The opening tale is Nancy Gold’s ‘Showtime’. This focuses on three children or young men who work as part of a travelling circus, performing simple morality plays which portray the classic conflict between good and evil. One of the trio wears wings made of collected feathers, playing the role of an angel; another, facially disfigured, plays the opposing part. The equilibrium of their triumvirate is broken when a young woman appears, a strange girl who collects wings but is drawn to the scarred ‘Gash’ rather than the boy who likes to play at being an angel. Ultimately, the strangeness of desire trumps the appeal of earning a buck through crude showmanship. The story touches upon themes of alienation, and highlights how an alliance built upon convenience and lack of alternatives is no match for equality between partners.

After a brief break for Feng Sun Chen’s poem ‘Eclipse’ – which, alas, I am unsure what to make of – there is Hayes Greenwood Moore’s ‘The Creature from the Lake’. At its heart this story is also about desire. A couple find an odd creature, wounded, near a lake, and nurse it back to health. The story is written from a woman’s perspective, and her partner soon becomes besotted with the beast they are caring for. As for the creature itself, it appears capable of singing, although more often it merely cries out in pain, and how much of the former is a misinterpretation of the latter is left to the reader to decide. The story ends with an unmade decision that, intended or not, functions as a metaphor for how easily relationships can be thrown askew by a variety of factors; children, marriage, affairs. Both of these initial stories have a strangeness about them that dissuades simple interpretation, a characteristic shared by many other offerings in this issue.

Kristine Ong Muslim (who I believe I recognise from the ‘zine Greatest Uncommon Denominator) offers  a sequence of poems focusing on the character ‘Conrad’ and exploring the idea of “monster love”. They are at times sinister and grotesque whilst also being heartfelt and dedicated, juxtaposing the banal with the monstrous to explore ideas of unconditional love.

‘In Borges Bookstore’ by David Misialowski is the first story present I did not get along with. Its prose is less alluring, though by no means shabby, and its curmudgeonly protagonist fails to convince, as such characters often do. There are also better stories about magical bookstores, although I do like the allusion to Borges’ Labyrinths. Borges himself was supposedly obsessed with the term as a metaphor for how impossible it is to truly understand our world; this is a theme of Misialowski’s story but it is deployed a little too literally for its own good.

Demond Caldwell’s ‘Collector of Van de Voys’ is a more interesting story, and a quote illustrates the slipstream character of this magazine nicely: “he seemed fond of blurrings and blendings of what should have been clear outlines and well-defined borders”. This curious story does not easily surrender meaning but focuses most clearly on the sinister things that lie just beneath the surface of what may appear to be benign, pastoral scenes. Alternatively, it may be intended to reflect the ease with which viewers can misinterpret what they behold and are enthralled by.

Barry Napier’s poem ‘Sleepmaps’ muddies the line between the states of wakefulness and dreaming, rendering it unclear which is the nightmare that terrifies, although in its close it implies that interconnectedness emerges – perhaps can only emerge – during sleep, and that this interconnectedness – these sleepmaps – may offer a thread of hope.

I’m a little disappointed that I did not enjoy ‘Movie Man’ by Melissa Ross more. It’s an odd tale about a man who lives along in a tower and has always done so, and who has learned to define himself wholly through the films that he watches (his tower is a movie theatre, of course). He is an artificial construction built of cliché and archetypes, though of course he himself does not know that. One day, his birthday, a girl climbs into his tower, and despite his self-effacing excuses she is curious about him. She has strings attached to her that trail away, out of the tower, and in some way he causes them to break. The obvious interpretation is that the story functions as a metaphor for how even a socially estranged enigma can prove to be compelling enough to draw someone else to them. Despite this being the only understanding I could discern from the story I thought it a little cheap and unconvincing, although I do wonder if the story might be based on personal experience retold in weird.

Charlene Logan Bennet’s ‘Circling of Cranes’ clearly and attractively articulates a child’s desire for escape, a theme which recurs in Amy DeBevoise’s stranger ‘Antarctica’ – although the latter has an ironic edge whereby the narrator wishes to transplant herself to a new environment yet retain her old habits and traditions. Between these two poems is ‘Birds Every Child Should Know’ by Kate Riedel, a story in which dead birds, visible only to the narrator, appear atop garbage cans outside houses. These appear to represent discarded hopes and dreams, perhaps souls, with some deliberately killed and others expired through neglect. The narrator attempts to care for them but, even when nursed back to life, they always return to those who killed them. Eventually he finds himself in the position of working to save his own bird. If one accepts that this metaphor fits these birds the story’s meaning becomes clear, and from the title and the narrator’s behaviour emerge two strands of hopefulness from the latter’s thankless, impossible task.

‘The Snake Charmer’s Teeth’ by Amy DeBevoise is told in the form of a fable, wherein a charmer eats his snake to force it to talk. In this he succeeds, but the snake curses him, fusing itself into a bracelet in the form of Ouroboros. The snake’s curse never transpires although the charmer dies destitute; perhaps the curse was empty but it appears to have haunted him. The bracelet is lost, then stolen, then sold, and is eventually given to a girl dreaming of a better life by her incestuous father. During one of his attempts to force himself upon her the snake returns to life, crying out angrily as it devours her father – yet leaving him untouched. The girl weeps, the snake falls still, the father is perplexed, and little changes except, perhaps, the death of several more dreams. I suspect that I may have missed something fundamental about this story, alas, as I found its thematic circularity frustrating. But perhaps that Ouroborean circularity is the point.

Travis Blankenship’s poem ‘Molesting the Legend’, as one might expect from the title, features some wonderfully grotesque imagery. There is ugliness in much beauty, it suggests. It’s certainly less mawkish than ‘The Abandoned City’ by Benjamin Robinson, a mildly tongue-in-cheek tale of two men who make ice cream to salve the worries of a city threatened by war. One of them devises ‘tragedy flavours’ that help the city ‘find courage’. Although this appears to whip up some fervour the last few paragraphs leave it unclear just what ultimately occurs. Perhaps the bravery the citizenry found was simply enough to leave their homes; the atrocities of war were not prevented.

A man possessed by demons can be expected to have a hard life, even more so in a time of messiahs. ‘Somewhere Near Gerasa’ (modern-day Jordan) by Alex Myers follows an individual who has been cast out by his community, but is ultimately “healed” by a passing saint. Unfortunately his demons aren’t destroyed but simply forced elsewhere – into some pigs, which promptly kill themselves. The local swineherds are unimpressed, but the narrator seizes his second chance and sets out to spread the word. Whether that word is that one man’s salvation may be the loss of several others’ livelihoods is not described.

‘: sign language :’ by Jason Jordan boasts an interesting structure, its mid two stanzas appearing as interlopers within the poem. As best I can tell it is meant to apply a sort of Heisenberg’s uncertainty principles to poetry, to indicate that roving eyes and hands are intruders within the mood of a poem, changing it by the act of observation. Its disparate strands are interwoven with skill.

A more light-hearted story is next: ‘Pestilence’ by Jason Jordan. A journalist visits a man who is one of five living in a very strange house; every day of the week it is afflicted by a different plague. One day it floods, upon another all oxygen is removed, and on another corpses mysteriously appear and must be carted out. The journalist is invited to tell this story, with the residents’ representative hoping for sensitivity, but predictably what goes to print is a “travesty” and the subsequent media circus is a far more difficult plague to live with than the house’s predictable eccentricities. This is an obvious conclusion but I still found myself enjoying the story, perhaps as it doesn’t overstay its welcome.

‘Let This Be My Refuge’ is one of the few poems in this magazine that I found both easy to interpret and engaging. The refuge of the title is music as played by a lover, the delicacy of a musician being applicable elsewhere, too: “your fingerplay, my oh!”

Also featuring a musical theme is ‘Einstein Plays Guitar’ by Tania Hershman, featuring a maudlin genius who cannot seem to understand that he is not a genius in all things. He’s a terrible sax player, a mediocre pianist, and a somewhat entrancing violinist. What conclusion the story leads us to I cannot say, except perhaps that it’s worth tolerating the eccentricities of the brilliant.

Lisa Grove’s poem ‘The Cat and the Fiddle’ offers the startling observation that sex is preferable to chores; uncontroversial, yes, though by presenting this in the form of a nursery rhyme it more effectively delivers its message of carpe diem – live like innocents. At the opposite end of the age-scale is ‘Life Story of a Chilean Sea Blob’ by Theodore Carter, in which an old man reads in the news of an odd life form found in Chile. He’s enthralled by this story, and after he suffers a heart attack his devoted wife invents a fabulous continuation and conclusion of the sea blob’s tale. Deep down he recognises that it is untrue, but he loves her all the more for knowing him well enough to give him the excitement and mystery he desires. It’s a touching and sweet story with a gentle humour to it, and is one of my favourites in this issue.

‘How To Fall Down’ by Nathaniel Taggart appears to represent a moment frozen in time; as a man plummets from a window on an ordinary day he sees and hears “everything, always, at once”. But, of course, “the concrete hits hard”. It presents beauty but that is transient and its tale must end suddenly.

Another somewhat obvious story that succeeds by dint of being grossly over the top is ‘The Crushing’ by Phillip Neel. A man waiting in the DMV (US Department of Motor Vehicles, though I’m sure even non-USians are familiar with this hellish environment from any number of TV comedies) collapses and begins to vomit, first the contents of his stomach, then blood, then faeces. The building is overwhelmed, then the local village. From the ceaseless stream of vomit emerges trash, produce, food, raw goods, and toxic waste. Some of what is retrieved from the vomit is briefly usable but nothing can stop the flow. Ultimately the entire country is overwhelmed. A community and even a country can survive for a time on a foundation of bile, but eventually everyone will be buried and crushed.

The last two poems are ‘What the Calf Daughter Knows’ by Rob Cook, which dwells on the limitless hunger and cruelty of man, and ‘Fragmentation’ by Anna Jaquiery, which observes how parts of oneself are left behind everywhere, and how nostalgia is built of the desire to return and recollect these pieces. The last two stories are ‘A Tale of a Snowy Night’ by Naoko Awa (trans: Toshiya Kamei) which sadly I didn’t find at all engaging. The magazine ends with ‘Shades of Grey’ by Catherine Sharpe, a remembrance of a past, lost love which occupies similar thematic territory to ‘Fragmentation’, its shared locales and objects binding two people together through memory no matter the distance. I found it a resonant story to end on if only because I have plenty of memories of sitting in laundrettes feeling melancholy and dreaming up ideas for stories…

All told, I found Acapella Zoo #5 a mostly engaging collection of stories. It was often confounding, at times amusing, sometimes resonant, and occasionally thought-provoking. Its fiction and poems are arranged well enough that where they overlap and interlace thematically they flow together pleasantly – a delicate editorial approach. Whilst there are no stories here that I am likely to remember forever there were a few that touched me and a few that impressed me, and any collection that manages this is worth reading.

Official site | Issue #5 | Facebook

I suspect that the Potter series may be the longest-running consecutive series of films, with 8 titles (including the unreleased follow-up to this entry) spread between 2001 and 2011. This excludes James Bond as the films are episodic. It’s an achievement in itself, and it’s also been a unique experience to watch the actors grow from very young children into (mostly) more skilful young adults – all under the tutelage of a variety of directors.

A brief précis of the plot, for those living under rocks or who have forgotten great swathes of this long-running series: the return of the eeevil lord Voldemort is no longer in question, with his servile Death Eaters (half-cartoonish and half-threatening evil wizards and witches) and Dementors (soul-sucking Ringwraith wannabes) directly assaulting those who stand against them. The Ministry of Magic – the unspecific governing body for witches and wizards – has at last publicly vowed to stand against Voldemort. Towards the end of the previous film/book, the sagely grandfather figure of Albus Dumbledore was cut down by Death Eaters, shortly after guiding ‘chosen one’ Harry towards the revelation that Voldemort can be defeated by finding a series of artefacts known as ‘horcruxes’. And so the series builds towards its finale.

At the outset of the Deathly Hallows 1 Harry, with friends Ron and Hermione in tow, is being moved to a safer location for his own protection, and a substantial band of escorts and decoys has been gathered to facilitate this. It goes wrong almost instantly, with enemies waiting in ambush, and casualties are incurred in the act of ferrying Potter to safety. This scene immediately brings home what had previously been a more abstracted or occasional sense of threat. Throughout the preceding films we have been repeatedly told how great a threat the magical world is facing but have rarely witnessed it: in the first moments of this film we see a defiant speech which rings of a last stand, the brutal sacrifice of a prisoner by a council of evil (gathered around a long table in a castle, of course), and then our heroes fleeing desperately for their lives. This scene also emphasises a sense of epic bombast that the series has often promised but rarely delivered.

From that point on we’re back to a Harry Potter staple: mystery-solving and MacGuffin-chasing. Unlike the best of the form, a Potter mystery can’t be comprehended in advance by the audience because the pieces aren’t all there before them. There’s a small sense of pleasure to be derived from the experience of revelation, but how much more rewarding it is to make educated guesses at meaning. As for the MacGuffins, well, there are four more horcruxes to locate and destroy, and that’s not to mention the eponymous Deathly Hallows – a series of three more bloody objects to chase down. The Potter franchise has always dealt in the archetypal but one wonders if Rowling has gone overboard here for lack of alternative ideas.

Unfortunately for our heroes, it soon transpires that moving Harry to a safehouse was a waste of time – another staple, the series being notorious for padding. Death Eaters overwhelm the safehouse within seconds and those gathered flee, with the heroic trio teleporting (‘apparating’) to London – fortunately for them the ideal place to try and hunt down the next horcrux. It turns out to be in the possession of an irritatingly prim woman who’s heading up a literal witch-hunt in the now-subverted Ministry of Magic, identifying ‘mudbloods’ (the children of a magic-user and a ‘muggle’, or non-magical person) and seeing them imprisoned or, presumably, executed.

This is one of the more enjoyable sequences in the film, since the trio’s method of gaining entry is to knock out and impersonate Ministry staff members. There’s a good balance between the sinister presentation of the Stalinist new Ministry (people being dragged away by uniformed soldiers at random, checkpoints, propaganda mills, kangaroo courts and so on) and the inherently humorous portrayals of the teens occupying the bodies of adults. The adult actors do an entertaining job imitating the mannerisms of their younger counterparts as well as their obvious awkwardness and fear in an environment where they feel grossly out of place and lethally threatened. I particularly enjoyed David O’Hara as Harry, who manages to wear his own clothes as though he were a child wearing his father’s suit, complete with awkward stiff-armed gait and the reserved expressionlessness that fear can bring.

Following this sequence the film goes almost post-apocalyptic, with the trio venturing through the wilderness amidst various scenes of isolation. Grand, empty vistas and landscapes; deserted, partially destroyed caravan parks; walking beneath huge bridges devoid of activity. It is as though the rest of the world has abandoned them – an obvious attempt to make their plight seem all the more desperate. One wonders how, given the ability of evil-doers to locate our heroes with relative ease, their surviving allies struggle to do the same. Unfortunately the film begins to drag at this point, with the trio’s directionless quest almost functioning as a metaphor for the story’s lack of direction. There’s a predictable bit where tempers fray and the evil of the MacGuffin in their position seeps into their minds to poison their fellowship friendship – nooo, my preciousss! One member of the trio even leaves, although of course that’s just so he can conveniently show up again in time to save the day (see, even he can find them again – where are all their powerful wizardly allies, eh). Then the trio hop between a series of setpieces and showdowns while they attempt to move the plot forwards work out how to defeat Voldemort. At one point we’re even treated to a lengthy animation describing the backstory of the aforementioned Deathly Hallows. It’s a lovely piece of highly stylised animation although one wonders how necessary it was. I wonder if it represents a feeble attempt to boost sales of 2008′s The Tales of Beadle the Bard, a book which some reviewers found wholly unremarkable. This may seem unfair, but forgive me. I was watching a Harry Potter film and thus my cynicism glands were working overtime.

The film ends, tidily enough, with a heroic sacrifice and the villain gaining another piece of what he seeks. Gasp! What a cliffhanger!

As has been common of the Potter films from the 3rd entry onwards the set design is fantastic, between the tangentially fantastic Victoriana of the wizarding world juxtaposed with the bustling cities and tidy suburbs of the muggles and the desolate beauty of the wilderness. The performances also portray a growing degree of seriousness and gravitas. Particular kudos to Tom Felton as Draco Malfoy. His role in this film is relatively minor but given a small amount of screen time he offers a suitably conflicted portrayal of a child desperate to follow in his father’s footsteps, but also repelled by what is demanded of him. (Equal parts childish bravado and appearing on the verge of tears, which to be honest is how I imagine a spoiled young adult would feel when placed in perpetually terrifying circumstances.)

One problem facing this more serious, deliberately ‘darker’ entry into the series, is that the whimsical silliness left over from its more innocent, playful and childish beginnings feels grossly out of place. Assonant names like Rita Skeeter and the irritating nasal whine of Dobby the house-elf are two obvious examples; see also the clunky terms like ‘horcrux’ which I’ve quoted above. I’m sure it’s easy for sufficiently immersed fans to disregard this, but for casual followers they are more grating. Minor details such as these are also symptomatic of a larger problem within the series: that it has never been quite sure what it wants to be. Initially it was a story invented for Rowling’s own child; later, it broadened into a bloated fantasy series following our heroes through their lives – their ordinariness made extraordinary through fantastic analogy. And now it is an epic struggle between good and evil. The argument that it is a series which has grown up alongside its viewers and readers has some merit, but still feels like wallpapering over the cracks.

That said, despite all the flaws of the story and series this film is built upon, and the problems inherent with hacking a story in two and separating those pieces by a year, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – Part One is an entertaining film that manages to sustain a sense of threat and tension throughout most of its length. It sags in the middle and only finds its feet clumsily after that through a series of enjoyable set-pieces, but this film still represents the near-culmination of a story told over almost a decade, and it’s difficult not to be at least a little enthralled by that.

The cover art for #231 is the final piece of a 6-part series that has provided IZ with covers for the past year. The inside cover shows the complete work – it’s a very cool and striking piece of work that still stands up well chopped into bits. The visual style and use of colour make it really stand out, and it’s obviously not taking itself too seriously – giant robot loaded for bear, carrying bike in one hand and small girl in the other, apparently hunting down some submachinegun-toting schoolboys who are cowering behind a wall whilst spaceships and birds fill the yellow skies. Works for me. There’s been some valid criticism about the slight fetishisation/sexualisation of the only woman present (she’s wearing a gas mask, trench coat, long boots and not much else) and I can see that to an extent. But still, it’s an eye-catching and modern collection of covers and hopefully it has attracted a few new interested readers.

I should also comment briefly on the design: it has solidified into a clear vision over the years and now strikes a fine balance between being both striking and inobtrusive when it needs to be. Along with sister Black Static it’s the best-designed genrefic mag I’m aware of.

Anyway, #231 is a Jason Sanford special issue. (Who he?) He’s had six stories published in Interzone in the past including several which appeared in reader polls and one which was a Nebula finalist. Of these the one I remember best without looking through old issues (my memory is terrible) is ‘The Ships Like Clouds, Risen By Their Rain’, which I remember being a wonderfully strange and endearing fantasy of the type that blends the very humble lives of its initial cast with epic strangeness of the sensawunda variety. (Apologies to the non-SF nerds in the house, I will try to link to the stupid neologisms and slang I use.)

But first, we have several stories by other authors – including one introduced to Interzone by Sanford himself. Matthew Cook’s ‘The Shoe Factory’ is written from a young man’s perspective and partially told through flashbacks. In the present he is alone aboard a spaceship, which is experiencing serious technical trouble, and as is usual with these situations his life begins to flash back before his eyes. The parts of the story set in the past are much more evocative than the vaguely described ‘present’: the protagonist and his girlfriend, Emily, live in an abandoned factory in Guangzhou, China. They’re scavengers, picking what they need to survive from the derelict parts of the city. The time period is undefined but not too far in the future, set in China after the industrial/export-based boom has died and manufacturers have moved to cheaper places (“Somalia, or Haiti, or Mississippi”). Alas, the life of a hood rat is a cruel and brutish one. The events of past and present come together in a somewhat unexpected conclusion that will seem familiar to readers of space opera. Regardless, it’s a good story, well-envisioned and tautly self-contained. I look forward to reading more by Cook.

Next up is Aliette De Bodard’s ‘The Shipmaker’. This is another story from her Xuya continuity, an interesting alternate history series where China discovered America before Columbus and the Aztec civilization still exists – although it has declined, it has taken a different path, as has China, which is now the world’s dominant superpower[*]. ‘The Shipmaker’ incorporates elements of Eastern philosophy into the idea of designing a starship; both the ship’s pilot and the ship itself must be carefully made for another. Pilots are carried to term within volunteers (whose social status differs interestingly from culture to culture; the story’s main characters are women, and their experiences are also contrasted) and ships are designed by a team led by a Grand Master of Design. Dac Kien is one such Grand Master, but her efforts are put under strain by the early arrival of the Mind-bearer and the ship’s future pilot. ‘The Shipmaker’ is another fine example of De Bodard’s talents; an organic story with a fascinating setting, cultures and characters introduced and portrayed with great sensitivity and depth, and an interesting plot concept that plays second fiddle to characters and their place in the world.

The first of the three stories by Jason Sanford is ‘Peacemaker, Peacemaker, Little Bo Beep’. This is a curious story that may be slightly spoiled by its opening introduction by the author. I wonder how I would have reacted to the story had I not been previously introduced to the idea that it is based upon the analogising of sheep, sheepdogs and wolves for the public, police and criminals. The introduction characters slip into established roles earlier than they perhaps should; I wonder if some elements of tension within the story would have been heightened had I not suspected from the beginning who was and was not to be trusted in the circumstances (which are always what they seem, even if the why remains a mystery). All the same, Sanford introduces some good characters and does a decent job of portraying some of the morally grey aspects of his characters – although describing a serial killer-turned-halfway hero as “morally grey” is perhaps a bit of a stretch. This story reminds me of the recent remake of The Crazies, although here the explanation behind the weird behaviour of faceless masses is derived from pulp SF rather than zombie horror tropes. A second story in this setting is hinted at and could be interesting – although perhaps I’m just curious as to how Sanford might follow this story up thematically.

His second offering, ‘Memoria’, is a better story, one deeper in SFnal weirdness. Its theme is broader – memory, as is obvious from the title – and it is set in a multiverse where one Earth is surrounded by some sort of godlike entity that prevents anything non-organic from leaving. It also forces the souls – or complete memories and personalities, if you prefer – of the dead into the minds of those who attempt to leave Earth. Human ingenuity has produced the following solution: organic starships and human ablative armour in the form of criminals who have volunteered to accept the minds of the dead in place of the ship’s more valuable crew. The protagonist is one such volunteer, on his fifth and final tour, whose mind remains relatively intact. The personalities of everyone ever forced into him are still present, and he segues between interacting with – or being controlled by – them and the rest of the crew. The ship is engaged in visiting other versions of Earth elsewhere in the multiverse, and during one such visit the crew find themselves inadvertently bringing something back. It’s a tense story where the stakes gradually become higher at the same pace at which the reader’s comprehension grows, a solid mix of mystery and excitement. The conclusion is gratifying, too, on both a personal level for its damaged and sympathetic characters, and the way in which threat is tackled. It’s very much a deus ex machina, but one which had been sitting upon the mantlepiece all along.

The third and final piece by Sanford is ‘Millisent Ka Plays in Realtime’, which in terms of ideas is the most interesting story in this issue. It reimagines the world’s economic system as one in which all anyone can spend, loan or owe is time, literally the time of their lives, with their balance recorded by some convenient tech. Of course, the nature of economics hasn’t been wholly reimagined, and in fact the capitalism that birthed this alternative economic system has ironically produced a reversion to a fuedal system of vassalage and indentured servitude. The inventors of both the tech and the new economic system are among the most powerful lords of the new world, and their obsession is with music, so they focus most of their vast wealth upon acquiring and breeding talented musicians. Oh yes, children raised in this world must eventually repay the generosity their benefactors have shown them in feeding and educating and owning them – it is truly a horrible future to imagine, especially as it is one where music, a traditional panacea for slavery and servitude in all their forms, is the focus of the loss of liberty. The story’s protagonist is the daughter of two moderately successful musicians (not successful enough to be free or retire, of course) but displays little musical talent herself. The story follows her as she grows up, befriends a eunuch (a truly enchanting singer and one of the great prizes of their little kingdom’s lord), and – thankfully – finds a way to challenge the status quo. The story’s ending is a too upbeat to be entirely convincing, but thematically it feels quite right to me. “This is the only future we have. Might as well make the most of it.” It is change that makes music what it is, not the notes themselves but the transitions between them, and in a world informed by both music and power it is not impossible that the latter might learn something from the former.

Leading the non-fiction there’s an interview with Sanford by Andy Hedgecock which is of the usual solid standard, being a mix of biographical, exploration of theme and influence, the present state of literature and where SF can go from here. Apparently Sanford has identified an “emergent storytelling form, ‘SciFi Strange’, which sets high literary standards, experiments with style, is infused with a sense of wonder, takes the idea of diverse sexuality for granted, focuses on human values and needs and explores the boundaries of reality and experience through philosophical speculation.” This doesn’t sound particularly unusual to me; in fact it sounds more or less like the sort of slipstreamish SF that Interzone has been publishing for many years, but I’ll leave such judgements to more informed commentators. Regardless, the only thing in that quote that I think unnecessary would be the label.

There are the usual mix of book reviews, with the best as usual provided by old hands like Paul Kincaid and Maureen Kincaid-Speller, but none of them are bad and there’s a pleasant mix of personalities among the reviews (or so it seems to me, but then I have been reading this mag for years). Nick Lowe’s ‘Mutant Popcorn’ is, as always, the non-fiction highlight for me, combining his insightful criticism, cheery disposition and gentle wit in examining recent cinema releases with more kindness and thought than some of them might deserve.

Next: Tony Lee’s Laser Fodder. Disorienting quick-fire reviews, conjunctions mostly dispensed with. Hard to keep up at points, especially with lengthy run-on sentences compressing plot of film into unwieldy clauses upon clauses, but better method of conveying hefty quantities of information and interesting, well-supported if not always agreeable opinions about new DVD releases I don’t know. Recommended? Recommended.

A conclusion feels unnecessary as I don’t think I’ve said anything particularly negative above. Interzone is a good mag and well worth the price of admission, and if you need to start somewhere then #231 is a good place to do so, as I feel it’s a fairly strong issue overall.

Interzone | TTA Press

[*] China is a major player in a lot of Interzone stories, perhaps more so than the USA or any EU nations, but my favourite story about a new world superpower was one that put a high-tech African nation front and centre. I was sure this was an Interzone story, perhaps in an optimistic SF issues, but I’ve just flicked through a year and a half of back issues and not spotted it. Does anyone recognise this story? Not knowing will vex me…

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!

One thing that is quite pleasant is that the book’s key players do bear some relation to their historical counterparts, even if zombies don’t seem to have been recorded in the key literary and oral works of the period. Here’s Seneca the Elder (who was a rhetorician around the time of Caligula) and Petronius and the servile Claudius (whom Anno Mortis‘s Caligula enjoys psychologically tormenting). I’m fairly sure that Boda is indeed supposed to be Boudica, though I don’t think mention is ever made of her being any kind of leader. Anyway, it’s nice that the book does bear some relation to historical perspective, even if it’s at level of depth more akin to BBC/HBO’s Rome than a ‘srs business’ historical novel. Blood! Sex! Death!

It’s the sort of book for which the term “romp” or the phrase “rip-roaring adventure” was coined. Levene does actually succeed in walking the fine line of camp between the outright daft and po-faced seriousness (which was, in fairness, one of the two chief failings of Green’s Unnatural History – see the link above). It’s clearly quite camp and written with a tongue firmly in cheek, but at the same time it’s never knowing, as in an actor winking and smiling at the audience, sharing a joke about how silly the whole affair is. It also includes a succession of protagonists who aren’t preternaturally competent (the other chief failing of… etc.). Boda is a strong warrior but doesn’t know Rome at all, especially its lethal politics; Petronius is clever and possesses a silver tongue, but he’s also a lazy coward. At least at the outset all of this is true, anyway, because the characters discover themselves as the novel goes on and hidden depths of character are revealed and yada yada yada.

There’s nothing special or unique about this book but as a bit of lightweight adventure it’s an awful lot of fun. Even its setpieces (including a chase scene with zombie-driven chariots through the streets of Rome, and the city being laid siege to by millions of zombies complete with undead tigers, lions, wolves, boar, and the aforementioned elephants) are entertaining rather than tiresome. So, for all my sarcasm and piss-taking, I do actually recommend this book.

Rebecca Levene profile @ Abaddon Books

But it wasn’t all bad, particularly if you’re not me, because British SF & fantasy e-zine Hub Magazine published its hundredth issue. If you’re not in the know about the general life expectancy of magazines built around genre fiction it may not be clear what an achievement this is, particularly given that Hub boasts 10,000 subscribers (or, at least, is sent to 10,000 email addresses, which is not quite the same thing) and thanks to sponsorship deals with publishers is both solvent and a paying market for writers.

I’ve written about Hub before (#12-18 here, and #35-38 for The Fix Online) and have generally found it an entertaining if hit and miss read since then. So, as a landmark issue what does #100 exemplify about its run to date and what does it indicate for the future?

The issue opens as you might expect; with retrospectives from its editor, Lee Harris, and other regular staff/contributors Alasdair Stuart, Ellen J. Allen and Phil Lunt. It’s interesting to read Harris’s potted history of the e-zine, which began (as the name indicates) as a print magazine. It folded after two issues, a source of much disappointment for many in the genre scene, but was soon reborn in the form we know today. As was presumed to be the case at the time, the reason for the shift was cold, hard economics.

I hate to harp on about a relatively minor point, but if the author is somehow not familiar with Valve’s multi-million dollar gaming franchise then this is an amazing coincidence that has defied the odds of both Occam’s Razor and the nature of the Internet. So, maybe, gloss over the plagiarism a bit more in future?

There’s an almost orgiastic scene of violence as striders and soldiers turn guns on civilians, and then the story gets going as orbital satellite strikes knock out the weapon platforms. It emerges that this is a far-future Earth that has suffered two further world wars – the “stupid wars” – and was collapsing into total barbarity until posthumans stepped in. Thought dead, these children of mankind have changed themselves and developed their technology far beyond terrestrial humans, and as the story begins have spent some years trying to win the nations of Earth over to the benevolent dictatorship of their AIs.

‘Under a Closed Sky’ focuses on an agent of the posthumans, Alicia, although she spends most of the story in the stolen identity of a corrupt politician’s pampered daughter. The tale is set in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, a nation that violently resists posthuman intervention despite the will of most of its impoverished and brutalised population. Alicia’s mission is to assassinate the president – presumably as part of a larger posthuman plan for takeover. The bulk of the story concerns her efforts to assume and maintain her false identity, which must be maintained through convincing contact with friends and family as well as demonstrating adherence to routine for the benefit of the inevitable surveillance. These parts of the story demonstrate Paget’s confident writing and eye for detail, as well as foreshadow the tale’s conclusion.

The conclusion, the pay-off for the story, almost works for me. On the back of knife-twisting betrayal it portrays a clash between two distinct mindsets, both with strong arguments to be made for them. Clean drinking water and life without fear of murder and oppression, or for a species to reach for the stars, grow and change? Cleverly, one of the two arguments mirrors the intellectual theory underpinning a lot of colonial activity in the 18th and 19th century: benevolent dictatorship for the peoples’ own good. Once you make this connection that argument seems a lot less attractive; humanitarianism as an excuse for oppression and resource extraction is a long-discredited idea, if one still popular today. The other argument, well, it is more selfish than selfless, but it has the virtue of not being what it is up against.

Unfortunately this clash is built on a foundation comprising shaky understanding of international relations. Not wanting to give too much away with my criticisms, I’ll point at some background examples to highlight my argument. Why does the author posit that 51 American Nation-States would be at peace, existing in serene co-operation, as opposed to a Union that squabbled and infought? Not one US state – indeed hardly any nation in the world today – could exist in isolation. Without extensive international trade, not to mention intellectual cross-pollination, immigration and emigration, the idea of a modern, healthy and wealthy nation-state is absurd. And it is from the necessity of such agreements, put up against the scarcity of resource flow or the desire to not be left behind in economic, social or technological terms, that generates the majority of large-scale modern conflict.

The author even presents a diametrically opposed example within the same story: the argument that a nation-state established in the 1900s as a colonial territory, historically composed of many distinct tribal and ethnic groups, works better together as a group united by suffering and oppression under a dictator than it would as an atomised and warring confederation of component groups. Not only is this contradictory, it also overlooks a fairly central tenet of authoritarian politics and class theory: divide and rule. Whilst I know little of Congolese politics I would not be surprised that smaller ethnic minorities were used as a scapegoat by other groups or those holding power. So, unfortunately, with these and other examples undermining the ideas that thematically underpin the story, it doesn’t quite work for me.

But even if the story opens with plagiarism and ends with political naivete, despite this I like it. It’s well-written with a plethora of skilful small touches, the plot is sufficiently gripping to hold one’s attention to the end, the twist is cleverly foreshadowed but not signposted, it is set in an environment that sets it apart from many genre short stories, and it engages with big ideas even if it is a partial failure on that account.

The farmer Rayf Hamner is a retired soldier; a hero, really, albeit one who has been forgotten by those he left behind in city life, in politics and the army. He has his friends and his family, now, though they don’t seem to be enough for him. He projects his hopes and desires onto his son, Nile, hoping that the stolid, reliable boy can achieve the metropolitan success that he never did.

Nile, on the other hand, is perfectly comfortable working on the farm. The very picture of an unimaginative, loyal and honest farmhand, he is not enthusiastic about his father’s plans, but nor is he unfaithful enough to argue against or otherwise resist them. It is what his father wants, he supposes, so it is what his father shall have.

When an elderly teacher of devices – a sorcerer in all but name – is secured by Rayf for Nile, the family are pleased to have him with them. A humble yet charismatic man, he professes to be pleased to enjoy a simple country life for his retirement in exchange for teaching the young man. Nile puts his all into his education, and although he does not understand what it is that he is supposed to be learning, both he and his teacher are surprised at his success, despite his age being far in excess of what is considered ideal for a magical education.

But, of course, all is not as it seems.

It’s a stronger if less ambitious story than ‘Under a Closed Sky’. The pastoral environment is simply described and evocative for it; the archetypical characters a reflection of the uncomplicated nature of their lives. Both the conflict that arises and the manner of its resolution emerge organically and in keeping with the nature of the story’s characters, and it’s possible that it will leave a smile on your face. The latter is dependent on whether you regard striving for greater personal accomplishment in the eyes of the great and good, or being at peace with one’s surroundings and close friends and relatives, as the more worthy goal.

After that we have another article about the iconic nature of the Doctor from, of course, Doctor Who, which appears to be a quite detailed mini-history of the character and the actors playing him. I admit to only skim-reading it due to lack of interest; I’m under thirty and didn’t really encounter the TV show until last year when I was finally convinced to try watching the post-2005 version. Then there is a little puff piece about role-playing that doesn’t really say anything beyond “role-playing is good”; perhaps its author could have collaborated with the writer of the piece about erotica. And, finally, there is a competition. Best get your answer in before October 24th 2009, readers!

So, not a great non-fiction showing – the only strong-looking piece being one of no interest to me. But Hub is read for its fiction, and #100 made a good impression on that front. So what says this of the future? Well, with the benefit of eight issues having been published since I started writing this review, I can state with confidence that it says “more of the same”. The e-zine is still publishing stories that include a decent number of gems among them, and is sticking to the same formula that has seen it through its first hundred issues. It has changed sponsors, which makes for a change in banner ads. Stylistically it’s also identical; perhaps this is an area where Hub could innovate? Consistently finding good or at least mediocre SF or fantasy artwork on a limited budget cannot be easy, although half an hour on DeviantArt proves that it’s possible, but sprucing up the design a little would require little investment outside of time with software. But hey, since #3 Hub has been exemplifying the maxim of “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” – so perhaps that wisdom should be respected. Here’s to another 100 issues.

They have recently concluded the story Odysseus the Rebel, which begins ten years after the fall of Troy. Sound familiar? Yes, it’s a re-imagining of the classic Odyssey with a distinct spin. Writer Steven Grant (an industry veteran, thought as a comics n00b I’m not that familiar with his work – he did a Punisher mini-series and has written for most of the major IP of the biggest comics companies in the last three decades) presents a much more cynical view of the great Greek heroes. Achilles and Ajax are simple-minded bullies, Agamemnon a selfish murderer, and Odysseus is a man determined to make his own way in life in defiance of what is demanded of him by higher powers. Following the fall of Troy, Odysseus’s fate tangles directly with vassals of Poseidon – god of the sea – who demands that Odysseus bend his knee to the will of the gods. Odysseus rejects him, refusing to willingly play a role as a mere pawn. And so begins an Odyssey quite distinct from the one you may be familiar with, in which the plots and power struggles of the Greek Pantheon, heroes and monsters play out in a manner not entirely expected.

It’s a quite extraordinary re-telling in many ways, and it does not represent much of a spoiler for me to state that Odysseus’s defiance of Poseidon, and his unshakeable faith in the future of men superseding that of the gods, reaches a most appropriate culmination. The old Greek myths portrayed men, even the greatest among them, as little more than playthings of the gods, with both bound into factional combat by the support of various bloodlines and feuds. To the ancient Greek storytellers war was its own reason, needing no justification, and why would the gods think differently to men in this respect?

In contrast Odysseus the Rebel portrays men as weak and strong or defiant and cowardly in equal measure, but it is its protagonist alone – always the cleverest of the heroes – who sees beyond the simple struggles for survival and power that characterise those who war against him. It is this vision, coupled with a powerful inner strength, that makes the gods hate and fear Odysseus so powerfully, and it is this that sets them so ardently against him, makes them so determined to break his will.

Artwork is provided by Scott Bieser, another name I’m not familiar with. As usual I don’t feel competent to comment on comics artwork, save to say that it is bold and flows well; the character designs are good and distinct (particularly given that there are an awful lot of muscled, black-haired Greek men in this comic); the action sequences and large-scale shots are a particular strength. The art becomes more assured as the series goes on, but I expect this is true of any artist beginning a story or moving into a style they’d not previously been familiar with (on the BHP website, Bieser states that he wished “to create a more energetic style which will evoke the highly intense, driven personality of Odysseus”).

The story, now that it is finished, is soon to be published in dead tree format by Big Head Press. It’s still available online, as are La Muse and many other stories, and I heartily recommend you check them out either digitally or in print.

(It occurred to me after writing the review of ‘Feels Like Steven King’ last week that I’d promised to post my Vector reviews online a month or two after they appeared in the magazine itself. That deadline has long since passed for the first three reviews, so I’ll post one on Saturdays for the first three weeks of August.)

This all-new story set in Brooks’ world of Shannara is not only its first appearance in a graphic novel, but also my first experience of the setting. Fans may wish to take my opinions with a pinch of salt.

Set after the events of ‘The Wishsong of Shannara’, ‘The Dark Wraith of Shannara’ resumes the story of Jair Ohmsford, a young man capable of using a form of magic known as the wishsong. As the story begins Jair’s sister has him swear not to risk using the dangerous wishsong again, but Jair is troubled by portentous dreams. The following day he learns that several old friends have been kidnapped, and so Jair and those allies he can round up set out to rescue them. Along the way Jair learns more about the wishsong and about his own potential.

This story is generic, inoffensive quest fare, featuring appearances by various characters who I assume will be known to Shannara fans. The central plot works well enough; it is unoriginal but comprehensible to a newcomer. But it is as a graphic novel that ‘The Dark Wraith of Shannara’ is flawed. This rests on the way that the tale has been written and structured, seemingly as a short story with pictures rather than something that embraces the strengths of the graphic medium. This problem is obvious in every caption of narration, in every transitionally disconnected panel, and in every bit of expositional text. As the story does not always flow visually, the author and reader are forced to rely on this omniscient crutch. The old writer’s adage of ‘show, don’t tell’ is rarely this obviously and damagingly violated.

The artwork itself is competent but lacks the personality that can breathe life into a setting. Perhaps this is partially down to Shannara itself, which seems to be drawn from a very generic high fantasy tradition. This could be part of the charm of Shannara to its fans–there is an almost pastoral feel to the setting–but personally I found the lack of ambition and imagination uninspiring.

The flaws of ‘The Dark Wraith of Shannara’ are too significant to make this graphic novel worth anyone’s time. Whether it’s due to the poor adaptation to the comic book medium or the sense of having seen it all before, it’s likely you’ll come away disappointed.

If you’ve not been following, which is sensible, but want to get clued up, which is not, I’d recommend going here and sniggering at the fail on display. This is also amusing.

The most amusing thing is that genre magazines continue to use this sort of awful, juvenile artwork. Publishers should consider offering free pull-out brown paper bags in which to conceal your sordid little fantasies and skiffies. Even TTA’s Interzone, which has had a lot of great covers and artwork, has fallen into this painful trap on a few occasions.

Let’s stop sneering at fantasy readers

They might be the zit-ridden little brothers of science fiction geeks, but fantasy readers still deserve our respect

Making a good start there, then.

I wonder if this byline policy is also going to be extended to other subjects. Perhaps we can also look forward to Time for the violence in Tehran to end – even if those crazy brown folks do enjoy a spot of barbarism, or Calling for an end to rape – although she was totally asking for it, wearing that tight little miniskirt.

On the positive side of things it’s under a half-dozen comments into the thread that names like Mieville, Vandermeer, Swainston et al start getting mentioned. So we know that Guardian readers are capable of adult dialogue even if the paper’s editors may sometimes fall short.