is portrayed as a man of violent tempers, intolerant cruelty towards his children, and central in driving the comic’s author into an obsessive-compulsive disorder. He is also shown as capable of simple acts of kindness and warmth, as a master of period restoration and interior design, and as a highly-cultured, well-educated man. The picture that emerges, overall, is of a man with severe problems, tragic weaknesses and admirable strengths.

» Read the rest of this entry «

American Hardcore: A Tribal History by Steven Blush

It’s difficult to approach this book, originally released in 2001, without bringing a certain amount of baggage with you. It’s probably among the most well-known collected histories of the early American hardcore punk movement, particularly after it was adapted into the notorious film of the same name. It’s widely regarded as an essential resource in tracing the bands, people, geographical and musical trends of the time; a book almost anthropological in its attempt to thoroughly document a long-dead scene (no no no hardcore is not dead, nor is punk, but in this exact form it’s gone). It’s almost as widely castigated for attempts to assert itself as ‘the’ undeniable true history of American hardcore, 1980-1986, for maintaining a pretence at objectivity even as it recounts personal recollection as fact and presents stories that are sometimes one-sided and often poorly recollected by those quoted.

I’ve got a good amount of distance from the book, being an English bloke who was only born a year before Minor Threat split up. Whilst I can’t and won’t attempt to dispute any of what the book claims as fact, I can observe that where a particularly controversial subject arises (such as the infamous dispute between the Bad Brains and the gay Texan band Big Boys over the former’s homophobic attitudes and generally shitty behaviour) a variety of participants and observers are given space to speak their piece. The difficulty in retrospectively covering something that was erratically documented at the time speaks for itself, especially bearing in mind that a lot of early participants were young and prone to extensive indulgence in alcohol, drugs and extreme violence; the sort of thing that, over time, can fuck with your head pretty thoroughly. And that’s not even to mention the amount of difference time can make to memories: over time people’s minds will inevitably distort details to fit their opinions.

» Read the rest of this entry «

The Arcade of Cruelty, by Joseph "J.P." Larkin

I’ve reviewed a fair mix of self-published books in my time. They included a few gems but quite often they were frankly fucking awful genre novels, written by people who evidently didn’t read widely. As such I stopped accepting them for review. For some reason, in 2008, I accepted for review The Arcade of Cruelty, a book which sounded like an oddball collection of self-hating diatribes and darkly humorous artwork. About three months later, after I’d all but forgotten about it, a copy arrived in the post – sent from the US via the cheapest international tariff available, a very sensible move as it’s a huge, weighty book.

Since then it’s sat on my shelves as I’ve not really known what to do with it. I’ll be frank: it’s more of a vanity project than any of those terrible SF books I’ve read have been, even the ones that middle-aged men had been dreaming up since their university days (oh, I loved those press releases, let me tell you). You see, it’s more like a scrapbook than anything else, albeit one that’s 250 glossy, high-quality and colour printed pages. It’s also sub-titled “A Tender Cry For Help in Words and Pictures”. There’s a lot of self-deprecatory humour in this book, although most of the time it’s much more generous with the self-loathing than it is with the funnies.

» Read the rest of this entry «