Monday, 25 July 2016

Beerbelly and grey hair - am I growing dystopian?

I have been having a metaphysical difference of opinion with my children.  When I talk pushing an event or an appointment ‘back’, I mean putting it to a later date.  But to the kids this is bringing something ‘forward’.  They simply don’t understand how forward could ever be back.

Of course, I am the adult and they are children, so I am right and they are wrong.  Quad erat demonstrandum.

But, of course, I think this hides a deeper truth.  I am an adult, so I want to hold back time as hair and flesh go south. I’ve seen things and been around the block.  Hence I don’t want to hurry to the next block in order to see more things.  Whereas they are children, so wish to barrel into the future.

Which, correct me, but isn’t that the very definition of utopia versus dystopia?

This got me thinking.  Maybe utopia is a young man’s (or woman’s) game, whereas dystopia is for those with both the years and the mileage, to paraphrase Professor Henry Jones.  After all, I know Anthony Burgess didn’t publish a Clockwork Orange until he was 45.  Maybe this is just one example of a general principle.

So, in a thoroughly unscientific test, I took the best utopian and dystopian science-fiction from, and looked up both the years of publication, and the years of the authors’ births:

The Giver – Lois Lowry (born 1937 - published 1993 - age 56)
The Dispossessed – Ursula K LeGuin (1929 - 1974 - age 45)
Childhood’s End – Arthur C Clarke (1917 - 1953 - age 36)
Looking Backward – Edward Bellamy (1850 - 1888 - age 38)
News from Nowhere – William Morris (1834 - 1890 - age 56)
The Player of Games – Iain Banks (1954 - 1988 - age 34)
The Sunken World – Stanton Arthur Coblentz (1896 - 1948 - age 52)
Ralph 124C41+ - Hugo Gernsback (1884 - 1911 - age 27)
Andromeda – Ivan Yefremov (1908 - 1957 - age 49)
Uglies – Scott Westerfeld (1963 - 2005 - age 42)

Median 43.5, mean 43.5

The Iron Heel – Jack London (1876 - 1908 - age 32)
Farenheit 451 – Ray Bradbury (1920 - 1953 - age 33)
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep – Philip K Dick (1928 - 1968 - age 40)
Eight Against Utopia – Douglas R Mason (1918 - 1966  age 48)
A Clockwork Orange – Anthony Burgess (1917 - 1962 - age 45)
1984 – George Orwell (1903 - 1949 - age 46)
Brave New World – Aldous Huxley (1894 - 1932 - age 38)
Logan’s Run – William F Nolan & George Clayton Johnson (1928/1929 - 1967 - age 38.5)
The Marching Morons – Cyril Kornbluth (1923 - 1951 - age 28)
The Hunger Games – Suzanne Collins (1962 - 2008 - age 46)

Median 39.25, mean 39.45

Obviously this is about as statistically significant as extrapolating from the voices in your head to the population of the planet, but it’s an intriguing result.  A good spread of ages; both lists have somebody in their late twenties.  But, mainly thanks to a couple of fifty-somethings, it appears that we pass through the dystopian and head towards the utopian.

Let me try and make some sense out of this most dubious of results, if it is a result at all.  So, having been around and seen a lot makes you more optimistic?  Or maybe experience of reality just makes you hanker more for a better world, dream them in greater detail and work out the mechanics?

Naivety correlates with youth.  So, perhaps, it’s naïve to think the world is as bad or paranoid as we think of it.  After all, the vast majority are kind and generous - but they’re not the ones that turn out newsworthy.

Perhaps we are we still getting over the grimness of Grimm and his ilk well into our thirties, repeating their echoes in our work?  Maybe it takes that long to overlay our fairy tale foundations with life’s silver linings?  Really?  I find that hard to believe.

Maybe dystopia is a more grown-up emo thing, when teenage eye-liner and this week’s Joy Division soundalikes no longer satisfy.  At that point we feel a greater urge to pen something akin to an early Cure album than bubblegum pop.  Seriously?

Of course, all this is as much hokum as most sci-fi.  But I’m going to take heart in the results.  Beerbelly and grey hair; I’m growing utopian by the day.

Wednesday, 13 July 2016

Ender's Game

I appreciate that I’m almost 40 years behind everybody else, but I’ve just finished Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card.  Yes, it’s a ‘classic’ but, as I’ve said before, there’s so many ‘classics’ out there, not just sci-fi and not just novels, that if you didn’t have some holes in your reading list then I’d worry.

As I sometimes submit to Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show and cite this blog on my submissions I’m probably doing myself no favours by posting a review.  Because, I have some concerns - and one major issue - with the book.  Not that it’s not without merits: I liked the point about space not having an up or down, and it made me think how many space battles I’ve seen portrayed have been gravity-affected dogfights with the ground no longer visible.

But my issue?  Not with the language.  It’s a YA book, so I was expecting something more burger and slaw than lobster thermidor.  No, it isn’t Nabokov, but neither is it Enid Blyton in space.

I don’t - as many seem to have - a hang-up with the word ‘buggers’. As an Englishman it’s a curious word.  Yes, it means anal sex, but it’s not what first springs to mind.  It’s, say, what an elderly Yorkshireman says when he’s miles from home without an umbrella and it starts to rain.  And it’s said with resignation under the breath.  No, in calling his aliens ‘buggers’ Card has, as David Brent would say, embarrassed himself there.  (Ditto ‘Dr Device’ - just plain silly).

I could live with the storyline, which was pretty much as linear as one of those highways across the American desert.  Yes, there were hurdles to overcome, but hardly twists.

The pacing?  Well, let’s let it go.  The way the book plods along through the various games, really ends at the end of the penultimate chapter, then outlines a whole new novel-length story in the last chapter.  The last chapter, and not just through the way it zipped through years, was one of the most engaging.  However, it read like a précis of a much richer novel, one where there was a real sense of something strange going on.  Without spoiling, to me Card thought of a really intriguing plot device but then wasn’t sure what to do with it, nor had the authorial horsepower to get any decent mileage out of it.

Is my issue the idea of child soldiers?  This has stuck in the craw of many readers, to judge by reviews.  Yes, given the world we live in today, writing about children being brainwashed and forced to fight is potentially tricky.  But, come on people, this is fantasy.  Go with it.

I have a bigger issue (but it’s still not my key issue) about why they need to be children, anyway.  Yes, it’s explained briefly and unsatisfactorily towards the end; but I don’t remember doing anything other than taking it on trust when I embarked.  It feels like a plot device that should have been rethought after a few beers or a hot bath

No my big hang-up - and we’ve been skirting around the issue for the last couple of paragraphs - is that they’re not children.  Let me repeat that.  They’re not children.  They don’t talk, walk, act or speak like children.  The only - excuse me whilst I repeat that in capitals - ONLY thing that makes them children is that Card says they’re children, and they keep saying that they’re children.  But, apart from being a bit moody and unschooled, they read like adults.

Maybe the argument is that they’re children with adult skills.  If that’s the case, show the contradictions and conflicts.  I think I could have bought them if they’d been adolescents, unable to cope with their super-human (but not supra-human, they’re not superheroes) skills, but not as four-year olds or whatever Ender starts off as.  Again, a germ of an idea, but I suspect a lack of authorial horsepower to get it to fruition.

It’s the classic mistake.  Show don’t tell.  Sometimes we’ve got to do a bit of telling; Basil Exposition has got to keep his plot donkeys exercised on the sands of story to some degree.  Life is full of telling to embed and clarify the showing (think of school).  I have no issue with a bit of telling.  But don’t rely on the telling to do both the heavy lifting and the finessing.  Don’t forget to do the showing or, worse, make your showing fail to back up the telling.  When your showing can’t cash the cheques your telling is writing, then you have a issue.

And that’s my issue with Ender’s Game.