Review of Birds of Paradise by Oliver Langmead

In case you weren't paying attention. In case the same-ness of the fantasy market has drowned your hopes of innovative, fresh fiction. In case you've given up and fallen into the generic arms of fantasy published today. Fear not. Look to Oliver Langmead. His debut Dark Star, while cyberpunk-y in nature, was written in epic verse. His follow up was the dreamscape Metronome, a book that doesn't have a comfortable genre niche. His fourth, Glitterati, is the most unique dystopia you will ever read. But what about his third, Birds of Paradise (2021)? Let's get into it.

Birds of Paradise is the story of Adam in the modern world. Adam? Don't worry, you know him. It's that guy from Christianity's origin story. You know, Garden of Eden, forbidden fruit, serpent, fig leaf. Now fully clothed, he has drifted immortal through human history, constantly reinventing himself into our modern world. Not forgetting his friends of old, however, they stick together to protect the wonders of nature. A rose forever in bloom here, a fruit tree that perpetually produces fruit there—these are just a few of the things that Adam and his avian coterie protect. And who are they protecting them from? The ravages of human advance and growth.

With such a plot intro, perhaps you think Birds of Paradise is a luddite, preachy type of cautionary tale? Fear not. The book specifically examines a passage at the outset of the Bible which says humans should have dominion over all life on Earth (I paraphrase, natch). In laying out this theme, tone is not condescending, preachy, or worse yet, dry. Using visual metaphors and zip-zap plotting, it's anything but. In fact, the relentless dynamism of story is so much in the reader's face that the message is almost buried. Assassinations, museum heists, ambushes, and other such action give the novel a mafia feel, that is, if you replace the Godfather with a massive black man and a gang of elderly people who can transform into magpies, owls, crows, and other birds. A magic realist mafia, I guess. Did I mention Langmead is innovative?

Adding to the magic-realist feel, Birds of Paradise jumps quickly scene to scene without letting the reader feel too confident. In the early going as the reader puts their toes into the book's lake trying to find the bottom this may cause confusion. It isn't until after a fair number of pages that the reader understands the bottom is mercurial and that going with the flow is the better water strategy.

But wait, you say. Isn't there an obvious parallel to draw here with Neil Gaiman's American Gods? Don't both books feature gods of old living in a modern world of greed and excess? I thought you said this book is innovative? You would not be entirely wrong to point that out. But there are a couple key differences which distinguish the two. Where Gaiman's main character is a shadow, a man caught between gods and mortals while the gods battle it out, Langmead's is in essence a god himself. (No need to get into Biblical metaphysics here, right?) Where Gaiman's voice is warm and undulant in the telling, Langmead's is surreal, edgy, visceral. Pace is also different. American Gods is relatively sedate: drawn out scenes, lengthy transitions, and fair bit of muddling around. Birds of Paradise does not muddle. Langmead does take an occasional breath, but by and large the novel is pedal to the medal from page one. But perhaps the greatest difference is application of theme. As with all good myth, American Gods keeps its distance from the powers at play. Birds of Paradise is, as stated, magic realist. Details matter—toward scene and theme.

As stated, Langmead does an excellent job embedding theme in story. And while a specific Bible verse is called into question, it seems relatively clear the book is not specifically prodding Christianity (i.e. Christians are not the only environmental exploiters), rather a question regarding something larger: what is humanity's role on Earth? Are we here to utilize the resources available but at the expense of other living things, or something more considered? If not considered, then a certain gang of avian-themed mafia thugs may have to beat us back into proverbial line.

In the end, Birds of Paradise, like the range of brightly colored feathers the title hints at, is dynamic, quick-on-its-feet storytelling. There is a strong theme lurking beneath the smorgasbord of car chases, pride parades, flintlock pistols, hound hunts, legendary battles—a theme that brings into focus humanity's role on Earth: steward or survivor? Recommended.