Somnopolis

My word. That was different. So I’ve just watched a Sunday Sci-Fi matinee film based on the Odysseus myth. It was an entertaining romp, that managed to conflate several Greek myths together and then add vampires.

Well of course.

I loved Greek mythology when I was a kid, although since I’ve discovered a nice sideline in adaptations of the same stories. Ulysses 31 is still a favourite.

This version has Arnold Vosloo as the canny Ithacan and a number of other familiar faces from genre shows playing his crewmen. The movie starts with the famous encounter with the Sirens, but then veers off almost immediately. Odysseus is freed from his bounds and joins in the battle against winged demons attacking the ship. And who is this fighting beside him? Why it’s Homer himself.

We’re not in Kansas anymore (damn you Jim Cameron!).

I’ve not had a good history with the recent glut of revisionist takes on fantasy classics, such as the dour Tin Man. Yet this managed to achieve something different. Yes the actress playing the goddess Athena was painful, and the inclusion of Homer lessens Odysseus somewhat – still Brook Durham and Kevin Leeson’s script demonstrates enough familiarity with the material to improvise with the plot.

The crew are shipwrecked by the winged demons on an island ruled over by an enchantress. She is revealed to be neither Circe, nor Calypso, but Persephone. What’s more the writers also mix in some aspects of the Biblical Lilith with Hades’ wife.

Maybe you can see where this is going. The pantheist universe of Greek mythology here gives way to Christian symbolism. The demons that stand in for the mythical sirens become Nosferatu style vampires. Homer stands side by side with Odysseus writing down his adventures as they are told to him. Much like Neil Gaiman’s script for Beowulf, it is implied that some of the Odyssey is invented for the sake of the Greek king’s vanity.

For all these changes, I actually enjoyed the movie. Strictly Sunday afternoon fare though.

I mentioned here before that I am really looking forward to the film adaptation of Black Hole, in my opinion one of the strangest comic book series in recent years. A ragged hole of a story that leaves you drained afterwards, with horrifying visuals nesting alongside Burns’ evocative description of 1970s America.

The story charts the progress of a disfiguring virus known as ‘the Bug’, through a small-town in Seattle, seeming to target teenagers. We never see an adult infected by the disease, which physically changes those who have contracted it, causing them to grow vistigial organs, or deforming their appearance.

Our main protagonists are Chris, a teenage girl who catches the bug during a one-night stand; and Keith, something of a lost soul who is easily taken advantage of by his friends. During the course of the story both become infected by the bug, but react very differently. The virus itself appears to be spread through sexual contact, which is why so many teenagers become carriers. Many are  forced to leave the community and sleep rough in the woods. One scene in the first issue has Keith and his friends casually discuss how the popular Rob Facincani has caught the bug. “Man…that’s the last we’ll see of that guy” one of them says. Like anything else that occurs during adolescence, the bug itself, this horrible, disfiguring disease, has due to its selective infection of teenagers become just so much fuel for gossip. The boys laugh it up and get stoned. Tomorrow is another day.

Throughout the series our perspective shrinks more and more. The events are narrated to us by either Chris or Keith and sometimes when they cross paths we are treated to the same scene from a different perspective. Think a body-horror twist on Kurosawa’s Roshomon, that appears to be the feel Burns is aiming for. As this review points out hyperbole is a recurring feature of the dialogue. Chris and Keith both swear their undying love for their respective partners at different points in the story and a tragedy that slowly unfolds throughout the series is kicked off by a withdrawn young man’s delusional obsession with a girl.

Time is disjointed, we skip and jump back and forth through various character’s lives, and the story even indulges in dreamlike visions of the future, due to either drugs or unconscious prophecy. Rob’s own symptoms of the disease prove extremely unfortunate, as he develops a small mouth just below the hollow of his neck that has a tendency to speak aloud what he is thinking. Claustrophobia sets in with each of the teens becoming increasingly isolated from their friends and families. The bug serves to reinforce how alienating adolescence can be.

This is familiar territory for fans of Buffy the Vampire Slayer which also trades in using horror movie tropes as signifying the emotional excesses of adolescents. The bug dovetails nicely as a dual-metaphor for the bodily changes caused by growing up and the mystery of sex itself. Chris is infected by Rob after he mistakenly assumes she knows he has the disease and does not care. Keith contracts it from a partner with a vestigial puppy tail. He never seems to make the connection that she has the bug. Her willingness to sleep with him overrides any concerns he may have. Teenage self-absorption, dream logic and stoned hallucinations combine to form an heady mix of the uncanny, which Burns expertly interweaves with the seeming mundane lives of these characters.

Re-reading the issues I am reminded of some early difficulties I had with the comic. I love Burns’ artwork, but occasionally have problems telling characters apart. Keith has a monobrow and Rob a small goatee, but aside from that they could be twins. The jumps in time and their physical resemblance combined to confuse the hell out of me when I first began reading the book, having come in mid-way through the series. I was convinced Keith was Chris’ boyfriend and while he is attracted to her, they never actually hook up. Perhaps though the homogeneity of the characters is an intentional move on the artist’s part. For their normalcy and bland faces contrast terrifically with the distorted features of the infected teens isolated from the town rooting through the garbage. The community rallies around what is familiar, expelling the strange and seemingly monstrous – although a post-script in the last issue reveals the infected eventually recover and become normal again. Too late, tragically, for some however.

My interest in Black Hole was first sparked back in 2004 when I read a rave on the now defunct Ninthart.com site. I came into the series near the end and was frustrated that I was unable to find back issues. So much so that later that same year I spent most of a brief holiday in Amsterdam searching for issues in various comic stores around the city. Thankfully I managed to get my hands on the whole set, though a trade hardback collecting the entire series is now available.

There was also news of a Roger Avary (currently tweeting from prison) and Neil Gaiman film script, though that has been passed on. Last I heard David Fincher still intends to direct. I am excited to see what he’ll come up with. A combination of his period detail from Zodiac, with the grotesquerie of Alien 3? A sweaty, gritty teen body horror that could rival Cronenberg’s The Fly? Here’s hoping. Burns’ work draws on the cinematic style of 70s horror cinema. It would be a homecoming of sorts to have a film version of Black Hole that lives up to the visionary excesses of the book.

The success of J. K. Rowling Harry Potter series was a starting pistol for children’s books, with literary agents searching the land for the next bestseller phenomenon. Thankfully many interesting writers have managed to ride this wave of enthusiasm. However, children’s literature has appealed to talented writers for years, with the advantage of writing for an audience whose imaginations are less troubled by having to suspend disbelief. Terry Pratchett gave a much remarked upon interview disputing that Pottermania had ushered in children’s literature. Stories told for an audience of children are nothing new. From Aesops Fables to the Brothers Grimm, Enid Blyton to Maurice Sendak – kids remain eager listeners when storytime comes round.

Author Sarah Webb has asked for recommendations of the best ten children’s books from the last ten years. I find I still enjoy reading books that the younger Me would have liked. The pleasure remains the same. In fact the older I am the more I appreciate the difficulty of writing a memorable book for children.

In no particular order:

Philip Pullman  – His Dark Materials

Michael Chabon  – Summerland

Terry Pratchett  – Nation

Lemony Snicket  – A Series of Unfortunate Events

Brian K. Vaughan  – Runaways

Philip Reeves  – Mortal Engines

Eoin Colfer  – Artemis Fowl series

S. E. Connolly  – Damsel

Jeff Smith  – Shazam! The Monster Society of Evil

Philip Pullman understands the importance of crafting a story that will live in the minds of its readers. Take his early attempts at science fiction for adults, the now out of print Galatea, and compare it to the excellent His Dark Materials trilogy. Pullman wants to use his writing to impart his view of the world and challenge received ideas of social order and the nature of religious authority. Whereas the magic realism of his adult fiction falters, the adventures of Lyra and Will, pursued by agents of the Church across two worlds, manages to illustrate concisely how adulthood can be compromised by good intentions and failure of imagination. Children in Pullman’s universe are the ultimate rebels, as they have the freedom to think differently. He is the modern standard bearer for G. K. Chesterton’s much quoted phrase - Fairy tales are more than true — not because they tell us dragons exist, but because they tell us dragons can be beaten.

The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay is possibly the best book yet written about the comic book industry, a  fictional version of events that gives a greater sense for the history of what those men stooped over flattened squares in the years following WWII endured while dreaming up new heroes for their century. Summerland is equally epic in scope, Michael Chabon’s attempt to write an American fantasy novel to rival C. S. Lewis’ The Chronicles of Narnia. Blending imagery from Norse myth with Native American mysticism, the novel is a love song to a childhood spent on the ballpark in the summer heat. Chabon is an ambitious author and Summerland a worthy experiment with the genre.

Terry Pratchett’s Nation is more of a thought experiment for children. Try to imagine how our world would be today if the role of the Church in colonial expansion was not as strong. A Robinson Crusoe without adult characters, two children from different cultures are forced to work together to survive. Like Pullman, the question is asked of the kids reading – can you imagine a better world? Try and make it so.

Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events achieves the rare feat of being both tragically sad and also whimsically comical. The entire series represents what may be the best modern fable for children published in years. Its collection of grotesques rival Mervyn Peake’s Gormenghast and the Beaudelaire children would send the Famous Five running home crying to their mothers with bloody noses. Assuming Sunny Beaudelaire didn’t bite them off. Once again these books carry the important moral that in the adult world, there is no one to rely on but oneself, but there can be relief courtesy of love and friendship along the way, while it lasts.

Runaways by Brian K. Vaughan may be an unusual inclusion. For one it’s an American comic book. Also the original creative team of writer Vaughan and artist Adrian Alphona have since moved on.  Nevertheless for its original run of 24 issues, Runaways (following the adventures of a group of children who discover their parents are supervillains and, well, go on the run) achieved the seemingly impossible in American comics. It became a classic, original comic book series. Recommended for readers young and old.

Philip Reeves won the Guardian book award for the first entry in his Mortal Engines series of books for children and it is easy to see why.  A dystopian tale with the marvelous hook that in the future cities are mobile and only the larger, ‘hungrier’, metropolises survive. The writing is dark and imaginative and the main characters are forced to grow up too soon.

Eoin Colfer has taken a lot of stick recently for writing a sequel to Douglas Adams’ Hitch-Hiker’s Guide. I feel the Wexford native was on a hiding to nowhere from the day the news broke. He was forced to compete with a dead man who still can claim a fanatical fan base and who know when they are being exploited. Better to stick to his own literary universe, the artful world of Artemis Fowl, scourge of the Fairy Folk who are surprisingly technologically advanced. A Celtic Tiger-cub who would give Irish bankers a run for their money, he wheels and deals his way through two worlds, bamboozling humans and Fairies with his intelligence and conniving. Fantastic fun.

Susan Connolly’s Damsel is the fairy tale every child should have already heard. The story of a young girl whose hero father goes missing on a quest, she ventures forth to rescue him aided only by his guidebook to heroism. Witty, imaginative and deserving of a much wider audience.

Jeff Smith’s Shazam! The Monster Society of Evil is a two-fold treat. An introduction to the greatest superhero of all for younger readers who missed him first, second and third times round; and a homage to the wonderful work of its creator C. C. Beck. When Billy Batson speaks the magic word Shazam aloud he is transformed into the hero Captain Marvel. Smith’s art references the style of Beck, while also containing some modern day satirical digs, including the villain’s resemblance to a certain member of the Bush Administration.

I find I don’t have a tenth recommendation, so instead I will mention books I am looking forward to reading, such as Margo Lanagan’s Tender Morsels, as well as Dave McKean’s illustrated collaboration with Richard Dawkins on evolutionary science for kids. Now I just need to write a story of my own.

You can keep your James Bonds and Jason Bournes…my favourite secret agent is Harry Palmer. A dry, deadpan public servant, who is just as likely to conduct a top secret briefing with his superior officer while pushing a shopping trolley down an aisle looking for a can of soup. His ordinariness, his failures and class makes him more recognizable to me. Michael Caine’s glasses even give Palmer the appearance of a bookish clerk, who deals with Cold War espionage from 9am until clocking out time, in the finest tradition of the British public service.

Which brings us to Charles Stross. Some months ago on Facebook I was moaning about not having read a decent sf/fantasy series that explored new ideas. Tom and Pol Rua both recommended I try out Stross. I started with The Family Trade, which amused by setting a fable about a woman from our world travelling to an alternate earth against the backdrop of cut-throat free market capitalism.

This mercantile Narnia showed how Stross can perform a decent enough literary mash-up, but I was hoping for more. The Atrocity Archives, an early science fiction novel by him, manages by catapulting a low-level public servant with proficient IT skills into the world of Lovecraftian counter-espionage. Cthulu dimensions bordering our own have been discovered decades ago and a secret Cold War is still underway between rogue states and the British government to take advantage of these eldritch powers. Our hero Bob Howard is pitted against Nazi dark mages and demons disguised as office receptionists, but at the end of the day he still needs to maintain his flexi time-sheets.

It’s a fantastic updating of Lovecraftian ideas, sidestepping the urban fantasies of Gaiman or Charles de Lint, by setting the conflict between flawed humankind and creatures from the dungeon dimensions in a white-collar world of bureaucratic procedure and IT speak.

I like that Stross takes this further than similar attempts from other creators, such as Chris Carter’s X-Files, Mike Mignola’s Hellboy, or Sergei Lukyanenko’s Night Watch. The essential Britishness of the setting, with its Harry Palmer-like understated heroism, makes it more interesting. It also neatly ties in with the fatalism of Lovecraft, whose heroes rarely escape with their lives, or sanity. Here Stross pulls the rug from beneath us by preferring anticlimactic resolutions to Howard’s missions. The theme is retained that humans are in the end incapable of comprehending anything outside of our own world. The Cthulu Elder Gods are beyond our understanding and so the procedural manner in which these incursions into reality are treated is an effective way of avoiding the existential nihilism that would often destroy Lovecraft’s scholarly adventurers.

I also like how Bob Howard is an unrepentant geek and know-it-all. What could potentially be a painful exposition-filled briefing scene between the hero and his spy-masters instead becomes an acronym filled info-dump of techno-babble. It’s not often clear exactly what Howard is talking about, but then he is in the end a bureaucrat and jargon is his first language. The reader is challenged to try to keep up, as there is no condescending narrative voice on offer to explain what is going on (although it is generally clear regardless).

Harry Palmer versus Cthulu Elder Gods and CCTV deathrays. Charles Stross, I thank you.

Once again Americans are attempting to address concerns regarding healthcare. Once again this has descended to rampant hatred, threats and flagrant breaking of Godwin’s Law. Only in America could a black man be depicted as Hitler. How soon they forgot you Jesse Owens.

Oh and the less said about the absurd neologism ‘death panels’, the better. Most Europeans appear to think that it is the title of some strange game show…..from a dystopian science fiction novel. I only wish.

Of course, this is an American political debate, so straw men aplenty and ad hoc appeals to the mob are par for the course (we all remember the last go-round with the Clintons…). Which resulted in a premeditated assault on Britain’s NHS, as previously used by Michael Moore for point-scoring against American medical insurance companies in his documentary/diatribe Sicko. Obviously the defenders of insurer’s right to overcharge the sick and dying are still smarting from the revelation that free healthcare does not led to a socialist junta rising to power. Republican attacks on the NHS are an overt attempt to shift the goalposts in the healthcare debate, although these muddled attacks show less and less evidence of reasoned argument, instead reverting to type with Cold War era posturing and sabre-rattling. To even suggest that countries other than America enjoy a system that benefits the majority of its citizens is a grave insult.

One that warrants standing opposite a town hall meeting openly wearing a gun in a holster, apparently.

To watch the Twitterverse explode in response, with angry Britons protesting at the slandering of their own healthcare system, was to observe internet political activism in real time. The #welovethenhs trending topic became the most discussed subject on the site, with ordinary British citizens and celebrities weighing in. Writers Neil Gaiman (@neilhimself), Graham Linehan (@Glinner) and comedian Mitch Benn (@MitchBenn) argued counter-points throughout. A self-aware absurdity, also evident in John Stewart’s Daily Show coverage of the topic, dominated. WHY are people arguing against cheaper healthcare for ordinary citizens! How does that make any sense at all?

“Idea: A US v Uk gangfight to sort out current differences. But can we hold it in the UK? Cause we have free healthcare #welovethenhs.” @Glinner

And here’s the man himself

The Guardian quotes Neil Gaiman’s interview with Entertainment Weekly saying the following on the current glut of vampire romance:

“Vampires go in waves, and it kind of feels like we’re now finishing a vampire wave, because at the point where they’re everywhere it’s probably time to go back underground for another 20 years or another 25 years[...]It definitely sort of feels like classical vampires have been around enough that if they could go back in their coffins 25 years and come out the next time as something really different, that would be cool.”

It is certainly interesting to wander into a bookstore and see the aisle of books dedicated to the vampire kind. The degree of fanaticism inspired by these beautiful, pale young things as portrayed by models on the book covers has resulted in a backlash from the fan community. Predictably enough the complaints principally seem to be coming from male fanboys threatened by the sheer size of the Twilight fan base. This was much in evidence at the 2009 Comic-Con when a deluge of Edward and Bella ’shipers literally occupied the convention centre, waiting for the actors promoting the adventures of the star-crossed lovers to appear.

It seems disingenuous to cry fault at the devotion of Twifans when the unexpected sequel to Tron elicits squeals of girlish glee…..from thirty-something men. Descriptions of the phenomenon carry echos of the media coverage of Beatlemania. However, it is interesting to note that ‘Paranormal Romance’, retains many aspects of traditional romance novels – save for the undead salad dressing. The mysterious stranger, the threat of danger waiting on the next page, the anticipation of consummation – rather than being a new genre, the work of Charlaine Harris, Stephenie Meyer and Cassandra Clare follows many of the tropes of Romance fiction. The only real difference, aside from the fangs, is that the muscular cover models of old are losing out to pale-skinned Emo boys.

The assimilation of horror fiction, led out of the shadows and covered in glitter paint to make it more appealing to consumers, is not really a sacrifice of art on the altar of consumerism. It would be hard to argue that horror itself hasn’t been in a formulaic, repetitive glut since Stephen King’s hay day.

I find it difficult to play devil’s advocate in this way as I found Twilight to be painful reading. On the other hand, I am not its target demographic. When Laurell K. Hamilton is penning female erotica with zombies and such, it is cause for a raised eyebrow. What would Anais Nin think of all this?

John Gardner’s Grendel is an excellent book belies its small size with insight. It seems like a poem almost, fitting given that it was written as an anti-Beowulf, with the monster of that story relating his side of events.

When Beowulf the animated movie came out I got into a discussion with Dennis O’Driscoll, who was a colleague of mine at the time and also a published poet. He was dismissive of the idea of seeing the movie, given that it was a movie, and therefore unliterary, lacking in dust. I quite admired it for what it tried to do, mainly for the little touches in Neil Gaiman’s script, such as the sneaking presence of Christianity, that most early of retcons, changing the endings of Celtic and Scandanavian myth to suit its vision. The children of Lir are rescued from their curse by a holy man and Grendel himself is descended from the first killer – Cain.

Gaiman leaves literary breadcrumbs in everything you read, like a swotty Hansel and Gretel. I now suspect he’s read John Gardner’s book, as Grendel’s reaction to the news that he is a descendent of Cain is priceless. This information is relayed by a ‘Shaper’, a bard, a neat reference to the hatred of music by both literary and cinematic versions of our protagonist. Gardner has him become offended by the nature of poetry. Like Plato he sees it as lies designed to obscure the true nature of the world.

Then he meets the dragon. Old, weary and all-knowing the age-old serpent tries to explain monism, the existence of molecules and perception of Grendel in the future. He is debauched by knowledge and perception, sees all the world as worthless, and hoards gold only to occupy him. Sounds like the creature in Smax actually. His own death is foreseen and he dismesses it as a triviality mourned only by the ‘conservationists’. The is the ultimate cynicism, the opposing gyre that has Grendel transfixed, with humanity’s witless lying and speechifying also bearing down on him.

Enter Unferth.

Hrothgar’s Hall draws Grendel’s gaze because he sees in it the possibility of hope for the future, that its lord’s words of a legacy to hand down to future generations is a noble thing. However, the dragon destroys any hope of this, convincing this newly branded son of Cain that he is doomed to be man’s antagonist. He is the monster they must strive to fight against. He is caught up in story and there is no escape. Unferth is also caught, but has willingly flung himself into the role of hero. Grendel is delighted to see this, to see someone else trapped as he is trapped and finally enjoys the role of villain. The dragon’s cynicism takes root and he mocks Unferth’s attempts at heroic speech and action, taunting him, showing him a cruel mercy by refusing to kill him, when everyone else he tears apart.

Apparently there was an Australian animated movie based on this book. I will have to track it down. Lacking any stultyfying reverence – see Grendel shriek ‘Fuckers!’ – this is revisionism as investigation, without the blind desire to shock. So not dusty at all then.

What a lovely evening! Gaiman’s novel has been adpated for the stage – as a puppet play. Capturing the essentially childish yet sinister narrative perfectly (reminiscent of Jim Henson’s Labyrinth) it was performed by three actors/puppeteers, who remain in full view for the duration. No all black body-stockings for this bunch. Instead they reveal themselves so that the puppets can properly pick up objects and wave them around. It was a very physical performace – even during a scene involving a disembodied hand, the actor’s face twisted with mute emotion and it advanced on its prey.

As for plot – Coraline is a young girl who has just moved into a new house with her seemingly inattentive parents. Left to her own devices to ‘explore’, she meets the other inhabitants of the building. A doddery old man seemingly burdened by a voice just like Bela Lugosi’s, who insists that he has trained a group of mice to perform circus tricks. Two kindly tea-leaf reading spinsters also appear. Coraline is repeatedly warned about ‘the door’, bricked up on the otherside and placed in the centre of the building.

What follows is familiar territory for anyone who’s read Gaiman before, but the staging reinvents his dream logic, visualising some of his more abstract ideas using only puppets.

With this and Mirrormask, we are that much closer to a movie adaptation of a Gaiman book. Good Omens? Please? Pretty please?