Film review: Trance, Danny Boyle

This blog has lain dormant for too long this year, so I’ve decided to make a concerted effort to get the reviews rolling again. I’m going to kick off with something a little different: a film review. I’ve been a film enthusiast for quite a while, but have always been a little nervous about reviewing movies – I imagined that I needed to know all about the ins-and-outs of cinematography to write something meaningful. But now I don’t think that’s true. I’ll do my best with the technical aspects, of course, but to be honest the average reader of this blog is (probably) not going to know any more about the jiggery-pokery of movie-making than I do. What I’ll try to offer, therefore, is the opinion of your average viewer, which I hope will be useful to others who approach films with a similar level of knowledge.

Well, let’s see how I do…

Trance

Dir. Danny Boyle

UK, 2013

101 mins, cert 15

Danny Boyle’s latest offering, Trance, is a tense psychological thriller in which a heist-gone-wrong leads to a nightmarish journey into the inner mind of its protagonist. But while it’s certainly a stylish affair, Trance misses its mark when it comes to delivering a true emotional punch.

The film begins promisingly, with an exciting and well-paced introductory segment in which our protagonist Simon (James McAvoy) gets caught up in an attempted robbery at an auction house. As one of the staff, he is responsible for moving the item on sale – in this case, Francisco Goya’s Witches in the Air – to a safe place in such an event. But things swiftly go awry: Simon receives an amnesia-inducing blow the head while the painting vanishes from the hands of the auctioneers and the burglars both. The facts of its whereabouts are now only to be found in one place: Simon’s mind. But the criminals (led by Vincent Cassel as Franck) can’t break into his memories without help, and so Simon is sent to Harley Street hypnotist Elizabeth Lamb (Rosario Dawson) in the hope that she will be able to help Simon remember what happened.

From hereon in things get more complicated, and the rest of the film unfolds in a dizzying array of twists and turns. As Boyle takes us in and out of the visions experienced by Simon under hypnosis, the boundary between the real and the imagined, memory and falsity, begin to blur. This is aided by the film’s overall aesthetic. Many of the settings are suffused in primary colours, light sliding over glass panels and reflecting off water, screens blaring light into darkened spaces, so that the movie gains a hallucinatory feel. Like Simon, whom we learn is particularly susceptible to hypnosis, the film also slips easily in and out of reality. It’s deliberately bewildering, with the audience slowly learning the truth along with Simon as the layers of suppression are gradually peeled back.

There are some real surprises in Trance, and Boyle does a good job of dropping hints and revealing hidden motives and alliances at just the right time to keep viewers on their toes. Tension is maintained throughout as we’re asked to constantly re-evaluate our expectations of the characters. The pace, too, despite slowing a little after the opening sequence, really begins to ramp up towards the end, and the movie wraps up with a satisfying, action-filled climax.

But although Boyle has offered a slick and visually arresting piece of cinema, it does have its flaws. Notably, it lacks a palpable emotional purchase for the viewer to get a hold of. This, partly, is a consequence of the film’s concept, for although Trance’s primary concern is with the inner world of its main character, the very fact that Simon’s memories and motives are revealed gradually means we cannot really connect with him. He doesn’t really know himself, and so the audience can’t truly understand him either – at least not until late on in the movie. Ironically, this journey into the recesses of the protagonist’s mind ends up preventing the film from mustering emotional depth until it is too late.

The other characters tend to drift on the periphery of the film. Although there are some nice moments with Elizabeth and Franck, the audience is hard-pressed to come away with an enduring impression of these characters as much more than pawns that have been cleverly manipulated around Boyle’s game-board. So while you will probably be interested to find out what’s going to happen, you probably won’t – when it comes right down to it – care.

This isn’t to fault the acting – though none of the performances are exactly mind-blowing, there aren’t any obvious missteps. McAvoy does well in capturing Simon’s spiralling emotions as he discovers more about himself and his memories are gradually unlocked. Cassel, too, works to give nuance to the sinister-but-suave Franck, while Dawson is a locus of cool control within the maelstrom.

To sum up my thoughts: Trance may not have you in thrall, but with its high concept plot, stylish atmosphere, and cool soundtrack, it will serve as an enjoyable diversion for fans of mind-bending thrillers.

A note on the certificate: Mileage varies when it comes to depictions of violence, sex, and nudity, but in this case I was genuinely surprised that the film had a 15 rating; I’d have thought 18 would be more appropriate (but then, what do I know, eh?). I personally didn’t have a problem with Trance’s more ‘shocking’ moments, but for those of a more sensitive bent I offer this warning: the moments of violence are sparse but can be quite disturbing, and on the nudity stakes there is female full-frontal. Just so’s you know!

Review: The Troupe, Robert Jackson Bennett

I haven’t had much time recently for reviewing at length, but as I wrote a very short review of this book for Goodreads, I thought I should also pop it up here, for anyone interested.

The Troupe

Robert Jackson Bennett

Orbit, 2012

ISBN 978-035650-040-9

The Troupe is a fun, vibrant novel with a few flaws. The characters are fabulous and well drawn, and their interactions and relationships are what primarily had me turning the pages. The plot is good, if a bit meandering around the middle, but the aforesaid character interactions make up for that. The concept is fine – it’s nothing tremendously new, but it works for this standalone book and is refreshingly simple compared to lots of fantastical set-ups in the genre. I had a few quibbles with the internal consistency of the worldbuilding, however. The author gave himself scope to use whatever magical beings he liked (the four Shepherds, fairies, ghosts, his own invented ‘wolves’) which was fine – he did use them all with flair – but felt slightly slack as I wasn’t certain of the limitations of the fantastical occurrences. The novel also seemed to be terribly US-centric, seeing as what the characters were up to was supposed to effect the entirety of existence… Perhaps I didn’t understand correctly, but that’s how it came across.

But all in all, The Troupe was a highly enjoyable read with some fabulously magical moments. I’d recommend it to fans of Neil Gaiman’s American Gods – the novels aren’t *that* similar, but if you enjoyed Shadow’s road trip across the US in company with deities, you’ll probably find something to like in George Carole’s adventures in The Troupe too.

Review: The Fractal Prince, Hannu Rajaniemi

 

The Fractal Prince

Hannu Rajaniemi

Gollancz, 2012

ISBN 978-0-57508-892-4

I read Hannu Rajaneimi’s debut novel, The Quantum Thief, back in March… and I loved it. A hard sci-fi tale that manages to be at once intimidatingly intelligent and raucously enjoyable, it is now one of my favourite genre reads. So it goes without saying that I was eagerly anticipating the sequel, The Fractal Prince. Luckily for me, Gollancz were kind enough to send me a review copy when the book came out last month. (Thank you, Gollancz!) The slight delay in my review is due to the fact that I re-read The Quantum Thief before plunging into the next instalment. This is something I would recommend doing, because whilst The Fractal Prince does offer some summary of The Quantum Thief’s events, it will prove a rather confusing ride if the first book isn’t fresh in your mind. (Then again, everyone’s different; perhaps your memory is better than mine!)

The Fractal Prince continues the adventures of Jean Le Fambeur and his captor-come-companion Mieli – and of course Perhonen, Mieli’s sassy ship. Following their escapades on Mars, they are heading towards Earth for the next stage of their mission. However, on their way an encounter with a sobornost Founder gogol throws up fresh questions and creates new priorities for Jean. Meanwhile, on Earth we are introduced to a new protagonist: Tawaddud Gomelez, daughter to an aristocratic family who live in the last remaining city on Earth. Located in what was once the Middle East, Sirr is a bewildering and bustling metropolis populated by embodied people, tiny ‘fast ones, and disembodied ‘jinni’. Treasure-hunters venture into the desert to salvage ancient technology, while feral ‘wildcode’ runs rampant, causing horrific mutations and worse. But it’s not until Tawaddud gets caught up in the city’s political manoeuvrings that she discovers just how much chaos is stirring in Sirr.

This book was definitely a worthy follow-up to Rajaniemi’s 2011 debut. Once again, the author’s astounding imagination burst from the pages, presenting readers with a richly imagined and fiendishly clever vision of the future. The perspective was also expanded from that of The Quantum Thief (as you would expect from a sequel), with new settings and many more details revealed about the sobornost, the zoku, and the various posthuman peoples who populate this far-future solar system. The protagonists, too, show many new facets, with Rajaneimi disclosing more about their histories and motivations as the narrative progresses.

For me, one of the highlights of The Quantum Thief was the ‘Oubliette’ city on Mars and its accompanying system of privacy ‘gevulot’, and again in The Fractal Prince the setting was particularly impressive. I loved the author’s conception of Earth’s last city, its wildcode-ravaged fringes, and its eclectic populace. Rajaneimi avoids long descriptive paragraphs, but has a knack for conveying the richly textured feel of his setting and its hectic atmosphere with clarity and flair. This also applies to the science fictional concepts, which – as in The Quantum Thief – are complex and never fully explained. Nevertheless, Rajaniemi has a neat trick to make sure they remain (at least somewhat) comprehensible to his readers, i.e. by referring to them using fantastical terminology – for example, clouds of nanoparticles are ‘utility fog’, and when used for transport they are (magic) ‘carpets’. This use of fantastical nomenclature helps readers to visualise these futuristic elements even if the science on which they’re based is beyond them (as it often was me!).

The characters likewise continued to be a delight. As I said in my Quantum Thief review, I’m often worried that in hard SF characterisation might take a backseat to ideas and plot, but that’s definitely not the case with Rajaniemi’s writing. Jean and Mieli’s relationship remained interesting, oscillating as it does between solidarity and suspicion, and even Perhonen showed an unexpected side. I was sad to have left Isidore on Mars in The Quantum Thief, but new character Tawadudd made up for that. Serving as the reader’s sole native viewpoint of Earth, her character was perfect for revealing the different sides of Sirr and the factions operating there. Caught between her desire to impress her aristocratic father and her fascination with the strange jinni of the desert, Tawaddud serves as a bridge between the ‘high’ and ‘low’ of the city. She’s also a good example of that elusive being, the ‘Strong Female Character’: independent, determined, and intelligent. So thumbs up for her!

Rajaniemi also has a real talent for including amusing character scenes and interactions – even when the narrative’s moving along at a swift clip (which is most of the time) – and these instances of light-heartedness made the book that much more of a joy to read.

And now to the part that I both admired and had reservations about: the plot structure. First off, it can’t be denied that the structure of The Fractal Prince is handled very cleverly. ‘Fractal’ by name and nature, the novel uses the device of (un)folding stories within stories – purposefully riffing off One Thousand and One Nights, the Arabian setting of which is echoed in Sirr. Later chapters turn back upon themselves, referring unexpectedly to earlier episodes, whilst characters are constantly telling stories to each other. Indeed, in Sirr stories act as a kind of currency for the jinni who live in the desert, and are seen as both dangerous and valuable.

While I was struck with the ambitiousness of this structure, and admired the way in which it gradually disclosed different elements of the characters, it also had me confused, and I often needed to revisit earlier chapters to regain my grasp of what was going on or to check which timeline I was on. I’m also sure that quite a few things went over my head, and although I’m all for re-reading books to spot things missed the first time around, I did wish that The Fractal Prince had given me a few more pointers along the way. So whereas I praised The Quantum Thief for immersing readers in its world without letting us drown in it, this time I felt I got rather a lot of water in my lungs (please excuse the clumsy metaphor!). I enjoyed the book regardless, but less patient readers might come away frustrated.

To some extent, my occasional bewilderment is partly because of Rajaniemi’s economic writing style. I’m aware I’m contradicting myself a bit here, but whereas earlier I praised the economy of description when it came to the setting, this same trait was detrimental to some of the book’s action sequences. There were places in The Fractal Prince where more description would have helped me to follow and visualise the action. I also felt – particularly in the climactic sequences towards the end – that Rajaniemi sold himself a bit short. The Fractal Prince has some truly cracking epic set-pieces, and I felt that the author could have dwelt on them for longer to milk the full impact of such important, large-scale scenes. In this respect, I agree with Adam Roberts in his Guardian review where he says that The Fractal Prince falls short of evoking ‘the sublime’ – though I’m sure that Rajaniemi is more than capable of achieving this, and I look forward to seeing what he comes up with in the final instalment of his trilogy.

Overall, then, despite some reservations I found The Fractal Prince extremely enjoyable, and can safely say that Hannu Rajaneimi is producing some of the most exciting, lively, and ambitious SF I have ever read. So, whilst The Fractal Prince is more difficult to follow than The Quantum Thief (and shouldn’t be attempted without having read the first one), I highly, highly recommend that you experience both of these novels. You’ll need to keep your wits about you, but it’s definitely worth it.

Review: God’s War, Kameron Hurley

God’s War (Bel Dame Apocrypha, volume 1)

Kameron Hurley

Night Shade Books, 2011

ISBN 978-1-59780-214-7

Nyx sold her womb somewhere between Punjai and Faleen, on the edge of the desert.

From the very first words of God’s War, Kameron Hurley plunges us into the raw desert world of Umayma and throws us in with her sharp-witted, dirty-mouthed protagonist, Nyxnissa so Dasheem (a.k.a Nyx). What follows is a gritty, adrenaline-filled ride that isn’t scared to careen outside the box. Science fiction mingles with fantasy as well as a heavy dose of weird – a combination that will appeal to fans of all or any of those genres, and especially to readers looking for something different, dark, and daring.

One of the things that stands out most about the novel is its departure from the Western-inspired settings and cultures that SFF seems to gravitate towards. With God’s War, Hurley tears us off this well-travelled course, depositing us instead on the war-torn planet of Umayma thousands of years from now. This is a world first and primarily colonised by Muslims (though Hurley never mentions the religion by name – or, at least, not by its present name). In the ensuing years, various nations have formed on the planet, notably Chenja and Nasheen, whose different forms of religious practice have propagated a centuries-long war. Still ongoing, it is this horrifying conflict – fought with deadly chemical weaponry and organic technology – that serves as the backdrop and incitement to the novel’s action. Conflicting loyalties, religious disagreements, and societal differences are crucial to the characters’ motivations, relationships, and decisions.

The result is a complex, well realised – if extremely grim – creation. God’s War is certainly not for the faint of heart. Umayma holds horrors besides the war: with giant insects swarming about and sunlight so intense that it causes cancers, the characters are beset with trials left, right, and centre. But it’s not all doom and gloom; Hurley’s worldbuilding also makes room for some extremely nifty concepts. The combination of insect-fuelled technology, shape-shifters, and ‘magicians’ who run boxing gyms and can reconstitute human bodies is heady and ambitious. What’s more, it works.

The characters, too, are a varied and potent mix. First up is Nyx, a Nasheenian, and one of a government-funded group of assassins known as bel dames. It’s their job to hunt down men who flee from the front or dodge their drafts, and to punish such deserters with death. Nasheen is hard-eyed in its wartime politics: the men are shipped off to fight at 14 and are not permitted to return until they’re 40, if they return at all. Nasheen, therefore, has grown into a state governed and dominated by women. Conservative gender politics have gone out the window; women are not required to wear the hijab and are anything but submissive. Indeed, men are considered ‘the weaker sex’ – Nyx, speaking of her front-line service, refers protectively to the ‘boys’  who served under her.

In contrast to Nasheen, Chenja is a pious nation that retains its conservative religious dogma. There, men still dominate while women are expected to remain in a submissive role.

Building a far-future world inspired by a modern-day religion not the author’s own is, you might think, a recipe for disaster. However, I’m pleased to report that by dint of extensive research, powerful empathy, and consummate skill, Hurley avoids the many pitfalls that God’s War may have pitched into (though, admittedly, as a white, atheist Brit I am not the best person to judge this…). The author does not judge either of her fictional nations; neither is demonised, nor upheld as perfect – far from it. Instead, Hurley uses her diverse characters to explore the nations’ conflicts and frictions in small-scale, nuanced ways. Rhys, for example, acts in many ways as a foil to Nyx. He is Chenjan, a male ‘magician’ whose ability to control insects (via some not-wholly-explained deployment of pheremones) makes him invaluable when it comes to operating the organic tech of Umayma. To Rhys, Nyx is a brazen, ‘godless’ woman; to the atheistic Nyx, he is a self-righteous chump who needs to grow a stronger backbone. Their bickering provides some great (and much-needed) humour in the novel, while their increasing respect and liking for one other affords us some of God’s War’s most heart-rending moments.

But Hurley’s novel does not only explore the tension between Nasheen and Chenja; its scope is broader than that, and indeed it’s impressive how much detail Hurley manages to cram into one book without it becoming overwhelming. On Nyx’s team there is also Khos, a shape-shifter from a neutral country called Tirhan. Evolved from some kind of biological oddity unique to Umayma, Shifters are accepted by some, treated with suspicion by others. And then there is Hurley’s inclusion of homo- and bisexuality. Umayma’s various countries and religions have different takes on these relations. Nasheen accepts homosexual relations between women while outlawing those between men ‘for no better reason that that it made people uncomfortable’; in Tirhan, men and women are segregated and men are encouraged to satisfy their desires amongst themselves. Once again, Hurley portrays the factions warts and all; indeed, one of God’s War’s major themes is the fact that no one side has it all right.

It is this realisation that creates the overarching tension behind the main narrative. For when Nyx is sent after a woman from off-planet who may have the means to end the Nasheenian-Chenjan war – but only to one side’s benefit – she must decide which course to take. But only if she can keep herself and her team alive for long enough to find the cursed target in the first place…

Hurley’s writing is sharp and clean. Despite the complexity of her world, she does not indulge in info-dumps. Instead, the reader is given information about the world as and when they need it, and not before. Like the characters, you’re expected you to fend for yourself (as it were), putting the pieces together as you go. I expect some readers might not like this – mileage varies, after all – but, personally, this is how I like to experience a science fictional world: as a traveller, an explorer.

Hurley also has an eye for irony and detail – often unpleasant, sometimes dryly amusing. It is this injection of humour that really vitalises the book, with the wit and snark of the characters helping to offset the novel’s more depressing moments. Nyx always gives back as good as she gets, and the secondary protagonists are also very sympathetic despite their various flaws. Rhys is the best example here – despite his somewhat judgmental opinion of Nyx, he is a gentle soul and probably the most easily likeable of the main bunch.

The bad guys, on the other hand, are truly terrifying. Hurley does not pull punches and, accordingly, neither do they. Rasheeda, in particular, gave me the shivers. I will be having nightmares about white feathers and snickering. (You’ll see what I mean… Oh, you’ll see…)

Other reviewers have pointed out a bit of a pacing problem in the novel – i.e. that the beginning section was rather slow, and that it takes a while for the main storyline to kick in. I suppose that’s true, but I honestly didn’t think this was a problem whilst reading. For me, the beginning section gave a solid grounding from which the novel then took off in the second part. The pacing really ramped up, and the ending certainly didn’t disappoint: God’s War finishes with a stirring, action-packed climax. Indeed, in the final quarter I couldn’t turn the pages (OK, click the pages… I have a Kindle edition) fast enough.

God’s War is the first book in a trilogy – Hurley’s wonderfully named ‘Bel Dame Apocypha’ – but it wraps up well and can be enjoyed as a stand-alone (in case you’re chary of plunging into a trilogy right now). As for me, I’m curious to see where Rapture will take me… if also a little nervous! But what is SFF for, if not to take us places we never expect to go, force us out of our comfort zones, and show us things beyond our own imaginings…

Review: Shadow and Claw, Gene Wolfe

Shadow and Claw (the first half of The Book of the New Sun)

Gene Wolfe

Tor Books

ISBN 978-0-31289-017-9

This review has been a long time coming… as has my introduction to the works of Gene Wolfe, of whom I’ve heard great things. So it was with excitement that I approached Wolfe’s best known work, the tetralogy The Book of the New Sun, hailed by many as a seminal SFF masterpiece. From everything I’d read about Wolfe, I expected something fantastic but challenging. And that is exactly what I got… but in a fashion I had never anticipated.

First off, I will say that I have only read the first half of this lauded series – the omnibus edition of Shadow and Claw, comprising The Shadow of the Torturer and The Claw of the Conciliator – and so I don’t yet have an overview of the work as a whole. Now, I wouldn’t usually point this out, and would normally just judge each book in a series on its own merit, but with Wolfe’s tetralogy I feel that it’s necessary to make the caveat. This is because Wolfe’s series feels like an elaborate puzzle where the pieces come together only gradually, and even though I’m halfway through I don’t feel like I have a real handle on where the tetralogy is going or quite what Wolfe is aiming at in The Book of the New Sun.

I’m not sure whether this is a criticism. I don’t think it is – because I think it’s probably what readers are supposed to feel upon their first foray into Wolfe’s creation. An intriguing mixture of fantasy and science fiction (science fantasy, if you find the label useful), The Book of the New Sun introduces readers to the world of Urth, where fantastical happenings coincide with remnants of an advanced technological society, now long decayed. (Comparisons could be drawn with M. John Harrison’s Viriconium stories, which I’ve also just started reading.) In this baffling world we meet our protagonist and narrator Severian, an apprentice torturer who lives with his guild in an ancient Citadel in the city of Nessus. In the first chapter, we experience his first real exposure to the politics of his world, in which he declares sudden allegiance to a shadowy, aristocratic figure called Vodalus who is engaged in a rebellion against the Autarch. From them on, we follow Severian’s adventures as he weighs his loyalty to the guild against his newfound purpose… and also his newfound passion for one of his prisoners, the beautiful and beguiling Thecla.

It took me a little while to settle into Wolfe’s style. After the action of the first chapter, The Shadow of the Torturer proceeds slowly, and the narration has a formal tone which makes it seem rather distant despite the first-person viewpoint (this is presumably because Severian is supposed to have written the text a long time after the events, and so is himself now distanced from them by time and maturity). Because of this, I found the style a little alienating at first, and didn’t really engage with Severian as a character.

And yet… I was hooked. I was hooked by the world unfolding before me, its secrets, its weirdness, the way it departed from the usual fantasy tropes and plunged me into unexpected territory. This is not a book for the impatient: Wolfe holds back as much as he lets on, and – despite a prologue that explains some of the terminology – the reader must slowly piece together the society and its history. Words from different eras and locations of our own world (cataphract, ephor, carnifex) intermingle with completely invented names (atrox, avern, notule) to create a setting both enigmatic and palimpsestic, the language suggesting the overlapping of cultures – the ‘medieval’, the advanced, the fantastical – that exist on this strange Urth. Add to this the ‘Note on the Translation’ at the start of the novel, which states that the ‘translator’ has often approximated terms to try and give the most accurate picture of the world presented in the text, but that he may not always have succeeded… and, well, this makes for fascinating – if not easy – reading.

The plot is also unusual. If you’re looking for a clear-cut story arc with straightforward character developments leading to a round, satisfying conclusion, then these are not the novels for you. Instead, the story is rather meandering, meaning that the reader is treated to a gradual tour of the world (first the city of Nessus in The Shadow of the Torturer, then beyond its walls in The Claw of the Conciliator), following Severian as he ventures away from his guild for the first time. Whilst his works well as a plot device – we learn about the setting as Severian does, so avoiding those dreaded info-dumps – it also makes the whole experience rather baffling. The episodic plot makes it difficult to ascertain the thrust of the tale, and in places it seems a little stagnant. Moreover, the endings of each novel are extremely abrupt; the books certainly don’t work as stand-alones. However, Wolfe’s prose is so accomplished that he kept me intrigued; the novels possess a literary authority that makes me confident they are doing something rather wonderful, even if I can’t figure out quite what it is yet. (Those with an intolerance for postmodern stylistics should probably steer clear!)

I warmed to Severian a little as I went on, though in all honesty I still can’t say I like him much. But, again, I don’t think Wolfe set out to give us a sympathetic protagonist. Severian’s voice is detailed and self-reflective, but also oddly indifferent for the most part (the latter quality perhaps arising from his profession as a torturer). Seen through his eyes, the secondary characters are also at once distinct and unaffecting. Though I didn’t really care much about them, I nonetheless found them intriguing. They seem to be further pieces of the puzzle, and it’s interesting to watch Wolfe manoeuvre them, and to try and guess where they fit into the wider scheme…

That said, I was slightly uncomfortable with the way the female characters were presented. They came across almost as stock types (Dorcas the ingénue vs. Jolenta the vamp, for example) and I was frustrated with the way almost all of them got intimate, or attempted to get intimate, with Severian. The characterisation of Jolenta in particular made me scowl. But hey, I guess you can’t have everything… *sigh*

I realise this isn’t the most coherent review I’ve ever written, as I’m still trying to get my head round Wolfe’s creation. To sum up my rather fragmentary thoughts, I’d recommend Shadow and Claw to patient readers looking for a challenging and cerebral series to sink their teeth into. With a world and plot that defy expectations, along with a definite undercurrent of weirdness, the two novels gave me much to think about. I expect it won’t be long before curiosity forces me to pick up the second half… Hopefully I’ll be able to draw some more concrete conclusions when I’ve finished the tetralogy. Then again, it’s been said that ‘The Book of the New Sun is too complex a work to evaluate on one reading’ (Baird Searle). So… well… wish me luck!

Review: Miserere, Teresa Frohock

Miserere: An Autumn Tale

Teresa Frohock

Night Shade Books

ISBN 978-1-59780-289-5

Miserere: have mercy. Well might the characters of Teresa Frohock’s dark debut beg for such a thing. Some of them might even receive it… but not before Frohock drags them through a gauntlet of emotional, physical, and spiritual trials. This grim fantasy is certainly not for the faint of heart – but despite its darkness and the ugly challenges its characters face, Miserere contains a core of beauty and hope.

In the parallel realm of Woerld, divided from present-day Earth by a mysterious Veil, life is hard, to say the least. For Woerld is the last line of defence between Earth and Hell. Peopled by warriors called Katharoi, Woerld’s bastions of faith are in constant battle with the Fallen: the angels expelled from Heaven who now languish in Hell. The Fallen’s attempt to escape their prison is never-ending; their aim is to break through Woerld’s defences, taking over Earth so that they can return in force to Heaven. Only by remaining true to God, and thus channelling their own spiritual species of magic, can the Katharoi hold the Fallen back, and save both Earth and Heaven from conquest.

Frohock’s cosmos, split into the four dimensions of Heaven, Earth, Woerld, and Hell, is a fantastic concept, made all the better by the way Frohock skilfully transforms these celestial/abstract realms into palpable, realistic settings. The majority of Miserere’s action is set in Woerld, and as such the reader has abundant opportunity to explore this fascinating locale. A quasi-medieval realm infused with a gloomy, purgatorial atmosphere, it departs from the standard epic fantasy setting in many ways, but notably in the manner that it interacts with Earth. For whilst the denizens of Earth are blissfully unaware of Woerld’s existence, the same is not true of Woerld’s citizens. Indeed, many of them actually come from Earth, having been drawn through the ‘Crimson Veil’ that occasionally opens between the realms. Consequently, although the magical resonances in Woerld interfere with modern technology (there’s a cool moment involving a mobile phone), the characters are aware of modern advances despite their own medieval-style living conditions. Not only does this add an interesting complexity to the worldbuilding, but it also gives Frohock logical reason for the characters to express modern sensibilities and to use contemporary language that in a standard quasi-medieval fantasy would be anachronistic and/or evidence of lazy writing. In Miserere, however, the occasional ‘okay’ is by no means out of place.

I also admired the way that Frohock’s novel, whilst obviously grounded in theology, did not become preachy at any point. The existence of a higher power (God, if you will) is a given in Woerld, and his power is the basis for the Katharoi’s magic system. Nevertheless, this is not ‘Christian fiction’ in the sense that I understand it (i.e. actively promoting Christian faith and teachings). Religion forms the foundation of the cosmos and the magic, but it is not present for any overt didactic reason. Miserere’s concept reminds me more of Pullman’s His Dark Materials than anything else, though it lacks the actively atheist sensibilities of that series as well.

What makes this novel all the more impressive is that despite its sweeping, epic outlook, the story is character-driven. Long-suffering protagonist Lucian is held hostage by his twin sister Catarina, for whom he betrayed his lover, Rachael, abandoning her to Hell’s torments years before. In doing so, Lucian became tangled in his sister’s machinations, becoming complicit in her scheme to help the Fallen to gain a foothold in Woerld, and consequently exiled from the Katharoi’s Citadel. But when, at the start of Miserere, Lucian escapes his sister’s clutches, he unexpectedly gains a companion: Lindsay Richardson, a child from Earth who has been sucked through the Veil with her brother. Such children are known as ‘foundlings’ – those with the potential to become Katharoi – and Lindsay’s sudden entrance into Lucian’s life changes everything. Pursued by his sister’s minions and tracked by his resentful ex-lover on behalf of the citadel, encountering demons and dark spells, travelling through the Wasteland with a crippled leg and a weight of guilt, and all the while trying to protect Lindsay and teach her about this strange new world… Lucian is forced to reassess his life. Can he keep Lindsay safe and uncorrupted? Is there the slightest chance Rachael will forgive him? Is redemption even possible for him anymore, after what he’s done?

That cast of Miserere is a particularly strong one. Lucian is a brilliant protagonist, simultaneously noble and culpable, tortured and determined. Rachael is similarly awesome: struggling with her conflicting feelings towards Lucian, wracked with memories of her horrific time in Hell, and possessed by a demon known only as ‘the Wyrm’, she is hard-as-nails but also emotionally (and physically) scarred and vulnerable. Catarina, meanwhile, is appropriately terrifying, but Frohock gives us enough insight into her past to understand why she has turned to the Fallen. Lindsay worried me slightly at first, as I wasn’t keen on the ‘girl drawn through portal between the realms’ thing, but I needn’t have fretted. Frohock handles her adroitly and without the usual clichéd pitfalls, and I really warmed to Lindsay as the novel went on. She and Lucian made a great duo, and their interactions made for some truly affecting scenes.

Frohock does not flinch from being cruel to her characters – which, personally, I think is crucial to crafting an effective tale (cf. Robin Hobb!). Miserere is dark stuff, and the level of threat remains high throughout. Between the Wyrm, the Barrens, the Sacra Rosa, Catarina, and Catarina’s truly hideous henchman Speight (*shudder*) the reader is kept in a state of constant tension and fear for the characters. There are also enough action sequences to satisfy any thrill-seeking reader – sequences made all the more effective by the attention Frohock pays to her characters’ emotions throughout.

There’s little to fault with the writing style either. Frohock’s prose is accomplished and relentless, and both settings and characters are luridly realised.

All in all, Miserere gets a fervent recommendation from me. It’s harsh, bleak, and often twisted, but as its title suggests, it’s not completely merciless. For within the darkness of its world, a light resides – and its that spark of hope that keeps you turning the pages, rooting for Lucian and his cohorts as they battle through their numerous tribulations. I can’t wait to follow it into the next instalment.

Review: Farewell to Tyrn (novelette) by Ryan Harvey

‘Farewell to Tyrn’ (novelette)

Ryan Harvey

Self-published (available from Amazon or Smashwords)

In his novelette ‘Farewell to Tyrn’, Ryan Harvey returns to the setting of his Writers of the Future award winning story, ‘Acolyte of the Black Spires’. A world of blazing hot summers populated by humans and saurians (alternate dinosaurs), powered by a strange force called ‘the Art’, and overlooked by an enigmatic and terrifying masked people – the Shapers – this has all the ingredients for a brilliant science-fantasy tale. ‘Farewell to Tyrn’ introduces us to the concepts that underlie Harvey’s setting, whilst also kicking off an action-packed storyline.

In the city of Tyrn, young Belde roams the streets with her friends and her pet saurian, Rint. But gradually she begins to notice a change in her friends. A strange ennui begins to affect them, and she learns from her father about ‘the Sorrow’, an affliction that settles upon everyone as they pass into adulthood. But Belde doesn’t understand – she doesn’t feel sad or afraid. Could it be that she’s somehow immune to the Sorrow? Her suspicions are confirmed when the Shapers appear at her parents’ door, and she is thrust out of her peaceful domestic life in a wild bid to escape.

This punchy 9000-word tale draws readers immediately into Belde’s world, wasting no time before immersing us in its fascinating setting. Belde and Rint make an endearing team, and Belde’s young perspective forms a great juxtaposition with the more ominous side of the story, as Belde struggles to understand the mysterious Sorrow and the politics of the city.  Harvey’s style is swift and exciting as he takes us scrambling over the rooftops of Tyrn, though occasionally the writing indulged in slightly too much exposition. Despite this, ‘Farewell to Tyrn’ is an accomplished piece, and provides an intriguing glimpse into the world Harvey has created. I especially loved the idea of saurians: dinosaurs aren’t exactly a staple of SFF (despite Jurassic Park), and their presence in Harvey’s tale immediately gave Tyrn its own distinctive flavour.

‘Farewell to Tyrn’ is intended as the prologue of the novel Harvey is currently working on – and, if the novelette is anything to go by, Turn over the Moon is definitely a novel to look out for.

Review: The Quantum Thief, Hannu Rajaniemi

The Quantum Thief

Hannu Rajaniemi

Gollancz, 2011

ISBN 978-0-57508-889-4

If you’ve read Hannu Rajaniemi’s biography, you’ll already be aware that he’s a highly intelligent man. Director and cofounder of a mathematics think-tank, with a degree in mathematical physics and a PhD in string theory, his credentials are intimidating to say the least. But if there’s one thing that’s truly convinced me of his genius, it was reading his breathtaking debut novel, The Quantum Thief, an action-packed and turbo-paced hard-SF tale.

The novel had a lot to live up to. Rajaniemi secured a three-book deal with Gollancz based on just a single chapter of The Quantum Thief, and upon its release it was nominated for the Locus award for Best First Novel (which in the end was awarded – somewhat bafflingly, in my humble opinion – to N. K. Jemisin’s The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms). Knowing those things – and adding the fact that I don’t generally go in for hard-SF – I approached the book knowing that it would have to be spectacular for me not to come away disappointed in some way.

It was more than spectacular. It was mind-blowing.

Set in our solar system in the far future, The Quantum Thief is a dazzling tale in which humanity, technology, and data-manipulation are enmeshed, and people live a complex post-human existence where replication, re-incarnation, and bodily enhancement are not merely possible but entirely normal occurrences.

Here, I blurbinate:

Jean le Flambeur is a thief – but not just any thief. His feats are legendary, epic in scope. It is said that has stolen secrets from the minds of Kings, a sunlift factory from the Sobornost elite, and infiltrated a guberniya brain of the Inner System. Thievery is his gift, his obsession, his joy. It’s also the reason for his current uncomfortable situation. For le Flambeur has just been busted out of prison, and his rescuer, the inscrutable Mieli, turns out to be another form of gaoler. She – or whomever she’s working for – wants him to steal something. But before he can do that, le Flambeur must first retrieve his previous identity, the clues to which lie on terraformed Mars. There, in the great, moving city of the Oubliette, where privacy is the highest priority and wealth is measured in Time, le Flambeur and Mieli must piece together the thief’s enigmatic past. But they are not the only ones investigating. A brilliant young detective named Isidore, along with a group of masked crusaders called the Tzaddikim, also have an interest in le Flambeur. And interests have a habit of clashing…

The concepts Rajaniemi has come up with in The Quantum Thief are simply astounding. Hard-SF they may be, yet they also have a poetic quality to them that makes them appeal to the fantasy fan in me. Butterflies as avatars; ‘Quiets’ in monstrous bodies, toiling beneath a moving city; a system of memory ‘keys’ that can be manifested as physical objects… the list could go on. Most admirably of all, Rajaniemi manages to present us with an exciting and emotionally poignant tale that is bound up with his fantastic ideas whilst never being bogged down with them. The concepts are introduced within the story’s flow, giving us enough information to get a good grasp of them, but not enough to set off the infodump alarm bells. We’re immersed in the tale from the start – but we don’t drown in it.

It’s often a fear of mine that, in a high-concept science fiction novel such as this, plot – and especially character – might fall by the wayside. (Perhaps this is a preconception of mine about hard-SF, that’s actually more false than it is true? But that’s another conversation.) In The Quantum Thief, these facets are definitely not neglected. The characters are wonderful. Le Flambeur is delightfully mischievous, Mieli is frickin’ hardcore, Isidore is endearingly rumpled and put-upon. My favourite, though, was Perhonen, Mieli’s cute, gutsy ship. Wait, can a spaceship be cute, you ask? Hells yes it can!

The plot too, does not disappoint. The Quantum Thief has twists, surprises, and some frickin’ cool action sequences. But it’s also not too action-heavy; that side of things is balanced out by the well thought-out, intriguing, and often amusing character interactions and development.

The writing was also impressive. It’s detailed but unfussy, sharp but not too stark. Rajaniemi also adds a brilliant touch when he uses archetypal language in the chapter titles, naming his characters as ‘The Thief’, ‘The Detective’, ‘The King’, etc. This was a wonderful choice, as it gives an extra sense of continuity with this far-off world and its characters, who, strange and augmented though they may be, are, at heart (or, perhaps, at mind), human like us. The chapter headings are also illustrative of another thing about The Quantum Thief that I really admired: despite the fact that the culture the novel presents is completely technologically dependent, Rajaniemi has conceived of it in such a way that it does not lose its connection to the spiritual or mythic resonances of life. The language of ‘gods’ and ‘goddesses’ might mean something slightly different in this distant world, but the possibility of beings or existences that are beyond, unknown, other is not excluded.

My only criticism of this fantastic debut is that, towards the end, events ramp up so fast that it does become a tiny bit difficult to follow. For the majority of the book, things are paced so that readers have time to orientate themselves amongst the different concepts and factions involved, and retain their bearings. The nature of a climactic end-point makes this hard to maintain, and as the tempo increases you do start to feel a tad at sea (or I did, anyway). It certainly wasn’t a major problem, however, and in fact I have the feeling that this is the kind of book that will yield yet more enjoyment on a second reading, as you pick up on things that you didn’t the first time round. And it’s definitely a book that I would be delighted to read again.

And, because it bears repeating: Hannu Rajaniemi, you are a genius.

Review: Never Knew Another by J. M. McDermott

Never Knew Another (Book 1 of the Dogsland trilogy)

J. M. McDermott

Night Shade Books, 2011

ISBN 978-1-59780-215-4

Fugitive Rachel Nolander is a newcomer the city of Dogsland, where the rich throw parties and the poor just do whatever they can to scrape by. Supported by her brother Djoss, she hides out in their squalid apartment, living in fear that someday, someone will find out that she is the child of a demon. Corporal Jona Lord Joni is a demon’s child too, but instead of living in fear, he keeps his secret and goes about his life as a cocky, self-assured man of the law. Never Knew Another is the story of how these two outcasts meet.

(Blurb source: author’s website.)

So reads the blurb of J. M. McDermott’s Never Knew Another, the first instalment of his Dogsland trilogy. This description, however, does not do justice to the compelling and skilfully woven tale that lies between the book’s covers. Whilst Never Knew Another is indeed about the meeting of Jona and Rachel, that is only one facet to its intricate narrative – a narrative that surpasses much of the ‘traditional’ fantasy genre in its emotional depth, stylistic and structural crafting, and understated elegance. In that regard, I would say that the book’s cover is a better indication of its contents than its blurb. Julien Alday’s artwork conveys just the right combination of magic, threat, and sophistication – a near-perfect match to the strange, eerie, and enticing tale that McDermott has created.

Never Knew Another is a novel that is not content to ride the wave of convention. Shorter and sleeker than your average fantasy offering, it nevertheless delves deeper and more relentlessly into its characters than most. Its prose, too, is a departure from the easy, (and sometimes rather lazy) straightforward style we often witness, instead possessing a maturity, deftness, and economy that is more common to short stories than novels. The story’s structure is similarly artful, with McDermott using foreshadowing, flashbacks, and layered perspectives to tell his tale. Restless, ruthless, unsettling – and yet with a core of very human warmth and feeling – Never Knew Another is an ideal pick for someone looking for a novel that reaches beyond your ‘standard’ fantasy.

What lends the story much of its success and potency is the perspective McDermott chooses to tell it from. At first, the reader is introduced to a straight first-person narrative – nothing new about that, you might think – but then we get the twist: this narrative becomes in itself a framing device. This is made possible through the viewpoint character’s nature and profession: she is a ‘Walker’, a shapeshifter from a religious sect whose job is to hunt down and eradicate ‘demon children’ (i.e. people with a demon ancestor, whose blood literally corrupts and decays the world around them). In order to track her prey, she draws upon a mysterious power: she is able to access other people’s memories, experiencing their most intimate thoughts and feelings, their aspirations, loves, and fears. In the novel’s first chapter, she and her husband (also a Walker) discover the dead body of Jona, a demon child and once King’s Man of Dogsland city. Via a ritual involving Jona’s bones, the narrator enters his memories – and it is through this channel that the reader encounters demon child Rachel Nolander, her brother Djoss, the criminal Salvatore, convent girl Aggie, and the rest of the book’s cast. The reader watches the narrator, who watches Jona, who watche(s/d) the other characters. But far from distancing us from the characters, this multiple layering takes the reader deep into each and every one. By embedding their experiences into the predatory Walker’s first-person narrative, McDermott not only cultivates a constant sense of menace, but also weaves a dense emotional tapestry which allows the reader access into the intimate, inner lives of his characters.

In fact, one of the most mysterious characters is the narrator herself. Although she is the first figure we encounter, and acts as the conduit through which we view all the others, her own story remains enigmatic. Revealed to us slowly and delicately in short snippets and references, it’s both fascinating and eerie – perhaps even more so because of the way McDermott withholds details from us. I found myself particularly drawn to this woman and her often silent husband: on a religious mission to hunt down all demon children, and with the power to shapeshift into wolves (in the classic Norse style, using wolfskins), they are in many ways a frightening pair. And yet, they also think constantly of their peaceful forest home, longing to finish their hunt so that they can return there. At once utterly committed to their cause – ruthless and unmerciful when it comes to carrying out their duty – and simultaneously sympathetic towards victims of injustice, the Walkers are complex and intriguing. It’s not often you come across characters so human and yet inhuman, so frightening but still compassionate. Having one of the principal antagonists as the first person narrator was an inspired choice – and McDermott executes it superbly.

As the Walkers track the demon children through the chaotic and fetid streets of Dogsland, McDermott serves us many horrors: the poor starve on the streets, the King’s Men are violent and corrupt, convent girls go missing in the darkness, and the Night King carries out dirty work in the shadows. It’s a harrowing tale, dealing with isolation and prejudice and fear and loneliness, but is not without its moments of hope and light. Friendships form, kin stick together, and sympathy kindles in unlikely places. The Walkers hunt… but they also feel.

For me, Never Knew Another was a marvellous find – and if you too are a fan of fantasy that takes you to weird, dark, and uncanny places, then I highly recommend it. It’s not a light read, but out of the suffering and sorrows of this characters McDermott weaves a startlingly human – and yet constantly otherworldly – tale, where people endure through adversity and hate, and hope still glimmers in grime-stained corners. I look forward to reading the next instalment.

Review: Cold Magic by Kate Elliott

Cold Magic(Book 1 of the Spiritwalker trilogy)

Kate Elliott

Orbit, 2011 (first pub. 2010)

ISBN 978-1-84146-882-9

Cold Magic is the first book in Kate Elliott’s latest fantasy series, the Spiritwalker trilogy. In a tale of intrigue, magic, and personal revelation, Cold Magic introduces readers to an alternate version of Europe (or Europa, as the novel has it [NB. map linked from Kate Elliott's website]). The year is 1837. Ice caps creep across the land, the remnants of the Roman empire still persist in Italy. The rest of Europa is governed by feuding princes, and powerful but hated mage Houses also keep watch over the populace, using their feared cold magic to keep their dependents in check. Caught between the princes and the cold mages, the people are restless. Amongst all this, protagonist Catherine Hassi Barahal is an orphan, living with her relatives in Adurnam, a city in the south of Brigantia (Britain). There, she spends her time reading her dead father’s journals, taking lessons at the city academy, and giggling with her beloved cousin Bee. All is peaceful… That is, until a cold mage turns up at the Barahals’ door and demands Cat’s hand in marriage. Suddenly, Cat is caught up in a whirlwind of events: given up by her family, whisked away from her home, and forced to endure the company of the arrogant and icy cold mage, Andevai. But it is only then that she begins to learn the truth about her family, to uncover the histories that will affect her future, and to discover the extent of her own strange powers.

My reaction to this novel was mixed. For a start, I found the beginning quite slow, as it takes a good few chapters for the main narrative to really kick in. Once the action had really begun, however, I warmed to it (haha), enjoying the squabbling and tension between Cat and Andevai, and finding myself genuinely caught by surprise at the twists and disclosures that Elliott weaves into the tale. And yet, I found that I was never fully swept away by the story. This is, I think, because I found the prose style rather distracting. Elliott deliberately opts for a relatively florid style, tailoring her writing to match the novel’s pseudo-Victorian setting. Whilst I respect this decision, I personally found Elliott’s writing a little chaotic. There was – to my mind – some decidedly awkward syntax and more than a few unnecessary adverbs (‘I fumblingly laced on two petticoats’, for example), which made some of the scenes stilted and more confusing than they needed to be. The dialogue, too, was correspondingly more formal and verbose. Sometimes this worked extremely well, but at others it came across a bit clunky and unrealistic. And I don’t think this is merely a question of it being a departure from the ‘transparent’ prose style that is today’s norm – I’ve read a lot of Victorian (and older) fiction, after all. Nevertheless, although I found Elliott’s prose overwrought at times, it certainly wasn’t enough of a distraction to make me stop reading.

The plot of Cold Magic is satisfying, if not overly complex; for me, the real tension was generated more by the unravelling of past secrets than the actual thrust of the main narrative. This isn’t to say that the narrative itself is dull (though I did feel that it was a bit long-winded, and could have been shorter and sharper): Elliot delivers some great moments and surprises, and I particularly enjoyed Cat’s forays into the spirit world. Andevai was also interesting, with his uptight, aloof manner, and I liked the theatrical and impulsive Bee. I can’t say I was overly fond of Cat, but I think this comes down to personal preference, for her feistiness, determination, and loyalty all serve to make her a fine, sympathetic protagonist. What’s more, the novel certainly ends on a dramatic note, and I’m sure that Elliott has a good many more surprises in store in Cold Fire, the trilogy’s second instalment.

The great strength of Elliott’s novel is, in my opinion, its setting. Populated by haughty mages, curious trolls, distant princes, Roman soldiers, unpredictable radicals, Celtic and Afric peoples, spirit creatures, goblins, and more besides, Elliott’s world is crammed full of wonders, variety, and detail. Built upon a wealth of historical and cultural background, the Europa of Elliott’s imagination gains an impressive depth and richness rare even for fantasy such as this – even if sometimes the information is delivered in a rather clumsy fashion. That is to say, Elliott often has the characters explain things to each other in slightly *too much* depth, and, informative as these sections are for the reader, they’re unconvincing in terms of dialogue and character. I sympathise with Elliott about this, though: to communicate such a detailed world through a first-person narrative is a tricky task, and the pitfalls of over-explanation are difficult to avoid.

Stylistic reservations aside, I found Cold Magic very inventive, with a fantastic setting and a very distinct atmosphere. In fact, I’m having difficulty thinking of anything to compare it to. It has airships – but it’s not what I’d call steampunk. It has characters with important magical powers and a background of war and conflict – but, with its first-person viewpoint and character-orientated narrative, it’s not what I’d call epic fantasy. So if you want to try something a little different, something vivid and well-imagined, something with plenty of magic and splashings of romance, something emotional and character-driven, and, what’s more, something with a great variety of female and PoC characters, then take a chance on Cold Magic. I’d be interested to hear what you think.