Review of Dark Star by Oliver Langmead

There are many modes and styles of storytelling.  Classic, minimalist, expository, stream of consciousness, mosaic, meta-fiction—and on and on go the ways in which an author can transpose their imaginings into fiction.  But poetry?  Have you ever read science fiction in metered form?

      Time to waste, so I escape the city

  At one of those seedy establishments

  They call ‘Glow Shows’ because they fill the girls

  So full of Pro’ it nearly burns their veins.

      Prometheus, resident wonder-drug;

  Pro’, Promo’, ’Theus, liquid-fucking-light;

  Prohibited by city law and shot

  By yours truly, Virgil Yorke, hero cop (1)

So run the first lines of Oliver Langmead’s Dark Star (2015, Unsung Stories).  And what follows is a story that lives up to every ounce of vividness contained in those few words—a proper story, just in measured form.

The effect replete, when Detective Yorke is called to the late night scene of a murder, the emptiness between the lines makes what imagery that is in the lines—the corpse’s neon veins—twice as powerful.  The city of Vox perpetually dark, the young woman’s body glows in the back alley, begging Yorke—and the reader—to learn what has transpired.  But just as his investigation begins, an even bigger crime calls Yorke away.  Vox dependent on the power generated by three dying stars, one has been stolen.  So, into the cold, dark night Yorke goes, battling his own addictions every step of the way, the metered verse stripping his story down to its evocative essentials.

Review of Finch by Jeff VanderMeer

Jeff VanderMeer’s 2001collection City of Saints and Madmen was a tour de force.  Putting Ambergris on the map, it presented vignettes from multiple perspectives of a fantastical city: scattered amidst historical monologues and art house pieces, interviews with crazed writers and fictional glossaries are stories of the strange and Weird.  Shifting gears, VanderMeer followed up the collection with Shriek in 2006.  Approaching the fungal metropolis from a personal point of view, the character studies of a socialite and her historian brother anchor what is by comparison a more subdued but no less creative text.  But even after the second book, questions remained—what about the Gray Caps, the underground, what ever became of Duncan Shriek, what of Ambergris’ true history, among others.  Thus for the third Ambergris book, VanderMeer did what any writer would do who wants to get under the skin of their own creation: he wrote a detective novel in an attempt to uncover its mysteries.  Putting an exclamation point on the Ambergris series, Finch is that novel.

Though the perspectives vary significantly throughout City of Saints and Madmen, there is a classical feel to the collection, a sense that the stories are written in modes more akin to yesteryear than modern times.  Shriek saw the clock roll ahead; Ambergris was still not the modern metropolis one thinks of New York currently as, for example, but instead a previous iteration, perhaps mid 20th century.  The clock spinning further ahead in Finch, the setting is contemporized.  While far from obvious, the fungal city nevertheless has a turn of the 21st century feel to it.  The surface details as wonderfully Weird as VanderMeer’s imagination has proven itself to be, rather the shift is seen in the function of the elements deployed.  And none moreso than the state of socio-politics.

Review of "The Prefect" by Alastair Reynolds

Alastair Reynolds has been quoted as saying the only good sci-fi is sci-fi that is “fictionally interesting”.  Not a politician’s statement, the author was aiming at putting value on the entertainment side of the genre—big concept, big story sci-fi as it were.  And his work shows every indication of walking the talk.  Pedestrian prose that assumes nothing of the reader, plot holes ignored in favor of plot twists, and theme taking a backseat to action, Reynolds excels at producing the tropes of Golden Era sci-fi: flashy space battles, cool tech, and fast-paced stories that grab you and go.  His 2007 The Prefect is no exception.

Returning to Revelation Space after a four year hiatus, The Prefect is the story of Detective Tom Dreyfus and his fight to keep the Glitter Band in the hands of existing powers.  Defining ‘fragmented society’, the Glitter Band is a 10,000 strong collection of inhabited space modules orbiting a sun.  Each module having its own population, culture, and laws, they nevertheless adhere to a universal voting system, a system which Dreyfus’ prefecture is responsible for protecting the integrity of.  When a fraudulent voting scam coincides with a gruesome piece of sabotage that destroys one of the modules, Dreyfus and his team, Prefects Ng and Sparver, head out to solve the mystery and put an end to the voting issue.  It isn’t long, however, before they themselves are calling for a vote from the citizenry of the Band.  The choice whether or not to allow the Prefects to use weapons, the threat is more than the collective might of the modules may be able to handle.

Review of "The Yiddish Policemen's Union" by Michael Chabon

Like contenders looking for a shot at the champ, or lesser men seeking to find fault in a wise master, so too is the reading of books that have won multiple awards.  Senses are heightened, the eyes are more attentive, and the brain analyzes every word, every phrase, looking for the reasons it is revered amongst the greatest, and perhaps more so, reasons it shouldn’t.  Michael Chabon’s 2008 The Yiddish Policemen’s Union, having collected some impressive SF hardware (Hugo, Nebula, Locus, and Sidewise), is one such zenith.  In this case, however, it’s tough to find fault in the logic.

While references to Chandler and the book’s noir overtones hog cover copy, there is far more to the novel than just a world weary cop, damsels in distress, and back alley shoot-outs.  Alternate history in full effect, Chabon uses the motif to dig deeper than plot into the ideas of cultural enmity and the sociology of group identity.  The snub-nose revolvers, black felt fedoras, and gangsters are all there, they just happen to be at play in a world of Jews, Tlingits, and all manner of cultural hangers-on in an alternate history version of coastal Alaska.  Yes, the Alaska you know, cold, choppy seas, pine trees, and lots of ice and snow…

Choosing the Slattery Report of 1948 as his departure point from actual history, Chabon brings his artistic license to bear upon an imaginary situation wherein refugee Jews from Europe after WWII are relocated to Sitka, Alaska instead of Israel.  Alaska and the Yiddish at first seeming odd bedfellows, the dark humor and dark skies hanging over each soon develop a healthy relationship.  Part of the “frozen chosen”, Meyer Landsmann perfectly suits the lonely, snow-covered sidewalks and meals at greasy diners, the smell of fried moose burger fogging the windows.  A detective, Landsmann’s troubles begin when a neighbor is found shot in the back of the head.  Israel occupied by the Palestinians, the trouble thickens when Landmann’s investigations take him deeper into the underworld of the Jewish mafia and their plans for the holy land - the neighbor’s murder only the tip of the iceberg.

Another cloud hanging over the characters wandering Sitka’s bleak, winter streets is their land’s  upcoming reversion to American soil.  Like the ambiguity residents of Hong Kong had trading one authority (Britain) for another (China) in 1999, so too do the Jews inhabiting Sitka face the uncertainty of not knowing what will happen to the identity they’ve built in the northwest state in the coming months.  What rights will the people have?  What new laws will come into play? And most important to the story, what crimes can people get away with now without fear of retribution from the incoming administration?

Characterization in The Yiddish Policemen’s Union is as good as literature gets.  Everyone has a story, from the Filipino doughnut man (living in a Jewish Alaskan state!!) to the mute chess activist, the Tlingit police chief in the bush to Landsmann’s tell-it-like-it-is police chief.  Barbie dolls and GI Joe nowhere to be found, all Chabon’s characters are real, breathing humans that we meet everyday.  Like John Goodman, Gilbert Gotfried, and Dame Edna, none of the characters are painted in flattering colors.  Bina, Landsmann’s ex-wife, is an overweight, cocksure, and lonely woman.  Landsmann’s partner, Berko, is a half-Jew, half-Tlingit whose massive build, Tartar eyes, and native warhammer do nothing to stop him from wearing a yarmulke.  Likewise, it does not stop him from having trouble knowing which side of his cultural coin he falls on. 

For those who do not appreciate rich, simile laden prose, do not pick up The Yiddish Policemen’s Union – or any book by Chabon, for that matter.  Were he an opera singer, he’d have “pipes”.  The language imaginative but always spot on, it’s possible one’s appreciation of literature can acquire new heights reading his novels.  The opposite of Hemingway, Chabon revels in colorful, obtuse descriptions that defy logic on the surface yet touch something sentimental and precise in afterthought.  At one point Landsmann is “flying solo, as sober as a carp in a bathtub”, while at another he observes a man with a “halo of dandruff, a bony bridge of nose, and grooves on his brow like a grid left in raw pie crust by the tines of a fork.”   The reader grinning one moment, the next shaking their head at the style’s bravado, the novel is truly a treat for those who love the dance of language.  (As Chabon employs roughly 30-40 Yiddish words throughout the text, most of which can easily be understood based on context, readers should be ready for an educational and thoughtful encounter with the language.)

In the end, fans of Coen brothers’ films, particularly Fargo and A Serious Man, will find The Yiddish Policemen’s Union simply top-of-the-heap.  The same dark humor, realistically unique personalities, and simple but evocative scene setting can be found in The Yiddish Policemen’s Union.  Far more than a murder mystery, readers should also expect poignant commentary on the current state of affairs in the middle east and the violence which seems permanently in cycle there - all in tones far from discriminatory.  The personal struggles of Landsmann, his ex-wife Bina, his partner Berko, and a handful of other people whose lives are caught in the socio-political milieu of reversion will also strike home to readers looking for stories more personal.  With gorgeous style, sublime humor, social and cultural commentary, solid plotting, and brilliant characterization, it’s easy to agree with the awards the novel has won.  Highly recommended.

Review of "Felaheen" by Jon Courtenay Grimwood

*July 8, 2013 - Dissatisfied with the original review, below is a re-posting with significant revisions.

The scene set and characters introduced in Pashazade and the broader picture of El Ishkandryia painted in Effendi, Felaheen (2003) is the closing chapter in the Arabesk trilogy.  Ashraf’s history the open issue, Jon Courtenay Grimwood puts his main character through the toughest ringer yet in discovering the answer—if it can be answered at all, history being the greased pig that it is.  As hinted at by the title (for those who have been paying attention in the series thus far), things will not turn out as the reader expects.  Style-wise, the novel is the best written of the three, making for a smart conclusion to a smart trilogy.  (Perhaps it goes without saying: do not attempt Felaheen—or this review—if you have not read the first two books.)

Remaining part alternate history, part mainstream fiction, part cyberpunk, and all detective noir, 2003 Felaheen is a conclusion fully consistent with Pashazade and Effendi.  Grimwood pulling no tricks on the reader, the setting, style, and characters are as reliable as ever.  What remains unreliable, however, is the plot.  Ashraf going to meet his alleged father, the Emir of Tunis, at the outset of the novel, his arrival portends an assassination attempt on Emir.  Unsure who would care to kill the crazed elderly man, Ashraf must investigate to clear his own name, and in the process protect himself from the Emir’s other son, one Kashif Pasha, who may or may not be vying to usurp Raf’s inheritance of Tunisia.  Forced underground, the secrets Raf uncovers may lead him to his heritage, and then again, it may lead to his death.

Filling out roughly half of Felaheen are flashbacks to the younger days of Raf’s mother, Sally Welham.  Bohemian ways making her a world traveler with a lot of frivolity, it is fleshing out her travels, through Thailand, Tunisia, and New York, that the details of Raf’s parentage begin to filter into place.  As with the previous books, Hani and Zara continue to play important roles, their interrelationship with Raf concluded—but not how readers may expect.

The first two books in the Arabesk series nominated, Felaheen finally won Grimwood the BSFA award in 2003.  And it’s easy to see why.  His prose is crisp and polished, and the themes at work, including the value of identity, relativism of history, and the environment, not to mention the religious and cultural concerns of Islam and North Africa as they confront a globalizing world, are all issues poignant to not only literary minded science fiction, but society at large.  Like all good writers, Grimwood’s voice never proselytizes and is able to relate these concerns in a fashion that suits the story yet rises above to strike the reader as important beyond the covers.  Readers can argue which of the three novels of Arabesk is best, but given the consistency it’s good to see Grimwood finally rewarded for the effort.

The issue the same throughout the series, I have saved my sticking point until the closing novel.  The only point where the books fall short is creative expectation.  Having borrowed the alternate history idea at work in Dick’s Man in the High Castle, the biotech of Gibson’s Sprawl trilogy, the noir moods of Chandler’s The Long Goodbye, and the mainstream plotting of most New York Times bestsellers, Grimwood adds little new to the genre except a solid, well conceived effort.  And while it certainly requires skill to combine these different elements into a single story, such books remain derivative rather than pace-setting.  It fills the gaps rather than creating them.  This is not to say that every author should aim to push the limits of sci-fi, but by merely riding the laurels of others, it’s difficult to say with certainty that the author has earned a place among the greats.   There is a place for Grimwood’s sci-fi, and he occupies it in style.  Suffice to say, Arabesk is recommended as quality reading, just not as cutting edge.

Review of "Altered Carbon" by Richard Morgan

Gouting action and mystery like a severed artery, Richard Morgan’s 2001 Altered Carbon holds no punches.  Its worldview cutting to the bone of human vice, the novel’s content is a combination of a variety of sources.  The storyline has the shape of a Raymond Chandler detective novel; the technological creativity has the intuition of Greg Egan’s sci-fi; and the world has the overall feel of Neuromancer.  More visceral than Gibson, however, Morgan combines these influences into a blood-soaked, tech-feast that will divide readers along a few different lines.

Altered Carbon is the story of Takeshi Kovacs, an ex-military convict brought out of storage to solve the mystery surrounding the suicide of a wealthy entrepreneur.  Human bodies like hardware and personalities like software, the USA of 500 years in the future features up- and downloadable personas.  Called ‘sleeving’, Kovacs wakes up to find himself occupying another man’s body, assassins and Meths (people who’ve sleeved for centuries to keep themselves alive) hot on his trail.  In typical noir fashion, a variety of busty dames and gutter girls arrive on the scene to provide valuable input - the sexual side of what is otherwise a very violent existence for Kovacs.  The gory details unabashed, Kovacs shoots, stabs, is tortured, and slowly blasts his way, one death at a time, to the heart of the mystery.

And many have noted the explicit nature of the novel.  Rightfully so; few chapters pass without a drop of blood or sweat.  Morgan’s philosophical view forms the foundation of the novel’s content: humanity will forever be subject to its vices, no matter the century or degree to which technology has integrated itself.  It is here that an interesting point can be made regarding the book’s nihilistic worldview.  While Gibson’s Neuromancer – a book Altered Carbon is often compared to – remains indifferent, leaving the door open for discussion regarding the fundamental nature of humanity, Morgan closes it, pushing the storyline of Altered Carbon steadily forward under the assumption humanity’s base desires for sex and violence will forever be its motivation.  Depending on the reader, this aspect will either amuse, disgust, or enthrall, no matter how justifiable the actions of Kovacs are.

Its thematic disposition aside, there are other criticisms of the novel.  As with most detective noir that attempts a complicated story, there are bound to be plot holes, and Altered Carbon is no exception.  In lieu of dropping spoilers, its perhaps best to simply say that while reading, the attentive reader will on several occasions shake their head and say something to effect “Well then, why didn’t Takeshi just…..” or “If that bit of tech is in place, shouldn’t they have been able to….”.  Those reading for fun will not notice; logicians will cringe.  The other missing aspect of the novel is mood.  While the scene at hand is sketched by Morgan in detail that nicely balances the flow of story, the feel for San Francisco 500 years in the future, however, is lacking.  There are no short passages scattered throughout which establish the tone of the story.  There are only pockets of setting based on where the action happens to be for the moment, the hotel, the whorehouse, the mansion, etc., nothing more to build the world.

Light on theme, but dripping, breathing, bleeding heavy with action, Altered Carbon is a plot driven novel to the core.  In fact, its plot structure could be the carbon copy of a 50’s pulp detective novel if it weren’t that Morgan dresses the story up with the mouth watering-devices of sci-fi - a techy/who-dunnit arising in the mix.  Thus, for action junkies looking for a rollercoaster, (knife) twisting, both barrels blazing, ride of a mystery in the 24th century, by all means have a go.  But for those who enjoy having their ingenious futuristic devices fleshed out for their relevance to the human condition or moral imposition, perhaps you should look elsewhere.  Those who can handle both will at least say the novel was interesting, but perhaps never read it again.

Review of "Hardcase" by Dan Simmons

Readers of Dan Simmons have been spoiled by his numerous great works: the Hyperion Cantos, Song of Kali, and The Terror, for example, selling well around the world and in many languages.  Hardcase, unfortunately, finds the author returning to earth from the heights of this success.  The book is run of the mill action –  well told, but still average.

Before buying the book, I noted that many reviewers enjoyed Simmons’ delving into detective noir to tell the story of hardened private eye Joe Kurtz, solving a mystery while just trying to stay alive, killers on his trail.  Having now read the book, I’m at a loss to see where the spirit of Raymond Chandler can be seen glowing in the text.  Certainly some of the elements speak to the noir genre – Kurtz’s office below a porno shop, his moral position outside the law but fighting for justice, the colorful thugs and assassins giving chase to name a few.  But sadly, the overall feel was more like Lethal Weapon than Chinatown.  Hood gangsters, drugs and guns, and mafia princesses were in fact the plot devices which moved the storyline.

As Simmons is such a great stylist, it was a bit of a disappointment not to read of dark alleys and cigarette smoke, red lipstick and .44 magnums emerging from trenchcoats, the echoes crashing through the pouring rain.  I expected something more artistic than the blase action story I was presented with.  Simmons’ usual storytelling bravado and vivid descriptions are present, but it just wasn’t enough to deepen the story.  If P.I. stories with smooth prose are your gig, by all means have a a go.  Otherwise, nothing special here.

(This review has also been posted at www.fantasyliterature.com)