A Darker Shade of Magic

A Darker Shade of Magic, V.E. Schwab – 2015

World-building is an art that belongs almost exclusively to SF/F writing. Though establishing a location is important for any novel, it is only in writing SF/F that authors are called upon to bring to life an entirely new world in the minds of their readers. While originality is one of the major goals here, the world of the book needs to be communicated effectively and efficiently, without getting in the way of the narrative. The more original the idea, the more space is needed to develop it and allow the reader to understand it; China Mieville's New Crobuzon is probably the best example, in that it is a phenomenal creation, but much of Perdido Street Station's vast page count is spent establishing the city. Therefore, many SF/F writers, even greats such as Gene Wolfe or George R.R. Martin, tend to use recognisable, established elements and tropes from within the genre, rather than create entirely new worlds. In A Darker Shade of Magic, however, V.E. Schwab presents us with a setting that is at once original, simple and superb….

There are four parallel worlds, all linked by one thing, one place that lies in the same location in each world: London. Our London, which at the time of the novel's events is ruled by the mad King George III, is Grey London, where magic has all but vanished from the world. The capital of Arnes and it's vast empire, where magic flourishes, is Red London. The citadel city of the savage, warlike land where magic is treated as a beast to be caught, tamed and used is White London. And there is Black London, where magic utterly over-ran and destroyed the world. After the events in Black London, all of the doors between the worlds were sealed, so that only Antari, wielders of blood magic, could pass between them. Kell is such an Antari, one of the last two alive, and serves as an emissary of the Red Throne, as well as an adoptive prince of the realm. He also smuggles small items between the worlds, in direct defiance of the laws of Red London that 'transference is treason'1. When he is asked to carry a trinket out of White London he does so, only to find it is a relic of Black London, capable of infecting all the worlds with chaotic magic. Injured, on the run and trying desperately to put things right, Kell is pickpocketted in Grey London by Lila Bard, sneak-thief and pirate-wannabe, meaning she quickly learns of the existence of magic. And then things start to get really bad…

There are two stand-out elements to A Darker Shade of Magic; Schwab's characterisation and her world-building. As a protagonist Kell is an interesting mix of petulant youth, responsible ambassador and trickster badass-in-a-long-coat. (The coat in question is a beautiful touch by Schwab; a coat with at least six coats within it, that transforms when turned inside out and even Kell is unsure whether he has found all its forms) We understand the lingering resentment he holds for the Red Throne; that despite being treated well by the king and queen, and as a brother by Prince Rhys, he is still technically the property of the crown, and how this leads him to defy their laws on transference. Schwab balances this side of his character by showing his gentleness and altruism, from his brotherly relationship with Prince Rhys, to his discomfort with the awe and fear that he as an Antari inspires in the populace, capped off by his determination to put things, even if it costs him his life. 

By contrast, Schwab then presents us with Lila, a gloriously unsentimental version of the 'urchin girl dresses as a boy' trope. There is nothing romanticised about Lila's poverty, her desperation or the danger that she lives in, yet the bitter, brutal heroine with the sole ambition to be a dashing pirate captain is also huge amounts of fun. As a character Lila is difficult to like but easy to love and makes an excellent counterpoint to Kell. Though their relationship has a definite frisson, particularly in Schwab's sparkling repartee, it is also to the novel's credit that their rewards are unique, separate and not one another; while all that Kell desires is to be able to put right what he did, Lila's swashbuckling dreams are finally realised in an ending far more satisfying than any hint of true-love's kiss. Elsewhere in the cast, Holland, the only other Antari and emissary of White London, makes a chilling presence, particularly when we learn his motivation, while Prince Rhys is written excellently by Schwab as an entirely likeable rogue, who is, among other things, an equal opportunity seducer.

Of course, the defining element of A Darker Shade of Magic is the world-building, and the word that I am continually drawn back to is 'evocative'. It is a brilliant device of Schwab's to assign each London a colour. From these four words, she then begins to sketch in details about each city, carefully using our associations and assumptions of each colour, so that grey becomes dull and dreary, red rich and resplendent, white stark and cold, and black mysterious. Each London is so vividly realised that each one would make a wonderful setting for a fantasy series; in presenting us with all of them linked together, Schwab offers us one of the richest worlds in SF/S, one that deserves to sit within the pantheon of Middle Earth, Hogwarts, Narnia etc. I say, 'each London', although the last, Black London remains tantalisingly, terrifyingly unknown, behind a door that Schwab allows us to peek through, but never opens wide.

There are some other excellent touches to the novel. Kell's coat I have already mentioned, as well as Lila's gaining her piratical desires; the scene where she is dressed in full swashbuckling gear is lovingly realised by Schwab, and conveys exactly the feel of the moment in a superhero movie when we see the protagonist don their costume for the first time. A much darker element comes when the two are having to carry the stone from Black London between them, even as they can feel it corrupting them. There are definitely overtones of Frodo and the Ring here, but Schwab takes the stone's effect on Kell even further, particularly as he is forced to use it again and again. In fact, the only tiny criticism I can make is that the UK cover, (pictured above) though gorgeous, does not have quite the same breathtaking originality of the American one (pictured below for comparison). 

Having heard from many places that A Darker Shade of Magic was an exceptional work of fantasy, I had high expectations going in, and each was surpassed. Indeed, this is the first time that I've read the first book in a series and immediately resolved to get the follow up as soon as possible. (Not to mention that Schwab has, in my mind, finally redeemed the word 'shade' from a very different trilogy that will never again be alluded to on this blog!)



Well, there we are, the last post of 2016, and the first from my giant Christmas book-haul.


Happy New Year guys!


1Schwab, V.E A Darker Shade of Magic, Titan Books, 2015 pp. 49

Rivers of London

Rivers of London, Ben Aaronovitch – 2011

As befits a police novel, I must begin with a confession: Rivers of London was not what I had originally intended to be my first Yuletide post; indeed I'd hoped to go with Joe Hill's NOS4A2, which is at least a horror novel set at Christmas, or even a re-read of Pratchett's Hogfather, which is to Christmas what Zelazny's A Night in the Lonesome October is to Halloween. However, as it took me much longer than expected to get through Canavan's Thief's Magic, along with all the normal festive mayhem, here we are, with the first title in Ben Aarononvitch's Rivers of London series.

There are some genres that just fit together extremely well, and combining detective/police procedural with elements of fantasy and horror goes back almost as far as the genres themselves. Indeed, given that Edgar Allen Poe is not only one of the great writers of horror and the uncanny, but also single-handedly created the modern detective story, they may be said to be inextricably tied together. Even after they had begun to part ways with the rise of the Victorian amateur sleuth, the most famous tale of the most famous detective in the world pitted Sherlock Holmes against an apparently spectral beast in The Hound of the Baskervilles. Today, with work from such varied writers as Jim Butcher, Laurell K. Hamilton and Derek Landy there are vast numbers of supernatural-crime novels out there, with only the occasional one, such as China Meiville’s The City and The City, bringing anything startling new to the table. That said, as SFX's review of Aaronovitch's début ovelpoints out 'it’s not always about having an astoundingly new idea'1 often it is enough for a novel to be well written and fun to read. 

Probationary PC Peter Grant is about to be assigned to a division as a full member of the London MET, when, guarding a crime scene after a particularly vicious murder, he encounters and interviews an unusual witness to the killing; a ghost. Though his constant sparring-flirting partner, PC Lesley May – clearly destined for great things in the police service, unlike Peter – thinks he should just wave it off as a hallucination, he returns to the scene, and meets instead DCI Thomas Nightingale. The next morning, as he prepares to be assigned to a soul-crushing admin role, Peter instead finds himself transferred to the Folly, the now two-man division headed by Nightingale, that deals with magical and supernatural crimes in London. As well as starting to learn magic, Peter’s first duties include brokering a peace between Mama and Father Thames, the Gods of the River. Meanwhile, however, the seemingly random violent assaults and killings continue, and each one makes clearer the supernatural nature of the events, particularly when the perpetrators’ faces begin to twist, growing hooked noses and pointed chins, and they scream, as they bludgeon their victims to death, ‘That’s the way to do it!’.

There are some excellent elements to Rivers of London, not least of which is Aaronovitch's superb characterisation of our narrator/protagonist Peter Grant. It would have been easy to make him a stereotypical Watsonian figure, constantly awed and baffled by Nightingale, and indeed, it is clearly shown early in the novel that Grant is far from an excellent policeman. However, we quickly learn Grant's strengths, his patience, determination and empathy, and, as we learn more about Grant's African heritage and his drug-addicted father, we discover how charming a narrator he is; wry and cynical while never losing his warmth. Indeed, all of the characters are wonderfully sketched; Nightingale is stiff and awkward, whilst also possessing old-world gentlemanly polish, the non-magical police are allowed to be competent professionals rather than Lestrade-esque* stereotypes and Lesley May delivers line after line that manages to be both caustic and affectionate. The presentation of the Gods of the River, Mama and Father Thames, is fascinating, as is the explanation for how they came to be and the extent to which they are actually divine. Aaronovitch's depiction of Mama Thames as an impossibly attractive, erotic African woman sometimes verges on exoticism, but is balanced so well by Grant's reflections on his childhood and his very down-to-earth, ordinary African mother that this is avoided.

Elsewhere, there are some great touches. The flirting between Grant and Lesley May is excellently written, as are the interactions between Grant and Beverly Brook, one of Mama Thames' daughters/tributaries, with whom Grant has an intense, mutual attraction. These moments are handled very carefully, as Aaronovitch allows us access to Grant's thoughts as he checks the young woman out, without making him seem predatory or pervy, helped considerably by her reciprocation. Aaronovitch also skilfully establishes the rules of his fantastical world, and when Grant and therefore the reader are kept in the dark as to what they may be, we are left in no doubt that, no matter how mysterious and hidden they are, there are rules governing the magic. This of course is essential for fantasy, in order to avoid the 'it's magic: we don't have to explain it'2 trope. It is also to Aarnovitch's credit that he does not spend a long time with Grant in denial; once Grant experiences the supernatural he accepts it quickly and the plot does not grind to a halt while he struggles with his newfound knowledge. Most of all, however, what comes bursting through the text is Aaronovitch's deep love for, and fascination with, the city of London, and his enthusiasm is so infectious that it made me want to jump on a train, head for the centre and start walking around the capital.

Indeed, my only slight criticism comes with our villain. If the end of the above summary didn't give it away, the central antagonist is finally revealed to be Mr Punch, the embodiment of anarchy, violence and mayhem. Aaronivitch is not the only writer to tap into the eerie, nasty quality of Punch and Judy, and my issue, although it's difficult to see how it could be altered, is that perhaps he doesn't dig quite deeply enough into the bottomless creepy potential of the puppet.

Rivers of London is not a book that will change the genre, and is all the better for it. It is a fun, violent, charming book that charges through its 400 odd pages at lightning speed and leaves you desperate for the next in the series in the hope that it will be half such a cracking read. That's the way to do it, all right!


Happy Holidays, all!


*Yes, I know in the original stories Lestrade is actually a pretty good policeman, but he's the most famous of the 'even WATSON'S cleverer than him' trope.

Link to Orion books where the novel can be bought: https://www.orionbooks.co.uk/Authors/Ben+Aaronovitch.page?AuthorName=Ben+Aaronovitch

1http://www.gamesradar.com/rivers-of-london-by-ben-aaronovitch-e28093-book-review/



2http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/ComicBook/OneMoreDay – check 'A Wizard Did It'….

Rogue One: A Star Wars Story

Well, Rogue One has had its first major opening weekend, which means some of you lovely people who weren't passionate/stupid enough to go to the midnight screening as I did, have had a chance to see it, so I can do a spoiler heavy post. Still, please be aware, if you've not seen it yet that there are massive spoilers from the very beginning. Also, this is going to be less of a review, and more a collection of ramblings from an overexcited fan.

On that note, as I've not really discussed it before, I am a huge Star Wars fan. Like, huge. I don't talk about it much, not the way I do about my Neil Gaiman or Terry Pratchett obsessions, nor do I geek out on it the way I do with superheroes or Middle-Earth. I don't really consume much spin-off media, nor do I even really watch the films that much, no more than once or twice a year, if that. However, it is my home fandom. My first fandom. Star Wars A New Hope was the first live-action movie I was ever conscious of watching, aged 5 and I have been a fan from that time, to the point that the combination of music and opening scroll of The Force Awakens had me weeping openly (even if the subsequent film left me underwhelmed). So yeah, Star Wars is important to me.

With that said…

Rogue One: A Star Wars Story, dir. Gareth Edwards – 2016

 

I loved it!

Going into the cinema I knew exactly what I wanted from the film: originality and risk-taking, both of which had been so lacking in The Force Awakens. And while some people, even the usually excellent Peter Bradshaw in The Guardian seem to imply that because there are lightsabres and space battles the film is largely derivative (as if the presence of guns and horses made High Noon and Unforgiven near identical) Rogue One was, to me, near revolutionary as a Star Wars Movie. This is not to say that there aren't familiar elements, there is once again a parental relationship that is central to the plot, but it astonishes me that, in the reviews that I have read, critics do not seem to be acknowledging the huge risks taken in this film. Tonally, the film is closest to The Empire Strikes Back, but Rogue One is the first film to fully embrace the word 'Wars' over 'Star' and the upshot of this is that, in this Christmas blockbuster – one that parents will be taking their children to in droves – they kill characters. And not just the villains, or wise old mentors like Obi Wan, or Yoda, or even Han in The Force Awakens, or even all the background Jedi in the prequels-that-must-never-be-named. Main characters. All the main characters. I'll admit that when I first heard the synopsis for Rogue One I'd thought it would be so effective if those who stole the Death Star plans died doing so, but I assumed that Disney would never allow that to happen, neither wanting to jeopardise the market of Star Wars films as child-friendly, nor kill off further franchising along with the characters. The fact that they did so, and that the final act of the film is essentially a suicide mission, brings a weight and power, not only to the weak-sounding platitudes spoken throughout the film about rebellion and hope, but to the cinematic Star Wars universe as a whole. Ultimately, any action-related movie contains the basic question of 'are all/any of the protagonists going to make it?' and by answering 'No' Rogue One completely changes the game for the Star War's universe.

This is not to say there aren't problems. Despite boasting an impressively diverse cast (and making an excellent point in that every Imperial officer we see is played by an older, white actor…) it's a shame this only seems to apply to the men; the only two female characters with any substantial dialogue or narrative importance are played by well-spoken white women… And yes, there are only two… I have also heard criticism of the characters themselves, that they are too thin or the actors are wasted in their roles. While it's certainly true that actors of Forest Whitaker or Mads Mikkelsen's calibre are underutilised (poor Mads Mikklesen's not doing too well, is he?), it must also be acknowledged that this is not a rompy space-opera, nor even a character-driven action movie like the Avengers; it is a war movie, and part of what gives their deaths such power is how little we know these characters, the things we never get to see or learn about them. Another unfortunate aspect of the film lies in the CGI presence of a young Carrie Fisher and the late, great Peter Cushing, reprising their roles as Princess Leia and Grand Moff Tarkin. Leaving aside the considerable issue of taste, though the CGI is certainly impressive, it's nowhere near good enough yet for this to be anything other than distracting and it's hard not to think that shots of silhouettes, profiles and the backs of heads would not have been better.

However, one other character returns, whose presence alone helps us to forgive all the film's faults. Although Darth Vader has less than ten minutes screen time, every moment counts as Edwards perfectly utilises the greatest bad-guy of cinema, succeeding not only in making him cool as all hell, but also genuinely menacing, as the last few minutes of the film attest. It helps that James Earl Jones is still booming out the iconic voice, and that the script allows Vader to be intimidating, while also keeping the level of acerbity consistent with lines such as Return of the Jedi's 'The Emperor is not as forgiving as I am'.

Overall, the film is uneven, but the problems are entirely overridden by the excellent acting, breathtaking visuals and a plot that dares to take risks never normally seen in a blockbuster. It is one thing for a PG/12a film to assert that there are things worth dying for; quite another for it to back these words up by killing every one of its central characters. This fan adored it, and is already planning on seeing it again, so….



May the Force be with you.

Charmed Life

Charmed Life, Diana Wynne Jones – 1977


Charmed Life is a story not unlike a cat; playful and cute, until the claws come out. In discussing the genius of Diana Wynne Jones one encounters the same problem as when discussing Terry Pratchett; all the cleverness and craft that form the basis for their books are camouflaged by being written with such matter-of-fact elegance. In short; they make it look easy.

In this novel, written for children, we find ourselves in a quasi-Edwardian world where America is known as Atlantis, the French won Waterloo, and most importantly, magic is seen as simply another profession, such as the law or medicine, if one displays sufficient talent. After the deaths of their parents, Eric (Cat) Chant and his older sister Gwendoline go to live with Mrs Sharp their downstairs neighbour who is an affectionate, if deeply unscrupulous, Certified Witch. Though the meek and timid Cat clearly has no magical ability whatsoever, the haughty Gwendoline soon proves herself an exceptionally powerful sorceress. Dissatisfied with living with Mrs Sharp and discovering a connection to the renowned Chrestomanci, Gwendoline writes to him and the great man adopts them both, and brings them to live at Chrestomanci Castle. Sparks fly, however, as he refuses to acknowledge anything remarkable about the girl, and her actions become more outrageous by the day in an attempt to provoke a reaction. Finally, she disappears entirely, leaving Janet, a bewildered stranger from another world who looks identical to Gwendoline, for Cat to find in her place. And the trouble is only just beginning…

If this vague summary sounds intriguing to you, or if Charmed Life is sitting nicely on your to-read list, then stop now, get a copy, read it, and come back. Normally, I wouldn't bother with what is essentially a spoilers warning like this, but this is Diana Wynne Jones: the surprises in Charmed Life really will take you by surprise, and it's far better to experience them, without my having spoiled it for you. So, go on… shift! 

Jones' greatest skill in writing Charmed Life is her deft balancing of uncanny atmosphere and twisting plot; indeed the sheer darkness of Charmed Life is hardly apparent initially as Jones continually shifts the tone between whimsical and eerie, particularly once the children enter Chrestomanci Castle. Once there, Gwendoline's furious pranks and attacks are initially riotous, and as readers we revel in the spirited rebellion against the supercilious Chrestomanci and his luxurious, stifling household. The conflict escalates, however, and soon Gwendoline summons a creature 'weak, white and lonesome. It was draggled and slimy'1 outside the window, and when this horrifying apparition still provokes no response, Gwendoline uses an entire army of enlarged beetles and insects, as well as more of the ghastly white creatures, to interrupt an important dinner party. Though this scene is viscerally unpleasant, it is the events that follow which provide the first major curve-ball of the book. The beetles finally provoke a reaction from Chrestomanci and Gwendoline is punished, and just as we expect there will now be some important character development, Jones subverts our expectations and Gwendoline vanishes, leaving the terrified Janet in her place. This, in turn eventually leads to the major revelation; that Eric is a nine-lived sorcerer, and Gwendoline has merely been syphoning off his power while letting him believe he has no magic whatsoever. And finally we realise that the horrible white apparitions are in fact Eric's own lost lives, one of which at least, Gwendoline is responsible for him losing...


Making Gwendoline the villain, and happy to kill her brother altogether if necessary, is one of Jones' masterstrokes, and it is from here, rather than the ghoulish creatures and sometimes sinister feel of the castle, that the real darkness of the book arises. When we first meet Gwendoline as an arrogant, conceited girl, we assume that, in a children's book, these are traits that she will learn to grow out of, and that her affection for Cat will outweigh her power-hungry nature. To subvert this is a gloriously unsentimental choice of Jones', one that it seems unlikely would be made by a children's author today, certainly not without deep psychoanalysis of the character or considerable angst. The book gains its consdierable darkness from Gwendoline simply being a selfish and despicable person. A similar revelation is that all of the eccentric, entertaining villagers that Cat grew up around fully embrace their suspicion and hatred of Chrestomanci and are acting alongside Gwendoline, and are therefore willing to be complicit in the murder of Cat to achieve their goal. Looking very deeply at it from today's perspective, and given that Jones grew up in war-time, the idea of all the slightly eccentric figures from the town you grew up in suddenly being the villains and expressing views that are dangerous and ignorant, is a wonderfully sinister one, which is perhaps particularity resonant now. Indeed, in the townsfolk's dismissal of Chrestomanci and what he does, there is almost a faint whiff of being fed up of listening to the experts…


Balancing out the darkness of the book are some wonderful characters. Cat himself is almost unbearably wet at times, partly due to his own timid nature but also because of his emotional dependency on Gwendoline, but once she vanishes he gradually begins to develop. Janet and Gwendoline, so physically alike and emotionally different, both bring fire and energy into Cat's life, and are hugely entertaining characters in their own right, but also demonstrate the difference between a largely positive force and largely negative one in someone's life. Chrestomanci comes from the Sherlockian school of aloof-genius-heroes, often appearing in magnificent dressing gowns, but is most interesting in his relaxed and unguarded moments. The various figures of his household are a delight, particularly his wife Millie and the contrast we see in her between how she appears on the surface, and what she is capable of. Elsewhere, the Nostrum bothers make excellent secondary villains, and Mrs Sharp is another extraordinarily complex character for a children's book; the scene where Cat sees her again after missing her so badly, is deeply poignant as he begins to realise, despite her obvious genuine fondness for them, how unscrupulous and self-serving she really is.


Charmed Life is a novel of dazzling unpredictability and wonderful lack of sentimentality. Neil Gaiman, a life-long friend and fan of Jones, stated that her 'fiction was never improving'2, meaning that there was no moral or lesson to be learned from it. Unlike either the Narnia or Harry Potter series there is no message here, not even a predictable one of good and evil, it is simply a story, an enjoyable and unsettling story, and as such is a wonderful children's book. It is, in a word, enchanting.



Link to HarperCollins, where the book is available: https://www.harpercollins.co.uk/9780007255290/charmed-life

1Jones, Diana Wynne. Charmed Life, Harper Collins 2000. pp. 77




2Gaiman, Neil. Reflections: On Diana Wynne Jones in The View from the Cheap Seats, Headline Publishing Group, 2016 pp. 104

Thief's Magic

Thief's Magic, Trudi Canavan – 2014

Trudi Canavan's Black Magician trilogy was one of the forerunners of the modern YA genre. It was published during the Potter phenomenon, but well before the dark shadow of Twilight began to spread over YA writing. Seeing them in the school library, I remember being intrigued by the simple covers, which bore a plain white background and a black robed figure dead centre, and they remain on my to-read list. However, during the NaNoWriMo-dominated November, I called into my local library and discovered the first book in Trudi Canavan's latest trilogy: Thief's Magic. 

The book concerns Tyen, a young student studying sorcery and archaeology at The Leratian Academy, and his discovery during an archaeological trip, of a book of powerful magic. So powerful, that upon being touched, it scans the mind of the one holding it, and adds their knowledge to its store. Much of this power comes from its sentience, as within its pages is incorporated the spirit of a young woman, Vella, once a great sorcerer/bookbinder herself, before being transmuted into the book by the mightiest sorcerer of the age. Aware that the Academy will not accept much of Vella's knowledge, and scared that they will simply hide her away, Tyen at first conceals the book, until he is betrayed and Vella confiscated. When he realises that they plan to destroy the book for fear of the knowledge she now holds about the Academy, as well as, by extension, about the entire Leratian Empire because the professors have touched Vella, Tyen steals her back and goes on the run. Meanwhile, in another time, on another world, Rielle, the daughter of a prosperous middle-class family, finds herself in the precarious position of having a talent for magic, in a land where magic is considered property of the Angels, and only their exclusively male priests may use it. Even to be able to see or acknowledge where magic has been used carries dire penalties, yet a 'corrupter' haunts the city, teaching those who would learn, against the wishes of the priests. Then Rielle finds herself falling for the poor, charismatic painter, Izare, and everything begins to fall apart…

Within the overaching YA fantasty, there are two distinct genre at work in Thief's Magic. Of the two interwoven strands, neatly presented to us in alternating sections, Tyen's is essentially a 'boy's own' adventure story, fitting nicely into the John Buchan/Alfred Hitchcock-esque 'man on the run' style narrative, while Rielle's plot is far more that of a social and romantic story, though it does bring to mind a toned-down, magical 'A Handmaid's Tale'. Common threads running through both are a suspicion of mysterious authority figures, in Tyen's case the Academy and in Rielle's the priests, and the narrative of a young person's disillusionment with such powers. Misogyny is one of the major themes of the novel, and though it is far more overt in Rielle's narrative, Tyen's perspective offers the interesting narrative of a compassionate person beginning to understand his own privilege. When, whilst on the run, he encounters two women, Veroo and Sezee, one an untrained sorceress, the other the rightful princess of her country, he is forced to confront the prejudices of his own Leratian upbringing. Veroo's request to study sorcery at the Academy has been denied, and Tyen realises 'I know of no female sorcery students. I assumed there had been none with enough ability to qualify'1, while Sezee's crown was lost to her when the Leratian Empire colonised her land, and enforced succession through the male, rather than the female line. During moments like these, Tyen also has to confront the troubling colonial heritage of his land, and the changing of his mind is handled superbly by Canavan.

Indeed, both Tyen and Rielle are excellently written; laced with insight, easy to empathise with and genuinely likeable characters, both naturally quiet and submissive, but both also making huge and divisive decisions. Although Tyen's theft of Vella is a dramatic moment, Rielle's choice to be with Izare carries far greater emotional weight for the reader. Their romance is also handled well, and though it follows the well-worn cliché of a young woman of social standing falling for a roguish artisan, Canavan injects it with enough fire and realism to make it believable, not only that their relationship might start, but also that it might last. A relationship of a much stranger nature, but one which holds equally as much chemistry is that between Tyen and Vella, a relationship with difficulties far greater even than Rielle and Izare's, yet written with enough nuance by Canavan that I will be interested to see what future installments of the series bring.

There is also a clear analogy at work in the text, most prominently in Tyen's section, in the fear that magic, which suffuses the air all around and which the sorcerers need to draw on, is running out. The idea of depleting natural resources seems an easily drawn parallel with global warming, but it is subtly enough done that the message does not feel forced.

The book's biggest problem, one that, in a sense, it advertises on the front cover is that it is the first in a trilogy. This, of course, shouldn't be a problem in itself; the issue comes with the simple fact that the entire book is the interwoven story of two people, their lives and times, all building towards, presumably, when they eventually meet. And that word 'presumably' is the problem. Because they don't meet. Not in Thief's Magic. And while keeping their stories separate is an excellent way of allowing each main character room to breathe and develop, and each have their own dramatic climaxes, not having them meet denies the book as a whole any emotional resolution. While I am fully aware that this is a trilogy, not including the encounter that the series is clearly building towards gives Thief's Magic the unsatisfying feeling of being a glorified, extended prologue.

Despite this, Thief's Magic is an excellently written YA novel, featuring compelling characters, exciting emotional episodes and mature exploration of issues such as sex, authority and the cultural institutionalism of racism, jingoism and misogyny; issues that, right now, it is more important than ever that literature should discuss. Hats off to Canavan for dealing with it all so skilfully, it would just be nice if the plotting had received the same attention.

Thief's Magic page on Canavan's website, where it can be purchased: http://www.trudicanavan.com/books/millenniums-rule-trilogy/thiefs-magic-2/


1Canavan, Trudi. Thief's Magic, Orbit, 2014 pp. 284

Dr Strange

Well, my first NaNoWriMo experience is over, and I have staggered out of the field of battle, waving my flag, and a 51,000 word story, aloft. I did so at about 7 o'clock yesterday evening, so my time for writing anything else had been slightly limited. Therefore, please enjoy some potentially rather frazzled and incoherent thoughts on the recent Marvel move, Dr Strange, which I finally got around to watching. Normal service will resume shortly.

Dr Strange, dir. Scott Derrickson – 2016 

All rights to Marvel Studios

Brash, narcissistic Stephen Strange (Benedict Cumberbatch) is one of the finest neurosurgeons in the world, though he works entirely for glory and prestige, and not at all out of altruism or the desire to heal the injured. However, as a result of a horrific car crash, he suffers severe nerve damage in his hands which leaves him unable to wield a scalpel and while others, particularly his ex-girlfriend (Rachel McAdams), advise him to accept the fact and suggest he focus on more theoretic areas of medicine, his ego will not allow him to do so. Discovering a patient who suffered far more crippling injuries than he and yet is seen playing basketball with his friends, Strange questions the man, and begins his journey to Kamar-Taj. There he encounters the mighty Ancient One (Tilda Swinton), her loyal right hand man, Mordo (Chiwetel Ejiofor) and the formidable librarian Wong (Benedict Wong), and the magic they use to keep the forces of darkness at bay. After some trouble accepting the reality of magic, Strange turns his impressive intellect to learning all that he can of the mystic arts. Even as he does so, however, Kaecilius (Mads Mikkelsen), a former student of the Ancient One, now cast out, is seeking revenge, and has turned to a far darker being; the dread Dormammu. Worse still, are the questions he raises about the source of the Ancient One's power…


So first off, the casting… Scott Derrickson, the director, has said a lot about it himself (yes I did just link to the Express… I feel dirty…) and I understand his point. Essentially, the real problem lies with the source material, in adapting a fifty year old story in which a white man learns magic from a wise old Asian man, until he becomes the 'Sorcerer Supreme'. Basically there were always going to be issues. On the plus side, a previously male character was made female, a character who has always been white in the comics is played by a black actor, and while this obviously does little for Asian visibility in Hollywood, it's nice to see SOME effort being made…


Beyond this, perhaps the most important thing to say about the film is that it is gorgeous. The designs and the execution of some of the CGI, particularly Strange's introduction to magic and Dormammu's Dark Dimension, are absolutely beautiful and the scope and scale of them mind blowing. It is so refreshing for the Marvel films to contain genuinely magical elements, especially bearing in mind the disappointingly technological Asgard in the Thor movies, as it gives the director and effects teams the chance to abandon any semblance of reality and really cut loose. This also leads to some breathtaking action scenes, in which streets are folded up, sections of buildings set spinning and half a city transformed into a gigantic clock, all as background to a fight. Dr Strange makes the most imaginative use of CGI of any movie since perhaps Avatar (and even then, that was really only some floating islands and a forest… not a single ethereal dimension to be seen!).

To compete with this, it takes some fairly strong acting to not get swept aside by the stunning CGI, and Dr Strange boasts the most prestigious cast of any Marvel movie yet, with some of the most charismatic, talented actors working today amongst the cast. Rachel McAdams is massively underutilised in the generic girlfriend role, slipping nicely into the 'she's the best at what she does, just not quite as good as him' trope and while McAdams, Academy Award nominated actress, plays it well, it's difficult not to feel that she, the character and the audience are all being a little short-changed. Likewise, Mads Mikkelsen, the only one of the main five who is not an Oscar nominee despite being a titan of the acting world, portrays a villain who brings some very interesting moral conflict to the film, but whose only real strengths as a character are those that Mikkelsen himself imbues him with. 

And, in their far more well developed roles, Tilda Swinton, Chiwetel Ejiofor and Benedict Cumberbatch are all excellent. Given the direction in whichthey chose to take the Ancient One, Swinton is perfect; warm yet distant, obviously secretive yet inspiring trust, and ethereal, while remaining wry. Ejiofor is, quite simply, one of the finest actors alive and he brings the same quiet, easy fanaticism to Mordo that made him so chilling all the way back in Serenity (2005), choosing to play Mordo's perceived betrayal by the Ancient One with wide-eyed pain, and only allowing a bitter, resentful zealotry to emerge late. For Cumberbatch's part, there are obvious comparisons that could be made to Sherlock, but a more worthwhile link could be made to Robert Downy Junior's Tony Stark, as a bearded know-it-all whose primary weapon is a mixture of intellect and arrogance. However, in Strange, Cumberbatch is given the chance to depict a man prising his ego away from his genius, and emerging as a stronger, better man, therefore throwing off the character burden of being unbearably, smugly annoying; development Stark has not been allowed.

Aside from the casting and the poor showing for the female lead, the main issue with Dr Strange does not, perhaps, lie in the film itself, but in the expectations that came with it. Where many fans hoped for a sea-change in the Marvel movies, which have for a while now narrowly avoided feeling staid, and a bold, exciting new direction for the series, what we have instead is a very beautiful looking film, that essentially follows the same story structure as all superhero origin movies. I would argue, though, that it does present some interesting conflict. While I found Captain America: Civil War to offer a lot of false drama, not to mention discarding the ethical dilemma for a turgid emotional climax, Dr Strange initially promises less, but offers greater spectacle, while hinting at deeper questions. Despite the often very 'superhero-y' feel, from the revelation around the source of the Ancient One's powers, to the rift between Mordo and Strange, as well as Strange's own struggle with taking life, even in self-defence, we are presented with a MCU film where no side may be entirely in the right, though some entirely in the wrong, and decisions must be approached with care and thought.


Though it has its flaws – on top of all I've mentioned, the design of Dormammu himself is pretty weak, and, unusually in this very faithful film, could have done with being closer to the comics – I adored it, and would happily watch it several more times on the big screen alone. I enjoyed the performances of some truly world-class actors, and revelled in the sheer scope, imagination and beautiful execution of their CGI. Welcome to the pantheon Dr Strange, you're the most entertaining member for quite some time!


……………………………………………………………………..
……………………………………………………………………..
……………………………………………………………………..


And for my own post-credit scene: though not a big name, Benedict Wong is superb. As well as being a wonderful, solid counterbalance to the madness of the film, he earns probably the biggest laugh of the film, as a punchline that has been built up to for the whole movie, one we all know is coming, is pulled off beautifully.
……………………………………………………………………..……………………………………………………………………..……………………………………………………………………..


Also, I want that cloak!!!

(It's OK, you can leave your seats now… no more post-credit scenes)

Bitch Planet Book 1

Bitch Planet Book 1: Extraordinary Machine, Kelly Sue DeConnick (Writer) & Valentine De Landro (Artist) – 2015

(As ever with comics, it's impossible to tell the level of collaboration that went into the book, so I'm treating the ideas and the writing as the accredited writer's, and the style and artwork as that of the artist's)

TRIGGER WARNING: Discussion of violence against women, misogyny and other things that may feel too relevant right now.

Satire and humour are not the same thing. A joke may be satirical, just as a satirical work may elicit a laugh, but the point of satire is that 'prevailing vices or follies are held up to ridicule'1. Though one may end up laughing at these vices or follies, satire should also provoke discomfort, anxiety and, if the 'prevailing vices' are bad enough, anger. Unfortunately, satire is mostly seen in the 21st Century as comedians making rude jokes about a politician's stupidity and getting a mixture of laughs and 'oohs' of appreciation from the audience that they dared to be so bold. In some publications, Private Eye being the main one in Britain, the humour becomes more complex, more vicious and biting. And then occasionally we find ourselves with a work devoid of all humour, save only the occasional, very bitter laugh, rough, ready and pulsing with frustration and anger.

With that said, lets look at Kelly Sue DeConnick's Bitch Planet: 

In the very near future, non-compliant women are shipped off-world and incarcerated for life in a facility that the Earth authorities label the Auxiliary Compliance Unit, but is referred to almost universally as Bitch Planet. 'Non-compliant' can denote a number of things, from too fat to too thin, too loud to too shy, too prudish to too sexual, too queer or too black, and those too defiant of the system. Amongst the newest detainees are Kamau Kogo, a black former professional athlete before the new regime began, Meiko, a nimble young woman of Asian descent, and Penny, a huge woman whose formidable size is made up equally of fat and muscle. When, on Earth, the President, now known as 'The Father', decides that view ratings of Megaton, the globally favoured sport, are dropping off, he decides that a team should be assembled from the ranks of Bitch Planet.
If much of the synopsis sounds familiar, that's because it is. DeConnick borrows liberally from classic SF, be it the concept of an off-world prison or the idea of the ruler of the world using the viewing figures of the world's principal sport to measure his control. Where Bitch Planet rockets ahead of its predecessors is in the use DeConnick makes of these tropes, the satiric nature of the material and the fire with which she writes. Satiric fiction can be a very difficult genre to sustain, as the audience's engagement can waver once the point is grasped, but DeConnick manages this by demonstrating in her varied characters, amongst them an athlete and a designer of spacecraft, the brilliance, the warmth and the genius that is cast aside and ignored, because it is embodied women that the male populace find unpalatable. She shows, seriously and humourlessly, how many women have submitted and adapted to be 'compliant', some even working directly as guards and agents of the regime and spouting their rhetoric, whether they believe it or not. In portraying the men of Earth, we see DeConnick is likewise subtle; rather than having them make grandiose bigoted statements about women, she demonstrates the insidiousness of the misogyny in small exchanges and everyday interactions, patronising questions and condescending remarks that are barely an exaggeration of what one hears in real life. One such example involves a man saying he will run something past his wife, and his colleague advising him not to mention that, because people 'might get the wrong idea'2. Though she only uses it sparingly, DeConnick also includes a religious rhetoric, which has been carefully adapted, seemingly by the regime, around the central idea of God the Father, in order to further the self-righteous justification of this ruling patriarchy.

A Guardian review of the first three issues decries the lack of polish and finesse, but this criticism seems to slightly miss the point; Bitch Planet is DeConnick's own raw, violent reactionary response to the zeitgeist, and nowhere is this rawness more apparent than in De Landro's emotive artwork. In De Landro's hands, the violence feels far more real than is normally found in comics; every punch thrown by an inmate has weight as it lands, and in each gut-wrenching instance of guard-on-inmate violence one can almost feel the blows fall. It is also notable that, though there is continual nudity, as prisoners both arrive nude and often interact in the shower where they gain the closest thing they get to privacy, none of it is remotely sexual, not even when characters are acting in an overtly sexual manner. The colouring, suggestive at all times of stark, harsh lighting adds to the atmosphere, whether to show the oppressive nature of the prison or, back on Earth, to imply the tensions within the patriarchal paradise, that are already placing a strain on it.

In the very recent political climate, stories like Bitch Planet are crucial and one only has to look at the resonance that it's had to see this. There is a symbol used in the comic to denote a non-compliant, which appears on all their prison jumpsuits and this insignia has now become an underground phenomenon, with hundreds of women getting the symbol as a tattoo. If reading Bitch Planet, or even my review of it, makes you uncomfortable: good*. It is not mean to be a comfortable read. Satirical far beyond any humour, gloriously, furiously feminist and blazing with DeConnick's own anger, Bitch Planet is unrelenting, uncompromising and, now more than ever, necessary.

*Kelly Sue DeConnick herself has done a wonderful talk about the importance of being uncomfortable, which I was a fan of even before I'd read her work. ttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZaxkgZ3eLak


Available from the good folk at Image Comics: https://imagecomics.com/comics/series/bitch-planet

1 The Shorter Oxford English Dictionary, volume 2, Third edition, 1983


2DeConnick, Kelly Sue, Bitch Planet: Extraordinary Machine, Image Comics, 2014

The Bridge

Hi all,

Am currently in the heated midst of NaNoWriMo so have not had time to write anything this week. Instead, here's a really short thing I wrote a little while ago, before all the crap this year really took off, but seems relevant. Interpret it as you like, unless you take it that I am a Trump supporter, a professional athlete or a tap dancer...I am none of these things.

The Bridge 

Image copyright to https://www.pexels.com/photo/grayscale-photo-of-bridge-24495/

Though very early it was bright and clear, and the Inspector sat in his booth, staring down the long stretch of bridge upon which might appear at any moment some soul wishing to pass onto government land. He, of course, would take a moment or two to question them, see what sort of a person they were and what business they might be about, and then press the button to make the barrier rise and allow them entrance to his country.
It was not long before the first figure of the day appeared, and an odd customer they were too. One moment the bridge seemed clear, the next a faint voice said,
"Please will you raise the barrier that I may pass."
The Inspector peered through the glass and couldn't see anything, but he knew when he'd heard a voice all right, and he clambered out of the hut and leaned over the barrier. It was a very small person before him, almost a child, with very delicate features and skin white as a sheet. There was something distinctly strange about the figure; indeed the Inspector found he had to keep blinking and refocusing his eyes in order to see them at all, and he didn't like it one bit.
"And what may you be about?"
"Please," The voice seemed no louder close by than it had in the booth, and the Inspector at once found the quiet, pleading tone to be highly grating. "Please allow me entrance to your land."
"That's no answer to my question. What business do you have here?"
"I have travelled far, fleeing from my brother. Please allow me sanctuary in your land!"
Oh ho, the Inspector thought, so they admit to being trouble before I've even had to ask their history.
"That's no business of mine. I can see quite clearly you've no business here. We've enough troubles of our own without you adding to them!"
He turned away, and the quavering voice, desperate now, cried,
"Do not turn me away! It will be the end of me if my brother finds me!"
That did it, the Inspector thought.
"There's plenty of places you can hide from your brother without coming into our country. Be off with you."
He didn't look back, and by the time he was back in the booth, the odd figure had gone.
Good, he thought, and settled himself in his chair for a little snooze, content in a good morning's work.

The sun blazed in the sky, and the Inspector sat, cramming a grated cheese sandwich into his mouth. He reached for another crisp, but before his sweaty hand reached the salty bag, a double bass of a voice thundered,
"HELLO IN THERE!"
Grunting, nearly choking, the Inspector hauled himself from his seat and made his way out to lean on the barrier, stopping for a couple more crisps; when he saw the figure before him, one of these fell to the ground from his open mouth.
The man must have been seven feet tall, and broad with it. Long chestnut hair and beard framed the fat face, which beamed down at the Inspector in a way that irritated him at once.
"And who may you be? And what's your business?"
"I SEEK ENTRANCE TO YOUR LAND, FRIEND."
The giant smiled his stupid smile at him as if that would make everything all right.
"And why should I let you in?"
The smile slipped slightly, and the huge brow crinkled in surprise.
"I THOUGHT MY BROTHER HAD ALREADY COME THIS WAY. HE IS MY ELDER BROTHER, AND WE FLEE FROM OUR YOUNGEST-"
Ah, the Inspector thought, this is all starting to make a bit more sense: bad enough one weirdo trying it on, a whole family of them can be damned!
"Your brother was here all right, and I told him what I'm telling you: you're not coming over here!"
"YOU TURNED HIM AWAY?" The Inspector smiled to himself to see that stupid smirk properly wiped off the big man's face.
"Exactly. We don't want any of your lot around here. Clear off."
The giant looked crestfallen and the Inspector turned and stalked away to finish his lunch. Behind him, the oaf started,
"BUT, OUR YOUNGER BROTHER-"
"Your little brother can shove off too, and I'll tell it to him as well if he comes!" The Inspector didn't bother looking back, and simply re-entered the booth. He took a glance out of the window and frowned: the big man must have moved quickly for all his bulk as the bridge was deserted.

It was night, and the Inspector, having exhausted the possibilities of the little television provided, pulled himself out of his chair, and out into the night sky for a breath of air. He leaned on the barrier, looking out at the stillness and sighed, congratulating himself on another day's good work. Then he stopped, and looked a bit closer.
There seemed to be something moving in the still night, a deeper darkness swaying and shifting. He squinted at it, then started in alarm: it was moving towards him, a velvety, flowing blackness coming quickly upon him.
"Hey, stay right there, don't try and come through!"
But it was no good, for the shadow passed through the barrier and over him and on, beyond the body that now lay on the bridge.

Tiger! Tiger!

Tiger! Tiger!, Alfred Bester – 1955

TRIGGER WARNING: Discussion of rape

It is one of the most oft-repeated and oft-invoked tropes of fiction that a protagonist does not have to be good, heroic, or likeable in order to be compelling. The anti-hero is an increasingly popular device, one need only look at the slew of recent media from The Sopranos to Game of Thrones, the focus on a broken, vengeful Batman in That-Which-Shall-Not-Be-Named to Walter White in Breaking Bad, or the movie John Wick to the TV Narcos in order to see this. But, as many of these examples prove, there is a difference between a brooding, driven protagonist who may, Dirty Harry style, do unpleasant things in the pursuit of justice, and a creator actively choosing to make their central character a monster. This, as I noted in my review of Suicide Squad, comes with certain difficulties, and requires great skill on the artist's part in order to keep us engaged with the character, without glamorising or romanticising the awful actions they commit. And with that, I introduce an early S/F example, Mr Gully Foyle. 

In a universe where, centuries before, unassisted teleporting using only the power of the mind has become the normal way to travel thousands of miles instantly, mechanic Gully Foyle is trapped, floating alone through space on the spaceship Nomad, where he has been for half a year. No one can teleport (or jaunting, as it is named after the scientist Jaunte who first discovered the technique) through space and so, every couple of days, he makes the dangerous swim through airlessness to scavenge supplies from another section of the wrecked ship. He is a dull, slow, easy going man, capable, but utterly without ambition, until one day his salvation is at hand; the ship Vorga-T: 1339 notices his distress call, approaches the Nomad, and promptly turns and leaves Foyle alone. At this moment, Foyle is re-born into a ruthless, violent and unstoppable man whose only goal is to find and kill whoever gave the order to abandon him. From a colony of hermits where he gains some very distinctive tattoos, to the inescapable space prison that Foyle soon breaks free from, to the glittering heights of the galaxy's high society, Foyle hunts his quarry, blackmailing, raping and killing as he pleases, while being pursued by secret service, business conglomerates and armies, who search for a secret he doesn't even know he possesses. The only thing that perturbs Foyle, however, is the man on fire, a terrifying apparition who keeps appearing to him, burning bright…

Bester's vision of the future is very much of its time. A civil war rages between the outer and inner planets of the solar system, and the military intelligence of both sides are searching for a weapon of unbelievable power, the use of which would immediately determine the victor. The Macguffin here is called PyrE (as ominous an acronym between pyronic alloy and “E, the energy symbol”1 as you could wish for) rather than 'nuclear power' but the comparison seems obvious. Indeed, as with all the greatest SF/F, Bester uses the genre to comment on human nature. Bester's point is simple, no matter how far the future and no matter how extraordinary the advancements, such as teleportation through sheer will power, a new weapon will always be being sought, and the rich will always dominate.

Indeed, one of the best elements of the novel is Bester's depiction of the power and affluence of the rich of the galaxy, all of which is embodied in Presteign of Presteign. The idea that, in a world where everyone can teleport, it becomes a status symbol not to do so, is a wonderful one. Presteign's house is suffused with 'elevators, housephones, dumb-waiters and all the other labour saving devices which jaunting had made obsolete', while the arrivals at his social event are made by 'band wagon', 'glass-topped Greyhound Bus' and 'Esso-fuelled gasoline buggy'. The satire is complete when Geoffrey Fourmyle, Foyle's foppish alias, arrives by slow moving, private train, with men running before him to lay the track.

But burning at the heart of Tiger! Tiger! is the tiger himself, Gully Foyle. Entering the novel as a man of only “physical strength and intellectual potential stunted by lack of ambition”2, his desertion by Vorga prompts a sea-change within the man, reducing him to such savagery that even his lover describes him as 'Liar...Lecher...Tiger...Ghoul. The walking cancer...Guly Foyle'3, a phrase that is contrasted in the text with the line from Hamlet, 'remorseless, lecherous, treacherous, kindless villain'4. Foyle is a monster of the highest calibre, manipulating and brutalising anyone he wants to, especially Robin Wednesbury, whom he first rapes, then later recruits to act as his confederate. However, as stated, Bester's concern is human nature, so Foyle, having undergone extensive surgery to rid himself of distinctive facial tattoos, finds himself with severe nerve damage, so that under stress 'he saw the old tattoo marks flaming blood-red under the skin, turning his face into a scarlet and white tiger mask'5. Therefore as Jiz, his then lover remarks to him, 'You'll have to learn control now, Gully'6. An even greater change occurs for Foyle when, mid-way through the novel, he encounters the cold and beautiful Olivia Presteign, and discovers in her contempt for him that which he initially believes to be love, but is really the beginnings of self-awareness. From here he continues to grow, faced with impossible moral decisions that only he can make, as well as the overwhelming remorse for his previous behaviour. Bester uses Foyle to trace humanity's rise from savagery to awareness, and, with the mystery of the Burning Man who haunts Foyle finally solved, perhaps beyond, as Foyle is able to utter this exchange with himself, in the final pages:

“I believe,” he thought. “I have faith.”
He jaunted again and failed again.
“Faith in what?” he asked himself, adrift in limbo.
“Faith in faith,” he answered himself. It isn't necessary to have something to believe in. It's only necessary to believe that somewhere there's something worthy of belief.'

Tiger! Tiger! Is an extraordinary novel, if not without flaws. The rape of Robin Wednesbury occurs only to demonstrate Foyle's savagery, and although she does reappear as an interesting and fully developed character in her own right, there are some uncomfortable overtones of her now being obsessed with her attacker. Using rape as a plot device, particularly when the narrative is not centred around the victim, is best avoided, and, though the book was obviously written over half-a-century ago, to a modern reader it's inclusion feels unnecessary. Overall, however it is an excellent book, brilliantly invoking William Blake's poem, and crafting with it a SF tale that is at once haunting and uplifting.

P.S. If you're from England, the names are great fun, as he used an English telephone directory for them, hence Dagenham, Yeovil, Sheffield and others.

I am reading from an old Penguin edition, but a newer version will be available in any good bookshop!


1 Bester, Alfred Tiger! Tiger!, Penguin Books, 1974.p. 209
2 pp. 15
3 pp. 99
4 pp. 104

5 pp. 108

6 pp. 107