→ November 22, 2024
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It Lasts Forever and Then It’s Over.

Anne de Marcken’s It Lasts Forever and then It’s Over is the third winner of the Ursula K. Le Guin Prize for Fiction, continuing the award’s tradition of sticking to shorter works (I’d call this a novella at 125 pages) as well as keeping the prize exclusive to women authors. It’s the strangest winner so far, both in concept and in theme, as it’s a strange and, to me, almost inscrutable meditation on death and grief. I still don’t know if I liked it.

The narrator and protagonist of It Lasts Forever has no name, and doesn’t even remember her name, because she’s dead, or more specifically she’s undead, a zombie moving through a post-apocalyptic world where there are some living people left, just not many, and the undead retain some of their pre-zombification consciousness. The narrator is grieving the loss of her life, as well as her partner, whose name she also doesn’t remember, and whose absence is like a hole in her existence, not to be confused the literal holes in her existence like the one that happens at the beginning when her arm falls off. She also later takes a dead crow and binds it into a lacuna in her chest, talking to the crow and believing it is answering her with trios of seemingly unrelated words. The novella follows her on a journey of sorts, through a sort of zombie encampment, with at least one murder along the way and a long introspection on whether she’s actually hungry (no “BRAINSSSS” here, fortunately) and what it means for her undeath if the hunger is gone. Where she’s going isn’t clear even when she gets there.

De Marcken writes with an ambiguity that drives me a bit mad, because there is so little on which my brain can anchor to get a hold of the scene. She describes almost no one, and does little more to describe any of the environs. The protagonist has no name. The entire novella is an inner monologue by our host zombie as she tries to remember some of the things she’s forgotten and wonders what it means to be undead and how to navigate this in-between sort of grief she’s experiencing.

That last bit is, I think, the key to It Lasts Forever and Then It’s Over, although I’m far from certain on this one. The narrator’s status in zombie purgatory is a metaphor for the fog of grief, when despair and loss and the finality of it all cloud your judgment and your memory, tingeing every day with enough gray to disorient you and make you forget where you were going or why you got out of bed in the morning. She – I believe she’s a she, but I actually am not 100% sure any more – drifts from place to place without a clear sense of purpose, or even a clear sense of place. The whole story kicks off with her arm falling off, which I suppose happens when you’re unalive, and her response even to that is a big meh. If this is the brochure for being undead, I’ll pass, thanks.

I’ve read three of the finalists for this year’s Le Guin Prize, including this one, Some Desperate Glory, and the book I read right after this one, Orbital, winner of this year’s Booker Prize for fiction (after I’d put in a hold at the library for it, you have to take the small victories as they come). I think I’d rank this third, as it is just so slight, and I think its best attribute is the one I tend to value least, the quality of its prose. It is poetical, not exactly poetic; it reminds me of a professor I heard in college for a single lecture, who played Jethro Tull’s “Bouree” and pointed out that it is jazzy, but it is not jazz. It Lasts Forever and Then It’s Over left me quite unsated. I wanted more, and I finished wondering what exactly I had just consumed.

Next up: I’m a few books behind, but I read Orbital after this one, and am now reading Cédric Villani’s Birth of a Theorem.

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→ October 24, 2024
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Dune: Part Two.

The first Dune movie from Denis Villeneuve was fantastic, ranking among my top 5 movies of 2021 for its scope, its pacing, multiple strong performances, and outstanding visuals. The film did well enough for Villeneuve to finance a sequel to complete the story from the first (and only worthwhile) of Frank Herbert’s novels. While Dune: Part Two still has the same strong special effects, the script isn’t as strong as that of the first film, and the limits of Timothée Chalamet’s range become all too apparent as the film progresses. (It’s streaming free on Max, as is the first one, or can be rented on Amazon, iTunes, etc.)

Dune: Part Two picks up right where the first film left off, after the Harkonnens have taken over Arrakis, killing most of Paul Atreides’s (Timothée Chalamet) family, while he and his mother (Rebecca Ferguson) have joined up with the Fremen, a tribe of nomads who live in the desert, led by Stilgar (Javier Bardem), who help the pair escape after Paul wins a duel against one of their warriors. The sequel tracks two major plot lines that will intersect at the film’s conclusion. The first covers Paul and his mother’s time with the Fremen, hiding from the Harkonnens and coexisting with the skeptical nomads while they plan how to retake the planet. The other follows the Harkonnens’ effort to control the planet’s spice trade, with Rabban (Dave Bautista) serving as his uncle’s (Stellan Skarsgård) proxy, but Rabban’s brother Feyd-Rautha (Austin Butler), a sadistic lunatic, is angling for the job.

The film seems to stay true to the book by devoting substantial time to Paul’s tenure with the Fremen, including how he works to convince them that he’s worth their protection but isn’t a prophet or a hero, just someone fighting the same evil forces he is. What works on the page doesn’t work as well on screen, though, as the result is a film that can’t manage its pacing, with long scenes of explanations and far too much of the movie’s constructed languages. There are some great action scenes, and the intrigues of the Harkonnens pulse with their own energy, even if Feyd-Rautha’s madness is over the top. Unfortunately, the script gives too much time to Paul, and not in a way that lets his character fully develop – and a lot of that comes down to the portrayal.

Chalamet is a highly decorated actor, with an Oscar nomination and three Golden Globe nominations under his belt, but I’m starting to think he’s more limited than it first appeared. (As if I weren’t already dreading the Bob Dylan biopic enough, now I’m worried we’re going to get Paul Atreides on the guitar and harmonica singing “Shelter from the Storm”.) There’s too little variation in his tone or expression here, which not only doesn’t fit the story, it doesn’t fit the character of the novel, either. Paul Atreides matures and develops substantially over the course of the book, and the script clearly allows him to do so as well, but there’s little to no difference between his affect and his delivery from the first movie to even the end of this one, when we get to the Big Speech and then the story’s resolution. I’m just starting to think he’s not as good of an actor as we thought he was, or as we thought he’d become.

Chalamet’s mediocre performance is even more stark because of the strength of many of the other people in the film, notably Bardem, as Stilgar, the leader of the Fremen and the one who believes that Paul is the prophet of their religion; Ferguson, as Paul’s mother, who becomes the spiritual leader of the Fremen, in accordance with the prophecy; and, of course, Zendaya, as Chani, Paul’s love interest, a much stronger character in the film than she is on the page, thanks also to Zendaya’s assertive portrayal. The cast even includes two other Academy Award winners beyond Bardem, Christopher Walken and Charlotte Rampling, both of whom play small roles without a ton of dialogue, but they help further overshadow Chalamet’s toneless performance.

Perhaps Dune: Part Two would work better if viewed immediately after the first film, rather than three years later – and I’m sure it would play better on the big screen than on my home television. It sounds like it’s going to get a Best Picture nomination, and possibly a Best Director nod for Villeneuve, neither of which is an outrage, although I’m guessing I’ll find ten movies I rank higher by the time this cycle is over. It’s just a disappointing ending given how great the first film was.

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→ September 25, 2024
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The Unstoppable trilogy.

Charlie Jane Anders won the Nebula Award for her first novel, All the Birds in the Sky, which revolved around two teenaged protagonists who grew up together, saw their lives diverge, and then came back together in a soaring conclusion. Over the past few years, she published a young adult trilogy, Unstoppable, that was also largely built around two teenaged protagonists, although here the story is more madcap, the threats much larger, and the relationships between characters more front and center. I won’t pretend to be objective here, as I’ve met Anders and I read these books because she sent me an autographed set of the trilogy, but I thought the books were a blast.

The first book of the series, Victories Greater than Death, starts out pretty normally, both playing into and gently satirizing some of the tropes of the form, with its main character, Tina, a teenager who happens to be the Chosen One to save the galaxy and lead its Royal Fleet against its enemies, although in this case she knows the first part because her mom told her. She’s just waiting for the call, literally, as she has a beacon in her torso that will light up at some point when the aliens come to take her home. Of course, even that doesn’t go off without a hitch, as her best friend Rachael, who is a talented artist and was bullied badly enough that she’s now home schooled, ends up along for the ride into space. Unfortunately for, well, everyone, the forces attacking the Royal Fleet are very determined to make sure Tina doesn’t get back to space, and they don’t seem to care if they blow up Earth in the process. Tina does get to her ship, and not long after – with a brush with death included – she ends up part of a motley crew of teenaged humans on board who help avert the catastrophe, after which they head off into the heavens to fight crime, or, well, the bad guys, of which there turn out to be more than one. By the time we get to the second book, the stakes are much higher than they first appeared, as this is no longer just one tyrant’s power play, but an unseen and unknown force threatening to put out every sun in the universe.

Because this is a young adult series, and the main characters are all teenagers, there’s a lot of interpersonal drama amidst the intergalactic drama, both the romantic and friend varieties. Tina becomes involved with Ella, a trans girl from Brazil who ends up in the pipeline to become one of the Princesses atop the sprawling intergalactic monarchy, although the job is a lot less glamorous than the name implies. Rachael falls for another crew member, Damiani ends up with a non-human partner, and so on. Life on board a spaceship, or multiple spaceships, gets complicated.

The story itself absolutely flies, with a pace that’s almost manic at times, with very short chapters and rarely more than two or three pages without some sort of action, whether it’s a battle between starships or between people. The initial villain has an origin story that involves Tina’s alter ego, and it’s quite intricate and plausible at the same time, with Anders integrating it well into the main story through flashbacks and through the residue it leaves in the contemporary plot. Tina and Rachael share the lead roles by book two, and both are well developed, showing growth over the trilogy, with Tina reckoning with a past she didn’t know she had and Rachael learning to find her voice in multiple ways as the situations demand more of her.

The most notable part of the prose is Anders’ decision to have all characters introduce themselves with their pronouns, which is only notable the first few times before you become habituated to it and stop noticing – which, as someone who uses he/him pronouns and lists them in his bios and on name tags, is kind of how it should be. The only time it threw me was the character whose pronouns were fire/fire; I know about neopronouns but I just can’t get my brain to read them as such, so every single time Anders referred to that character by pronouns I’d have to stop and re-read the sentence. I’m guessing my kids would have less of an issue with this, but my brain isn’t as plastic as it used to be.

Dr. Katherine Mack, better known by her social media handle of @astrokatie, advised Anders on the mysterious forces threatening to end all life in the universe, and I won’t pretend I really followed it. I did sort of feel like it was the Marvel movie problem, where the stakes are just always so high that you can’t really adjust your thinking – I ended up way more invested in the individuals’ storylines than any part about saving planets or the universe as a whole. That, of course, may have been Anders’s entire intent; science fiction that leans too much on the science and doesn’t give enough time to its characters is pretty dreadful. I was good just spending more time with Tina and Rachael, and to a lesser extent their other friends, although some of the alien characters on the ship still felt, well, a bit alien to me. (The Grattna race, by the way, are my favorite creation of Anders’s here, as she gets to delve into philosophy and linguistic relativity in a wholly organic way that ends up affecting how Tina and her friends interact with them.) My only reservation about the books is that there’s a lot of death, not out of violence but out of spaceships blowing things up, even the occasional inhabited planet, and that’s at least out of the ordinary for YA fiction in my experience, so I might recommend this for slightly older readers, but Anders does have Tina et al grapple with the consequences of their actions as they become increasingly pacifistic over the course of the last two books; even the death of a dangerous nemesis has moral repercussions. It’s just a joy to read, even in its most morbid parts, and even as Anders tackles broader themes like discrimination, gender theory, utilitarianism, cultural sensitivity, and much more. And I hope I would say the same even if I had come by the books some other way.

Next up: I’m about to finish Dr. Cassie Holmes’s Happier Hour: How to Beat Distraction, Expand Your Time, and Focus on What Matters Most.

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→ September 10, 2024
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Some Desperate Glory.

Winner of the 2024 Hugo Award for Best Novel, Emily Tesh’s Some Desperate Glory plays around with some familiar tropes of sci-fi and fantasy, including the teenager who turns out to be the ‘chosen one’ and the idea of the multi-verse, spinning them into a fast-paced and often mind-bending story about fascism and totalitarianism. It’s uneven in several ways, and while I think it ultimately landed (pun intended) in a good enough spot to recommend it, it has a lot of first-novel vibes and I think author Emily Tesh took some shortcuts that weakened her main point.

The novel opens with a scene from a simulation where the protagonist, Kyr, is reliving the moment when the Earth and its 14 billion inhabitants were destroyed. Kyr lives on Gaea, a space station that houses most of the remainder of humanity, and whose leader, Admiral Jole, was the sole survivor of the assault on Earth. Gaea is a militaristic society where everyone on board is assigned a specific role for life to help preserve the colony’s existence and prepare them for some sort of revenge plot against the Wisdom, the interplanetary authority that called for Earth’s destruction. Kyr is part of the oldest cohort of young women still waiting for assignment, which could be to the Command group of soldiers, to the Agricole group responsible for growing food for the colony, or to Nursery, which means you’re sentenced to a life of continuous pregnancies. There are also rumors of a terrorist unit called Strike, where you may be called upon to commit suicide in an attack against the enemy. The enemy is the Wisdom, which is a massive artificial intelligence that chooses the option that produces the greatest good for the least harm in its estimation, and it is run, in a vague sense, by a species called the majoda … and early in the novel, Gaea captures a majoda ship and takes a hostage.

Kyr is a “chosen one” within this framework – her life and future turn out to be incredibly important to the fate of Gaea and humanity as a species – and up to a certain point, the plot unfurls like that of a YA novel. She’s the center of all of the action and she’s forced to grow up too soon and make some huge decisions that will save or doom all of humanity … but is she forced to do so by the circumstances, or the needs of the author? When she makes her first big decision, the outcome is about as predictable as a sunrise, only further underscoring the YA-ness of the story to that point. (Saying a novel is reminiscent of young adult fiction isn’t an insult per se – I have enjoyed quite a bit of YA fiction and am reading such a trilogy right now – but when a novel is ostensibly written for adults and descends to YA levels of plotting or character development, that’s a negative.)

It’s only after that point that Tesh turns Some Desperate Glory into a real adult novel, one with strong political undertones and some complexity around its protagonist. The Wisdom has access to other universes, more in line with the many-worlds hypothesis of quantum mechanics than the sloppy multiverse we’ve seen too often in contemporary fiction, and Tesh uses that to great effect here to force Kyr to consider not just her actions but her motives and values. What begins as a quest for vengeance on behalf of fourteen billion humans turns into a much more difficult quandary that calls into question the power and limits of free will.

Kyr, which is short for Valkyr, experiences about as much development for a sci-fi protagonist as I can remember. Some of that is inherent in the nature of a teenaged main character upon whom adult decisions are thrust, but in this case, Kyr has to undergo a change of mindset, acquiring a whole new set of morals and values to replace the hollow ones that Gaea indoctrinated in her. It’s a form of humanism, although one of the targets of her newfound empathy for sentient creatures is not human, so it’s more built on a respect for all sentient life and the recognition that those we were told are Others are, quite often, a lot like us.

The political leanings here aren’t hard to catch, and even if you did, Tesh lists some sources in the acknowledgements that would make it clear, such as histories of the North Korean dictatorship and other books on fascism and totalitarianism. There is also some similarly unsubtle commentary on gender roles and gender politics, and queer identity in a society built around a rigid gender binary. The Wisdom itself is a futurist’s dream of AI, and this is where Tesh does show some real nuance, as the Wisdom turns out to be very different than the ruthless killer Kyr believes it to be, and the reasons why other sentient races have chosen to follow it are at least rooted in sense, even if Kyr can’t see it at first.

I was on Some Desperate Glory’s wavelength form the end of that first big section almost all the way to the finish, but at that point I think Tesh chickened out and didn’t allow for a conclusion that was either realistic within the book’s environment or that suited the characters and their various arcs. Your mileage may vary. I do recommend the book, even despite that disappointing finish, but I can see so many ways it could have been more.

Next up: I’m just past halfway through Charlie Jane Anders’ Unstoppable YA trilogy.

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→ March 30, 2024
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Stick to baseball, 3/30/24.

I had two new posts for subscribers to the Athletic this week, my annual season predictions post and scouting notes on the Nationals’ Futures Game at Nats Park. I wanted to do a chat, but about 20 minutes before I was going to do it, our Internet went down for four hours. Good times.

Over at Paste, I reviewed Wyrmspan, the new standalone sequel/spinoff to Wingspan, adding a few rules changes to make it more complex while also replacing the birds with dragons.

I spoke to my friend Tim Grierson this week for RogerEbert.com about baseball movies, good, bad, and horrendous. I also appeared on WGN-TV to talk Cubs/White Sox.

I did indeed send around another issue of my free email newsletter, which you should definitely subscribe to if you enjoy my ramblings.

And now, the links…

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→ January 22, 2024
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Babel.

R.F. Kuang won the most recent Nebula Award for Best Novel with her first novel for adults, Babel, a long and intense fantasy story that upends many of the conventions of the ‘youth goes to magic school’ subgenre while also attacking serious questions of colonialism and privilege. It’s dark and riveting, and perhaps its best feature is how unsentimental it is about its subject and characters.

The book’s full title is the unwieldy Babel: Or the Necessity of Violence: An Arcane History of the Oxford Translators’ Revolution, which I think makes the book sound boring when it’s actually a thriller for the majority of its 500-odd pages. Set in the 1830s, it follows a Chinese orphan who is adopted by a strange English academic and brought to Oxford to study at its translation school, which is the most powerful institution in the country and perhaps the world. In this alternate history, translators can create powerful objects from silver by taking advantage of the meaning gaps between words in different languages that might have the same denotations but that have cultural or other contextual differences not captured by a word-four-word translation. These silver bars power much of the world at the time, but Oxford is their only producer, making England the world’s most powerful nation and allowing them to dictate the terms of trade with their partners … and to leave much of the non-European world in a state of underdevelopment because they refuse to share the technology. The orphan, who takes the English name Robin Swift, finds himself torn between the comfortable world of his academic setting and his own values, including his ties to China, which drive him to fight the ivory tower and try to bring silver-making to the broader world.

Kuang begins her novel with a familiar trope – the orphan is plucked from poverty by a mysterious (white) person who brings them to a school that reveals hitherto unknown talents and opens up a world of power and possibility to them. Robin is fluent in Mandarin and becomes so in English, while his professor-benefactor, who takes him in as a ward until he’s old enough for Oxford’s Linguistics Department, drills him in other languages to better prepare him for academe. Once there, Robin becomes fast friends with a few classmates and acclimates quickly to a life of privilege and sudden respect, as the linguistics tower is the jewel in the Oxonian crown, and those ticketed for its top floors – where the silver-making is done – are the Big Linguists On Campus. (I’m not making that other joke, sorry.) The plot begins to diverge from the archetype shortly after Robin matriculates, as an outsider attempts to recruit him to a shadowy, decentralized activist group that wants to pilfer silver bars from Oxford to share them with the developing world. Robin doesn’t choose his fate immediately, although he ultimately chooses – or is forced to – side with the rebels, opening up the second portion of the book, where Kuang continues to explore the same themes of exploitation and social justice, but shifts the style from Magic School Wunderkind to a spy thriller with tons of action and many, many surprising twists.

As a straight read, Babel is a smart and clever thrill ride up to the very last page. The gimmick around languages, using what gets lost in translation as the proxy for magic, is incredibly clever and a credit to Kuang’s intellect and her own linguistic prowess; it feels like the sort of idea you’d have if you’re fluent in several languages without much or any relationship and have tried to translate something but found the words lacking. That alone won’t power a book, but Robin is a superb protagonist, principled but cautious, anxious yet willing to make bold decisions, flawed but ultimately heroic in his own way. His friends are fun side characters, perhaps not as fleshed out as they could be other than the Indian-born Ramy, but this book is already long and giving any of them more time would probably just pad the length.  

This particular subgenre has many smart and entertaining books in it, but I can’t think of an other example that is this serious at its core. At heart, Babel is an angry book, based loosely on the leadup to the Opium Wars and the English crown’s exploitation of both its colonial empire and of China after it subjugated the latter by use of superior weaponry. It’s also a metaphor for the two centuries since then, where the West has seen enormous economic advancement, leading to longer life expectancies and better health outcomes, that it has not shared with the developing world. Some Asian countries – the so-called “Tigers” – have caught up, but did so by selling to the west and undercutting labor costs, while a few western financiers played God with their currencies and nearly killed their economies in the process. The same imperialist-capitalist philosophy that leads fictional England to keep silver-making to itself drives nations and drug manufacturers to charge market rents for treatments or cures for diseases that are devastating sub-Saharan Africa. Over 90% of the children with HIV and over 90% of the pregnant women with HIV in the world live in that region. People with HIV make up over 2% of the population of Africa as a whole. The virus is driving a co-epidemic with tuberculosis. The developed world has not stepped up with sufficient funds to stem the spread of the virus and reduce the death rate through antiretroviral drugs. Even ignoring the potential economic benefits of helping a continent with over a billion people fight an epidemic, isn’t there a moral imperative to help people not die of a disease that is 1) mostly preventable and 2) mostly treatable, just because they don’t have the money or even a way to get it?

Robin’s answer, ultimately, is yes. How he gets there, and what he and his friends end up doing to try to topple the tower, literally and figuratively, makes Babel one of the smartest and most thought-provoking page-turners I’ve read in years. I can even see why readers who’d read this first might have been disappointed by her next novel, Yellowface, which feels insubstantial by comparison. Its ideas are also important, but Babel creates a universe to call out universal ills, and forces you to reckon with its themes by plunging you into a story you won’t want to put down.

Next up: Currently reading Daniel Mason’s North Woods.

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→ December 27, 2023
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Sea of Tranquility.

Emily St. John Mandel’s Station Eleven was a masterpiece, a beautiful novel of humanity set in the most despairing, hopeless setting – the onset and aftermath of a global pandemic that causes society to collapse. Her follow-up, The Glass Hotel, had the same sparkling prose and characterization, but the story fell apart at the end, undermining the entire work. Her most recent novel, Sea of Tranquility, brings back one of The Glass Hotel’s characters and the fictional town that served as its setting, with an entirely new story that delves further into science fiction than Mandel has ever gone – and this time, she sticks the landing with a conclusion that ties the entire novel together and brings the reader back to the sense of humanity that set Station Eleven apart.

Sea of Tranquility begins in 1912, as the disowned grandson of an English aristocrat arrives in Caiette, British Columbia, after his exile from his family. While there, he walks into the local forest, but has a mysterious experience where he hears a violin playing – despite there being no one else in sight – and the world around him seems to go black. Shortly afterwards, a visiting priest asks him about the experience, but it appears that the priest may be an impostor. The story then jumps ahead a hundred years, then nearly two hundred, then about two hundred more, and there’s very little in common between the stories except for that impostor-priest person, who appears in different guises in each story. What ties them all together is the mystery that guy is trying to solve.

Mandel’s previous two novels leaned quite heavily on her strength of characterization, but that’s the weakest part of Sea of Tranquility, which might only have one true central character who gets a three-dimensional rendering on the page – that guy, who at one point in the novel is known as Gaspery. Instead, Mandel’s exploration of humanity, both what it means to be human (and whether we have free will) and how we treat one another, comes through an inventive plot device that doesn’t reveal itself until at least halfway through the novel. (You might figure it out before then, but I’m trying not to spoil it.) Crafting a story like this requires a fine attention to detail and an ability to maintain plausibility in the face of automatic disbelief. Mandel couldn’t manage this with a simpler story in The Glass Hotel, where her main character made more than one irrational decision that didn’t sit well with me, given what had come before for her character. Here, her central character’s actions, while not always entirely rational, are at least believable, and thus don’t get in the way of the broader story.

So much of Sea of Tranquility recalled David Mitchell’s magnum opus Cloud Atlas, another book told in pieces separated in time by decades or centuries, leaving it to the reader to connect them. In Mitchell’s case, however, the connections were tenuous, and only there for the audience, while the novel succeeded because he wrote each of the six sections (five of which were then split into two) in a different literary style. He also loves to bring back characters from previous novels, even just for cameos, something Mandel did in The Glass Hotel with some minor characters from Station Eleven. Sea of Tranquility lacks the grandiose ambitions of Cloud Atlas, but it’s also far more focused on its core themes and more effective in asking its questions about them. I may not answer Mandel’s main mystery question in the affirmative, but I found it easy to go along for the ride as she explores it.

Next up: I’m about halfway through Nurrudin Farah’s North of Dawn.

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→ November 9, 2023
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The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet.

Becky Chambers’ The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet is one of the biggest successes in self-publishing in the last decade or so, as she ran a successful Kickstarter to give her the time to finish the book, which sold well enough that Hachette’s Hodder & Stoughton picked it up and published their edition a year later. The book now has three sequels, winning the Hugo Award for Best Series in 2019, and all of the sequels earned nominations for the Hugo for Best Novel. This book, at least, has “first effort” all over it, though, and it’s kind of clunky and overdone in so many parts, especially the world-building, which detracted somewhat from a fun if very light story about a group of misfits becoming an ersatz family aboard a spaceship.

The Wayfarer is that ship, and as the series opens, Rosemary is heading for the Wayfarer to serve as its clerk, handling all of the paperwork the ship needs to move through space, across civilizations and, often, punching holes in the fabric of space to create shortcuts across great distances. These artificial wormholes are the Wayfarer’s main source of income, and they do it with a truly motley crew of specialists drawn from multiple species. Each crew member gets their own moment in the spotlight here, so rather than a single plot we get a series of episodes that allow the focus to move across everyone on the ship, from Corbin, the stubborn, meticulous biologist who grows the algae that helps power the ship; to Dr. Chef, the mechanic and, yes, chef, from a dying species who also serves as the ship’s counselor; to Jenks, the engineer who is – slight spoiler – in love with the ship’s AI. Really. (Needless to say I found that one a bit hard to take.)

I think the real problem I had with Long Way was the extensive exposition as Chambers builds out her universe, with giant civilizations of many species, endless rules, fictional technologies, and at least seven characters who need some sort of back stories. It’s a trap many first-time writers seem unable to avoid, and I at least attribute it to the benign desire to get all of these thoughts – the whole universe they’ve built up in their heads – out on to the page, as well as to prevent too much confusion on the part of readers. It also drives me up the wall, because 1) we can learn about this stuff as the story goes along and 2) if I really, really need to understand the technical details of how interstellar travel works in your books, or get a full description of every species’ cultural norms, that’s a bigger problem than just giving us a few pages of extrapolation can solve. Since Long Way visits a lot of planets and has such a diverse crew, we get a lot of that cultural stuff, and the book ends up spinning its wheels for pages and pages while Chambers describes trivial points about handshakes or mating customs.

The book does tackle some larger social themes, although it does so in a cursory way because there are so many smaller stories in the novel’s 438 pages. There’s a bit about cloning, a part about LGBT relationships, some stuff about war and the ethics of supplying one side (pretty timely right about now) when you’re not involved, and more, but none of tit gets more than superficial treatment.

The Long Way has to stand on the strength of its characters, since the plot is modest and the prose more akin to YA fiction, and there Chambers has some more success, although it’s a mixed bag. Rosemary is fine as the closest character we have to a protagonist, as her wide-eyed views and relative inexperience outside of her home planet make her a sensible lens for the reader to view most of the action. Some of the non-human characters are a little overdrawn, notably the navigator, Ohan, so again we get bogged down in details rather than seeing the characters develop. The more I write, the more I realize I just didn’t care for this book at all, other than that it was light and easy to read. It’s not The Calculating Stars bad, but I hope the remainder of the series spends more time developing the characters than explaining its fictional universe.

Next up: I’m about 2/3 done with Chester Himes’s If He Hollers Let Him Go.

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→ February 28, 2023
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Nope.

Nope is the third feature film from writer-director Jordan Peele, who won the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay for the outstanding Get Out, which was a biting satire wrapped in a smart horror film. For some reason, the studio behind Nope tried to pitch it more as another horror film, but that’s not just underselling it, but also probably misrepresented it. This is much more of a sci-fi mystery with a surprising moral to it, another smart film from Peele but in a completely different vein from his debut. (I haven’t seen Us, his second film.) You can stream Nope on Peacock or rent it on amazon, iTunes, etc.

Daniel Kaluuya and Keke Palmer star as the siblings OJ and Em Haywood, who run a horse farm where they train the animals for roles in film and television. As Nope begins, their father, Otis Sr. (Keith David), is killed by metal debris that falls from the sky, with a nickel impaling him in the eye and a key embedded itself in the horse he was riding. They assume these fell from an airplane and eventually they try to pick up more business, but when they find it’s lagging, OJ sells some of his horses to the nearby western theme park Jupiter’s Claim, run by Ricky “Jupe” Park (Steven Yeun), a former child star whose TV series ended in tragedy when the chimp who starred on the show became violent to several of the cast members – but not to Jupe. When the electricity starts going off on the Haywoods’ farm without explanation, and the horses start reacting badly to some unseen force, the siblings decide to invest in some high-tech cameras to try to figure out what’s going on.

Nope is a slow burn, similar to Get Out, but not quite the same – where Peele’s first film was sinister until the big reveal, this one unfurls its mystery by degrees, with more misdirection that allows you to experience the perspectives of multiple characters. It was also easier to figure out what was happening in Get Out, or at least get the sense, than what’s happening in Nope. The obvious answer would be that it’s a UFO, which, of course, most of the characters think is the answer, including the Fry’s Electronics employee Angel (Brandon Perea), who realizes from the start that something weird is happening out at the ranch and invites himself to be a part of the investigation. What they find is much more interesting on a literal level and a thematic one.

The cast is fantastic across the board. Kaluuya has never missed for me, right down to his pre-fame appearance on Doctor Who (where we get to hear his British accent for once). The steely reserve that made him so menacing in Widows here works in a different direction, as his character is so tightly wound that he feels like he’s about to combust. Yeun probably needed more to do, but he’s excellent, as always, as a huckster and entrepreneur trying to squeeze every dollar he can out of the limited assets he has. Perea is a scene-stealer in a comic relief character that’s actually well conceived and well written – he’s hilarious, but also plays important roles in the plot and helps illuminate the relationship between the siblings and also later provide some connection to a fourth character who helps them try to unravel the ultimate mystery. If there’d been any awards attention for this movie, he would have been worthy of a Best Supporting Actor nomination, as well as a potential Original Screenplay nod for Peele. Wrenn Schmidt is a little wasted as Jupe’s wife, while Barbie Ferreira is even more wasted in a cameo as Angel’s co-worker, but I did enjoy the cameo from ‘80s prime-time soap star Donna Mills.

There’s one overarching theme to the story here that I might spoil by discussing, so if you haven’t seen Nope and intend to, you may wish to stop reading. The throughline that connects Jupe and the Haywoods is the use of animals for entertainment, with the implication that how we treat these animals in turn affects how they will treat us, or even what sort of animals they will become over time. OJ shows respect for their horses, and when he’s trying to show one horse, Lucky, for a commercial, he bristles at any suggestion from the director that might distress the animal, even telling a crew member not to make eye contact with Lucky for fear it will upset him. While we don’t see Jupe’s chimpanzee colleague being openly mistreated, the flashbacks – the one bit of the film where there’s some actual violence on screen – strongly imply that the chimp was being exploited, and that his rampage was the result of this treatment. (If you want to go down a rabbit hole about this, several critics and writers have noted that this subplot mirrors the actual story of Travis the chimp, who was separated from his mother at three days old and sold to a couple who kept him as a pet, only to have him turn violent one day, mauling and disfiguring a family friend.) All of this comes together in the film’s resolution, which also features some spectacular visual effects, to make it clear that the story is at least trying to make us realize the extent to which we are exploiting other creatures – and perhaps, on some level, other people – for no purpose beyond our entertainment. The characters who don’t understand this end up dead; the others survive. I don’t think you could make the moral much clearer than that.

Right now, I have Nope in my top ten for the year, although it could end up pushed out as I see more foreign-language films, since several of the most acclaimed non-English language movies, including two Oscar nominees, still aren’t available digitally as of February 27th. (Here’s hoping I wake up to find The Quiet Girl is rentable.) Regardless of its exact ranking for me whenever I wrap this cycle, Nope is excellent, another cerebral, thoughtful undertaking from Peele, even if it’s not quite up to the high bar he set for himself with Get Out.

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→ January 17, 2023
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Elder Race.

Adrian Tchaikovsky’s Elder Race made the shortlist for this year’s inaugural Ursula K. Le Guin Prize, which first brought him to my attention even though he’d written twenty-odd novels before this and won a few awards along the way. It’s a quick read with a clever conceit at its heart: what if the person who’s supposed to be a great wizard is, in fact, just a human who possesses sufficiently advanced technology that it appears to be magic?

The ’wizard’ Nygroth Elder is, in fact, Nyr Illim Tevitch, an anthropologist left in stasis to keep an eye on this colonized planet while the remainder of his crew has long since left to return to Earth – which may or may not still be a going concern. Lynesse Fourth Daughter, a princess so junior you might call her a spare to the spare, believes there’s an existential threat to her people, so she treks to Nyr’s tower to try to enlist his help to fight what she calls a demon, which her own mother thinks is a fabrication to try to gain attention or glory. Nyr reluctantly agrees to help, even though his directive is to observe but not interfere, even if refraining might cause harm to the people he’s watching, and they set off on a quest to find and defeat the threat. Along the way, the culture clash between the two emerges through their languages, as Nyr can’t even explain what a scientist is, and the translation engine he uses makes everything sound to Lynesse like some sort of magic.

Elder Race is a quest novel – or novella, which is how the Hugo Awards characterized it, giving it a nomination in that category in 2022 – but one with a metatextual component as well that, in some ways, is the more interesting of the two. Tchaikovsky tells the story by alternating narration between Lynesse and Nyr, thus presenting both sides of most of their conversations, which operates as a commentary on fantasy literature and works that try to blend fantasy and science, as well as a more humanist look at the challenges of communicating across cultures. The fact that Lynesse’s language lacks so many words that Nyr takes for granted and finds himself unable to express even through translation recalled Samuel Delany’s classic novella Babel-17, which takes the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis – that the structure of a language influences how its speakers view the world – and turns it into an entire story, where a language is a weapon that alters speakers’ minds. Here language is less insidious, but stands as a concrete example of the difficulty of communicating across all of the boundaries that separate people, not just language but culture, history, religion, and more. Language is the visible manifestation of what amounts to a religious difference between Lynesse’s people and Nyr; what her family and subjects believe is magic is just technology they’ve lost in the centuries since humans colonized this planet.

Nyr is the more interesting and developed character of the two, in part because Lynesse is, by design, depicted as naïve – she’s young, but also not very worldly even within the confines of this civilization, and her faith in Nyr based on a historical anecdote is almost charming in its innocence. Nyr, meanwhile, has to grapple with both his role as potential savior, or as a failed savior, to Lynesse’s people, while also facing the fact that he might be severed permanently from his own civilization, condemned to a lonely existence where he enters long periods of suspended animation and can’t forge enduring relationships with anyone. He encounters crippling depression and covers it up with the help of embedded tech that takes the old trope about men compartmentalizing their emotions and turns it into software; he can just push it aside and deal with it later.

Tchaikovsky – who spells his name Czajkowski outside of his writing, as he’s of Polish descent rather than Russian – packs a lot into the 200 pages of Elder Race, without skimping on the quest part of the story, which is the real narrative that drives the book forward. You could probably just read this as a straight-up quest without giving the larger themes a second thought and still enjoy it. I found those themes gave this novel more heft and staying power in my mind after I finished. It’s to Czajkowski’s credit that he managed this in such a brief novel that revolves almost entirely around just two core characters.

Next up: I’m many books behind in my writeups, but I’m currently reading Brian Clegg’s Gravitational Waves: How Einstein’s Spacetime Ripples Reveal the Secrets of the Universe.

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