Ulrika Magdova, heroine of Nathan Long's Vampire Trilogy, a young Kislevite noble woman, first appeared in William King’s Daemonslayer (Games Workshop 2003), and should be familiar to all readers of the Gotrek and Felix novels. Alive, she is brave, beautiful, and maddening, especially for Felix. In death, she is still brave and beautiful but now also ruthless and deadly.
The trilogy is now complete and ready for a summing up. Bloodborn (Games Workshop 2010), Bloodforged (Games Workshop 2011), and Bloodsworn (Game Workshop 2012) are together both a Bildungsroman and a Vampire tale, grounded in sword and sorcery. The Ulrika trilogy employs elements of horror, adventure, and the Bildungsroman to introduce us to a fascinating heroine. Irrespective of the novels' vampire characters and setting or the fact they are a Bildungsroman, a novel of education, they ultimately succeed as adventure tales set in a horrific Gothic environment, where sword and sorcery rule the day.
The first novel, Bloodborn (Games Workshop 2010), begins a few weeks after the events of William King’s Vampireslayer (Games Workshop 2004). Ulrika’s abductor, Adolphus Krieger, dies at the hands of Snorri Nosebiter, and Ulrika, a fledgling vampire, tormented by an insatiable hunger and under the control of Gabriella, her mistress (figurative mother), is deserted by her friends. Gotrek and Felix, knowing they cannot help her, leave, as she struggles to come to grips with her destiny. Long shows us her maturation from death to her bid for independence. As a newborn (born of blood), she is, in every sense of the word, a child. At times she is petulant, demanding, selfish, reckless, and stubborn; and, throughout, her mistress, Gabriella, like a stern mother, has to rein her in and instruct her to focus and be disciplined and sensible. Ulrika and Gabriella are sent to the city of Nuln to investigate the very public and brutal murders of several vampires. The exposure of vampires in the midst of the city sets off panic in the streets and Long minutely describes the city and its inhabitants’ fears as well as their brutalities as days pass and the number of corpses increases. He also describes the social castes of the city and the various organizations that run it as well as the empire. Witch hunters follow the vampires and ghouls spring from the cemeteries. Long even sends his characters into the famous sewers of Nuln, the home of the skaven, to ferret out clues.
In Bloodforged, Long moves the action from Nuln to Praag, Ulrika's starting point. Like a petulant teenager now, she rebels against her Lahmian mother, Gabriella, and heads north, vowing to use her supra-human strength to fight the creatures of the Ruinous Powers. Her goal is to be a Vampire avenger, protecting the weaker humans, who she feels a closer affinity to than the vampires that now control and protect her. When she strikes out for home, she is seeking freedom, family, and friendship. Mr. Long brilliantly captures the anger and frustration of a young vampire (teenager), showing her virtually tearing apart her safe home in Nuln in a youthful rage and fleeing her sisters for her human home in Praag. Once there she makes contact with Snorri Nosebiter and discovers that Gotrek and Felix have disappeared. She also tracks down Max Schreiber, an ex-lover, only to discover that he is has taken another lover. This discovery results in unnatural paroxysm of jealousy, which demonstrates Ulrika's immaturity. "Quivers of rage made Ulrika's arms shake, and her claws dug deep into the bark of her branch. A growl started low in throat and she crouched forward like a hunting cat. How dare he take another lover!" (Bloodborn p.111)
Without friends and family, Ulrika, now truly alone, takes up residence in an abandoned and ruined bakery; however, because of her self-imposed rule--she can only feed on villains--she finds herself hungry most of the time. When she sees some abusive men, running a protections racket, rob a poor blind singer she quickly acts to avenge the wrong. However, in a scene, somewhat reminiscent of Aragorn's meeting with the Hobbits in The Fellowship of the Ring, she is seen by another vampire, a handsome and dashing male. This moment--this discovery by a male--acts as the exciting point of the story's main plot lines: the life and death struggle between the van Carstein vampires and the Lahmians, Ulrika's inability to tell friend from foe, Ulrika's acceptance that she is a vampire and no longer human, and Ulrika's sexual awakening.
Finally, in Bloodsworn,Ulrika has accepted her fate as a Vampire but this fact does not end her quest or her education. The world of Vampires is as nuanced as the human world and Ulrika must choose which group with whom to align. Like a troubled teenager, she has rebelled against the Lahmians, balking against their need to control her. She is torn between feelings of love and hate for her mistress, Countess Gabriella; whereas it was the von Carsteins, who initially entrapped her, turned her, and now threaten both the Empire's and the Lahmians' very existence. Her next move must be one of election: which Vampire group will she align herself. She must ask herself where she belongs in the world. Once again she is forced to evaluate the war against humans, her loyalty to her kind, and her own need for independence.
The three novels are exciting reads: well-plotted, with fully-developed characters. Mr. Long carefully delineates the definitive movements in Ulrika's character; she matures (very, very slowly) from a child-like creature in the first novel to a figurative teenager in the second and to a young, somewhat erratic, independent adult in the final installment. Throughout, however, the novels remain true to their sword and sorcery roots: they are rollicking adventure tales that roll along a fair clip like Saturday morning serials, never really pausing to examine the psychological manifestations that occur simultaneously with the full-throttle action of their full-bodied (and charismatic) protagonist.
Mr. Long is the master of what he calls sabrepunk; that is, an adventure tale similar to those written by Robert E. Howard, Fritz Leiber, Alexander Dumas, and Raphael Sabatini. To quote Mr. Long's own definition: "Sabrepunk is swashbuckling, street-wise sword and sorcery that draws from low fantasy, hard-boiled pulp, cloak-and-dagger thrillers, and old-fashioned romantic adventure. It is visceral and immediate. It is crude and sly. It is red and black and break-neck. The doings of sorcerers and kings may spark the action, but rarely are they the story themselves. Instead, the tales are of hard men and dangerous women whose lives are mauled by the whims of the powerful, and who must therefore draw swords and fight in order to survive. There are heroes here, but no saints."
Ulrika is definitely one of those heroes. And, although the trilogy is complete, I cannot believe Ulrika is finished. At the end of Bloodsworn, Ulrika is a powerful warrior but that cannot be the end of her education. I can imagine a series of novels where Ulrika grows, matures, and rises through the ranks to become not only a powerful soldier but also a wise and cunning leader.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
A Riff on Point of View in Historical, Military and Fantasy Fiction with a nod to Joe Abercrombie and Ralph Peters
Ralph Peters, the author of Cain at Gettysburg (Forge 2012), recently stated that "history deals in externals, where historical fiction delves into the soul of man." With that statement in mind, I would like to look at several novels--both realistic and fantastic--to illustrate the uses and devices of historical fiction and the way that certain writers achieve the objective suggested by Peters, while others fail. I am primarily interested in the way in which an author, when dealing with a battle or a war complete, attempts to inform the reader, through his or her choice of point of view, of the historical aspect of a battle as well as the participants' emotions.
Some writers employ the first person; however, this rhetorical device is limited in that we can only see what that first-person narrator sees or hears. It is quite difficult for an author to re-create the battle complete, while using the first person point of view, although some have used it and succeeded in creating an intense and entertaining work. The intensity comes, of course, from the immediacy the first person lends to the work. It is especially useful in recounting the persona's moment by moment encounter with death and fear. For instance, Peters, writing under his pen-name, Owen Parry, employs the first-person narrator to great effect in describing the battle of Shiloh in his novel, Call Each River Jordan (HarperTorch 2001). Major Abel Jones, his protagonist, leads the reader through the battle, subjecting us, during the process, to his beliefs, prejudices, perceptions and foibles. The novel begins with Jones remembering his arrival at Savannah just at the moment of attack. He begins his narration: "I remember the burning men. Wounded, and caught like the damned at the reckoning. In brush and bramble lit by battle's sparks." Hearing the sound of guns he quickly boards a paddle boat conveying troops upriver to the fighting and at Pittsburg landing he encounters fleeing Union soldiers: "Now I have seen fear, and felt it, but here is no greater danger for an army than panic." The persona sees it and interprets it for us.
Peters in Cain at Gettysburg and Michael Shaara in The Killer Angels (Random House 1987) both choose the limited omniscient point of view to tell the same story. Each man recounts the same historical facts but by picking different points of view characters to carry their tale, their novels differ. The author, using the third person, knows all but chooses to pick pertinent characters to carry the narrative, revealing only what they think or feel. We know only what they know and nothing more.Additionally, authors have their own themes and their own preoccupations. Peters concentrates on the diversity of the soldiers, choosing, inter alia, the 26th Wisconsin to carry his narrative to great effect. Probably the most exciting point of the book delved into the Irish's defense against Pickett's charge. Shaara, on the other hand, is more interested in the dynamic personality and character of Lee, Longstreet, and Chamberlin. Through these real men he ruminates on the mistakes made by leadership and the sacrifices suffered by the common soldier. Shaara's book is romantic and didactic, instilling its chosen POV characters with a metaphorical essence, whereas Peters is tough, dogged, real, earthy, and true.
A variation of this rhetorical device is Shelby Foote's Shiloh (Knopf 1991). Foote minutely describes the battle through a series of short stories, long chapters, each one dealing with a single character. This unique rhetorical choice of interrelated short stories illustrates both sides of the battle and most of the events with a haunting immediacy, somewhat similar to William Faulkner's civil war novel, The Unvanquished (Knopf 1991) and Stephen Crane's A Red Badge of Courage (Penguin Group 2005). However, Crane's novel follows one warrior through the unnamed battle. Here, Crane uses the third-person limited omniscient point of view to great effect. We don't learn much history but we do experience the soul of man.
When a genre novel fails for me, it is usually a failure of point view. Among younger genre writers, there seems to be an attempt to employ the rhetorical devices of film rather than the correct use of point of view. Nothing jars the reader worst than a sudden shift in point of view; similar to a jump cut, these shifts are between characters and point of view, sometimes on the same page and sometimes in the same paragraph. Perhaps, even more egregious, some follow the strict third-person limited point of view through eighty percent of the novel and then jump over to another character to show us some new aspect of the action. One of the most recent examples that drew my ire was in Simon Scarrow's latest novel. It probably bothered me so much because I love Simon Scarrow's work. I've read everything he's written to this date. However, in his latest novel, Praetorian (Headline Books 2011), Scarrow jumps out of his single limited third-person point of view to follow Macro off on a bit of misadventure. The switch from the character carrying the narrative to another upset me and interrupted my reading rhythm.
A fantasy novel that impressed me greatly and illustrates the use of multiple limited third-person points of view is Joe Abercrombie's The Heroes (Orbit 2011). The novel set in Abercrombie's fantasy universe relies on the same techniques that Shaara and Peters used to re-create the battle of Gettysburg and to delve deeply into their characters' personality. More particularly, even though The Heroes is an example of the new grittiness and realism in fantasy fiction, it is also strongly character driven ( a nod to older fantasy fiction); something that only a dedicated and disciplined point of view can successfully deliver. Just as Peters attempts to reveal the soul of man in his re-creation of Gettysburg, so, too, does Abercrombie. And, even though the two novels arise from two somewhat disparate genres--one realistic and the other fantastic--they feel very similar to me and I would suggest that they be read together.
Some writers employ the first person; however, this rhetorical device is limited in that we can only see what that first-person narrator sees or hears. It is quite difficult for an author to re-create the battle complete, while using the first person point of view, although some have used it and succeeded in creating an intense and entertaining work. The intensity comes, of course, from the immediacy the first person lends to the work. It is especially useful in recounting the persona's moment by moment encounter with death and fear. For instance, Peters, writing under his pen-name, Owen Parry, employs the first-person narrator to great effect in describing the battle of Shiloh in his novel, Call Each River Jordan (HarperTorch 2001). Major Abel Jones, his protagonist, leads the reader through the battle, subjecting us, during the process, to his beliefs, prejudices, perceptions and foibles. The novel begins with Jones remembering his arrival at Savannah just at the moment of attack. He begins his narration: "I remember the burning men. Wounded, and caught like the damned at the reckoning. In brush and bramble lit by battle's sparks." Hearing the sound of guns he quickly boards a paddle boat conveying troops upriver to the fighting and at Pittsburg landing he encounters fleeing Union soldiers: "Now I have seen fear, and felt it, but here is no greater danger for an army than panic." The persona sees it and interprets it for us.
Peters in Cain at Gettysburg and Michael Shaara in The Killer Angels (Random House 1987) both choose the limited omniscient point of view to tell the same story. Each man recounts the same historical facts but by picking different points of view characters to carry their tale, their novels differ. The author, using the third person, knows all but chooses to pick pertinent characters to carry the narrative, revealing only what they think or feel. We know only what they know and nothing more.Additionally, authors have their own themes and their own preoccupations. Peters concentrates on the diversity of the soldiers, choosing, inter alia, the 26th Wisconsin to carry his narrative to great effect. Probably the most exciting point of the book delved into the Irish's defense against Pickett's charge. Shaara, on the other hand, is more interested in the dynamic personality and character of Lee, Longstreet, and Chamberlin. Through these real men he ruminates on the mistakes made by leadership and the sacrifices suffered by the common soldier. Shaara's book is romantic and didactic, instilling its chosen POV characters with a metaphorical essence, whereas Peters is tough, dogged, real, earthy, and true.
A variation of this rhetorical device is Shelby Foote's Shiloh (Knopf 1991). Foote minutely describes the battle through a series of short stories, long chapters, each one dealing with a single character. This unique rhetorical choice of interrelated short stories illustrates both sides of the battle and most of the events with a haunting immediacy, somewhat similar to William Faulkner's civil war novel, The Unvanquished (Knopf 1991) and Stephen Crane's A Red Badge of Courage (Penguin Group 2005). However, Crane's novel follows one warrior through the unnamed battle. Here, Crane uses the third-person limited omniscient point of view to great effect. We don't learn much history but we do experience the soul of man.
When a genre novel fails for me, it is usually a failure of point view. Among younger genre writers, there seems to be an attempt to employ the rhetorical devices of film rather than the correct use of point of view. Nothing jars the reader worst than a sudden shift in point of view; similar to a jump cut, these shifts are between characters and point of view, sometimes on the same page and sometimes in the same paragraph. Perhaps, even more egregious, some follow the strict third-person limited point of view through eighty percent of the novel and then jump over to another character to show us some new aspect of the action. One of the most recent examples that drew my ire was in Simon Scarrow's latest novel. It probably bothered me so much because I love Simon Scarrow's work. I've read everything he's written to this date. However, in his latest novel, Praetorian (Headline Books 2011), Scarrow jumps out of his single limited third-person point of view to follow Macro off on a bit of misadventure. The switch from the character carrying the narrative to another upset me and interrupted my reading rhythm.
A fantasy novel that impressed me greatly and illustrates the use of multiple limited third-person points of view is Joe Abercrombie's The Heroes (Orbit 2011). The novel set in Abercrombie's fantasy universe relies on the same techniques that Shaara and Peters used to re-create the battle of Gettysburg and to delve deeply into their characters' personality. More particularly, even though The Heroes is an example of the new grittiness and realism in fantasy fiction, it is also strongly character driven ( a nod to older fantasy fiction); something that only a dedicated and disciplined point of view can successfully deliver. Just as Peters attempts to reveal the soul of man in his re-creation of Gettysburg, so, too, does Abercrombie. And, even though the two novels arise from two somewhat disparate genres--one realistic and the other fantastic--they feel very similar to me and I would suggest that they be read together.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Cross-dressing, Sexuality, and Aliens in Anne Lyle's "The Alchemist of Souls"
Hic Mulier and Haer Vir, two pamphlets published in 1620, debate the fad of transvestism in Renaissance London. Anne Lyle, in her alternate-historical fantasy, The Alchemist of Souls (Angry Robot Books 2012), set in Shakespearean London, adopts the debate of that age; and, through our modern prism ( a form of anachronism; cf with my review of Harry Sidebottom's Fire in the East and my discussion of the "modernity of anachronism") takes a broader view (at least for some of us) of gender roles, as she engages thematically with cross-dressing, sexuality, otherness, and desire. In other words, by employing transvestism as a major plot point within the structure of her sword and sorcery romance, she elevates her fantasy and addresses directly, through an explicit use of early 17th Century mores and the dramatic tropes of Shakespearean comedy, the issues of race, gender, sexuality, and otherness.
Transvestism, although an important trope and plot point, is not the only Shakespearean device she chooses to include in this very entertaining first novel of her new series; she also casts a set of twins, a homosexual scrivener, a young male actor, New World monsters (read Calibans), magicians, alchemists, spies, and a group of blood-thirsty villains and conspirators, more appropriate for a Kit Marlowe revenge play, than a Shakespearean comedy, within the boundaries of the 17th century politics of Europe. Ultimately, The Alchemist of Souls is more than a revenge play, a Shakespearean comedy, or an alternate history; it is a sword and sorcery fantasy reminiscent of Fritz Leiber's brilliant short-stories of the sixties, with a definite nod toward the more mature, theme-based novels of "otherness," written by C. J. Cherryh, Ursula K. Le Guin, and Lynn Flewelling. Explicit same-sex romance, quite common in Elizabethan London, is employed for both dramatic effect and modern-day gender and sexual exploration, while a race of Calibans, the Skraylings, become the object of fear, loathing, prejudice, and scapegoats.
The Alchemist of Souls, frankly, is a book of ideas; just as Ursula K. LeGuin's The Left Hand of Darkness, Lynn Flewelling's Luck in the Shadows, and C. J. Cherryh's Foreigner are theme-based novels. In my mind, The Alchemist of Souls is a bit like the proverbial onion: the first level, the outer skin, is a historical novel set in a very realistic Elizabethan London, with a number of sword and sorcery types and characters from Shakespeare's comedies--swordsman, Maliverny Catlyn, his somewhat idiotic sidekick, Ned Faulkner (like all good companions he is an 'other' like Huck's Joe or Ishmael's Queequeg), and, a woman, Coby, masquerading as a lower-class boy, like Portia in The Merchant of Venice, Viola in Twelfth Night, and Rosalind in As You Like It; the second level is the novel of ideas, focusing on the theme of the outsider or the other and the implicit prejudice and violence directed toward them, as illustrated by the Caliban-like aliens from Vineland, the homosexual Ned and his lovers, and the mentally-ill twin, Sandy; and the third level is that of alternate-history fantasy, which blends the first two levels and mixes them to create a concoction of wonders, dependent on the answers to a series of speculations--what if the Conquistadors failed? What if an alien race of magicians existed on Thule (Greenland)? What if Elizabeth had married Dudley and birthed sons?
No matter the intelligence of the work, the ultimate question is whether the book is entertaining, and the answer for me is a resounding "yes."
In a lot of ways there is a distinct similarity to Dan Abnett's Triumff (Angry Robot Books 2010): the locale and the concomitant verve of the Elizabethan age, the swashbuckling plot and the fantasy tropes. However, where Abnett mines the humor of the age, Lyle seems to channel the history and the politics. Both novels left me with the desire to know more about their alternate worlds.
I am looking forward to the further adventures of Mal, Coby, and Ned. Hopefully, they will travel to France and deal with one of my favorite historical characters: Henri de Bourbon aka Henri IV.
Transvestism, although an important trope and plot point, is not the only Shakespearean device she chooses to include in this very entertaining first novel of her new series; she also casts a set of twins, a homosexual scrivener, a young male actor, New World monsters (read Calibans), magicians, alchemists, spies, and a group of blood-thirsty villains and conspirators, more appropriate for a Kit Marlowe revenge play, than a Shakespearean comedy, within the boundaries of the 17th century politics of Europe. Ultimately, The Alchemist of Souls is more than a revenge play, a Shakespearean comedy, or an alternate history; it is a sword and sorcery fantasy reminiscent of Fritz Leiber's brilliant short-stories of the sixties, with a definite nod toward the more mature, theme-based novels of "otherness," written by C. J. Cherryh, Ursula K. Le Guin, and Lynn Flewelling. Explicit same-sex romance, quite common in Elizabethan London, is employed for both dramatic effect and modern-day gender and sexual exploration, while a race of Calibans, the Skraylings, become the object of fear, loathing, prejudice, and scapegoats.
The Alchemist of Souls, frankly, is a book of ideas; just as Ursula K. LeGuin's The Left Hand of Darkness, Lynn Flewelling's Luck in the Shadows, and C. J. Cherryh's Foreigner are theme-based novels. In my mind, The Alchemist of Souls is a bit like the proverbial onion: the first level, the outer skin, is a historical novel set in a very realistic Elizabethan London, with a number of sword and sorcery types and characters from Shakespeare's comedies--swordsman, Maliverny Catlyn, his somewhat idiotic sidekick, Ned Faulkner (like all good companions he is an 'other' like Huck's Joe or Ishmael's Queequeg), and, a woman, Coby, masquerading as a lower-class boy, like Portia in The Merchant of Venice, Viola in Twelfth Night, and Rosalind in As You Like It; the second level is the novel of ideas, focusing on the theme of the outsider or the other and the implicit prejudice and violence directed toward them, as illustrated by the Caliban-like aliens from Vineland, the homosexual Ned and his lovers, and the mentally-ill twin, Sandy; and the third level is that of alternate-history fantasy, which blends the first two levels and mixes them to create a concoction of wonders, dependent on the answers to a series of speculations--what if the Conquistadors failed? What if an alien race of magicians existed on Thule (Greenland)? What if Elizabeth had married Dudley and birthed sons?
No matter the intelligence of the work, the ultimate question is whether the book is entertaining, and the answer for me is a resounding "yes."
In a lot of ways there is a distinct similarity to Dan Abnett's Triumff (Angry Robot Books 2010): the locale and the concomitant verve of the Elizabethan age, the swashbuckling plot and the fantasy tropes. However, where Abnett mines the humor of the age, Lyle seems to channel the history and the politics. Both novels left me with the desire to know more about their alternate worlds.
I am looking forward to the further adventures of Mal, Coby, and Ned. Hopefully, they will travel to France and deal with one of my favorite historical characters: Henri de Bourbon aka Henri IV.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Reading Lynn Flewelling's "The Bone Doll's Twin"
Lynn Flewelling's The Bone Twin's Doll (Bantam Spectra 2001) is a vivid example of what a good writer can do with a relatively limited plot. A King, afraid of a prophecy, kills every female in the line of succession to secure his position and assure his continued reign.
Flewelling takes this skinny plot and and slowly and lovingly fattens it with character and setting. She uses the traditional Bildungsroman format to show the gradual education of a young boy, Tobin, who is sequestered in the woods, away from the medieval city of his birth, and resides in a crumbling estate with his deranged mother and the angry ghost of his dead brother.
However, as is true in most fairy tales and fantasy novels, prophecy has a way of bypassing or frustrating the political machinations of individuals who attempt to circumvent its workings. Fate, like water, seeks its own level and the same is true for prophecy in this well-written, character-driven, first volume of Flewelling's Tamir Trilogy, where two wizards, a witch, and the brother-in-law of the King perpetrate violent actions and employ dire means to protect an infant from the King's assassins.
Tobin, a strange child, artistic and shy, has a number of secrets: he is haunted and at times tormented by his dead brother's ghost; he has a friend, a witch, named Lhel that lives inside a tree in the woods; he has a doll that his mother has made with which he is abnormally attached; and he seems to have some powers of forethought.
Within the context of the plot, Flewelling slowly builds her secondary world; giving it substance and weight gradually by incrementally measuring out descriptions only when the plot demands it. Tobin's world resembles early medieval England sometime around the 12th century: reavers raid the coast and wizards and witches walk the roads between the walled cities, while strange predators inhabit the thick forests.
I picked this book up because I was a bit bored with the usual fantasy fare that is coming out these days. I had heard that Flewelling dealt with human sexuality frankly and I was intrigued. And when I say sexuality, I'm talking about gender and desire, not graphic scenes of sexuality. There are plenty examples of that in the latest fantasy tomes arriving each month. I was more interested in a writer's ability to create believable female and male characters within a fantasy context, illustrating both the similarities and differences that emerge from gender. Flewelling creates indelible characters through detail, through the minute rendering of everyday events within the context and logic of her created secondary world, and thereby illuminates their basic natures. I found myself drawn quickly into Tobin's rough, and lonely life, through the descriptions of his daily activities, his interactions with the other characters, and the psychological struggles that naturally manifest themselves as he matures within a home, where madness, ghosts, and plain fear reside and rule.
The Bone Doll's Twin seems writ on a smaller canvas than most heroic fantasies but its limited scope enhances its intimacy, making Tobin more real and precious as a character. I'm looking forward to the second volume. In fact, the ending was so perilous and fraught with danger for Tobin that I'm bit afraid and must know what happens next.
Flewelling takes this skinny plot and and slowly and lovingly fattens it with character and setting. She uses the traditional Bildungsroman format to show the gradual education of a young boy, Tobin, who is sequestered in the woods, away from the medieval city of his birth, and resides in a crumbling estate with his deranged mother and the angry ghost of his dead brother.
However, as is true in most fairy tales and fantasy novels, prophecy has a way of bypassing or frustrating the political machinations of individuals who attempt to circumvent its workings. Fate, like water, seeks its own level and the same is true for prophecy in this well-written, character-driven, first volume of Flewelling's Tamir Trilogy, where two wizards, a witch, and the brother-in-law of the King perpetrate violent actions and employ dire means to protect an infant from the King's assassins.
Tobin, a strange child, artistic and shy, has a number of secrets: he is haunted and at times tormented by his dead brother's ghost; he has a friend, a witch, named Lhel that lives inside a tree in the woods; he has a doll that his mother has made with which he is abnormally attached; and he seems to have some powers of forethought.
Within the context of the plot, Flewelling slowly builds her secondary world; giving it substance and weight gradually by incrementally measuring out descriptions only when the plot demands it. Tobin's world resembles early medieval England sometime around the 12th century: reavers raid the coast and wizards and witches walk the roads between the walled cities, while strange predators inhabit the thick forests.
I picked this book up because I was a bit bored with the usual fantasy fare that is coming out these days. I had heard that Flewelling dealt with human sexuality frankly and I was intrigued. And when I say sexuality, I'm talking about gender and desire, not graphic scenes of sexuality. There are plenty examples of that in the latest fantasy tomes arriving each month. I was more interested in a writer's ability to create believable female and male characters within a fantasy context, illustrating both the similarities and differences that emerge from gender. Flewelling creates indelible characters through detail, through the minute rendering of everyday events within the context and logic of her created secondary world, and thereby illuminates their basic natures. I found myself drawn quickly into Tobin's rough, and lonely life, through the descriptions of his daily activities, his interactions with the other characters, and the psychological struggles that naturally manifest themselves as he matures within a home, where madness, ghosts, and plain fear reside and rule.
The Bone Doll's Twin seems writ on a smaller canvas than most heroic fantasies but its limited scope enhances its intimacy, making Tobin more real and precious as a character. I'm looking forward to the second volume. In fact, the ending was so perilous and fraught with danger for Tobin that I'm bit afraid and must know what happens next.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Myth as Theme in Intimate (a Cozy) Historical Mystery: A Reading of Aliette de Bodard's "Servant of the Underworld"
Aliette de Bodard has passed the Angry Robot Test--mix genres, shake but do not stir--by writing an intimate, well-crafted, mystery that fits squarely within the strictures of an English cozy but set in an exotic historical and cultural setting with unique fantasy tropes, arising from Aztec mythology.
Servant of the Underworld (Angry Robot Books 2010), a first-person narrative, features Acatl, a High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli, God of the Underworld and Acatl's patron. Acatl is not a policeman, or a professional crime fighter; instead, he is simply a priest, who has chosen to eschew the heroic life of a warrior like his brother Neutemoc for the quiet life in the Temple, helping the dead make a smooth transition to Mictlan, the underworld. The story begins when Ceyaxochitl, a representative of the Revered Speaker, Ayaxacatl, sends for Acatl to investigate a death where dark magic is evident. Thus Ms de Bodard satisfies one of the first characteristics of the cozy: the detective is an amateur. Acatl is neither a detective nor a warrior; however, the death he has been called to investigate not only concerns Nahual magic but a highly-charge political situation that involves his immediate family. The proximity of the perpetrators is also an element of "cozy" fiction: the mystery usually takes place in a community small enough to make it plausible that the characters know each other and are easily interrogated or examined. Acatl soon learns his brother is the number one suspect and he rapidly tracks the threads of magic through Tenochtitlan in order to prevent his brother's execution.
Cozy mysteries usually have a thematic underpinning based upon the locale of the action or the profession of the protagonist. For instance, in Ellis Peters' series, the medieval world of his detective, Brother Cadfael, forms the thematic underpinning; whereas, in Servant, the mythic magic of the Aztecs and the internecine struggle of the Gods form the major components. The turn of the screw, however, in Ms de Bodard's work is that the Gods are active participants, creating the fantasy elements, and supporting the magical system at work in the novel. Mictlantecuhtli, although a God, is as vibrant a character as our narrator, which sets this cozy squarely within the category of fantasy. It is this use of the mythic that I found most interesting: the magical system based upon glyphs and blood seemed very real and provided a rich, numinous texture to the novel.
Finally, even though Servant involves several murders, the villains perform their gruesome acts off-stage.Acts of violence and explicit sex, although implied, are not visible. Nevertheless, its realistic depiction of magic situate it squarely within the confines of the best historical fantasy. More often than not, magic just is in fantasy novels; in Servant, magic arises naturally from the culture and the historical setting, making this cozy a very satisfying and magical (in every sense of the word) read.
Servant of the Underworld (Angry Robot Books 2010), a first-person narrative, features Acatl, a High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli, God of the Underworld and Acatl's patron. Acatl is not a policeman, or a professional crime fighter; instead, he is simply a priest, who has chosen to eschew the heroic life of a warrior like his brother Neutemoc for the quiet life in the Temple, helping the dead make a smooth transition to Mictlan, the underworld. The story begins when Ceyaxochitl, a representative of the Revered Speaker, Ayaxacatl, sends for Acatl to investigate a death where dark magic is evident. Thus Ms de Bodard satisfies one of the first characteristics of the cozy: the detective is an amateur. Acatl is neither a detective nor a warrior; however, the death he has been called to investigate not only concerns Nahual magic but a highly-charge political situation that involves his immediate family. The proximity of the perpetrators is also an element of "cozy" fiction: the mystery usually takes place in a community small enough to make it plausible that the characters know each other and are easily interrogated or examined. Acatl soon learns his brother is the number one suspect and he rapidly tracks the threads of magic through Tenochtitlan in order to prevent his brother's execution.
Cozy mysteries usually have a thematic underpinning based upon the locale of the action or the profession of the protagonist. For instance, in Ellis Peters' series, the medieval world of his detective, Brother Cadfael, forms the thematic underpinning; whereas, in Servant, the mythic magic of the Aztecs and the internecine struggle of the Gods form the major components. The turn of the screw, however, in Ms de Bodard's work is that the Gods are active participants, creating the fantasy elements, and supporting the magical system at work in the novel. Mictlantecuhtli, although a God, is as vibrant a character as our narrator, which sets this cozy squarely within the category of fantasy. It is this use of the mythic that I found most interesting: the magical system based upon glyphs and blood seemed very real and provided a rich, numinous texture to the novel.
Finally, even though Servant involves several murders, the villains perform their gruesome acts off-stage.Acts of violence and explicit sex, although implied, are not visible. Nevertheless, its realistic depiction of magic situate it squarely within the confines of the best historical fantasy. More often than not, magic just is in fantasy novels; in Servant, magic arises naturally from the culture and the historical setting, making this cozy a very satisfying and magical (in every sense of the word) read.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Pocket Universe, Fissure, Hernia, or Portal Novel: A Reading of Adam Christopher's "Empire State"
When I first heard about Adam Christopher's debut novel, Empire State (Angry Robot Books 2012), I immediately began to imagine a world similar to the Coen Brothers' Miller's Crossing, intermixed with a panoply of superheroes à la Alan Moore.
As my imagination took off, I heard Scott Joplin tunes playing in speakeasys in Harlem and wild nights spent at the Cotton Club, listening to Cab Calloway, dancing to Minnie the Moocher. Around the city, Murder Incorporated butchered its enemies and bloated bodies floated on the East River, while out-of-work veterans lived in a make-shift Hooverville in Central Park, forgotten men panhandled on Fifth Avenue, and a William Powell and Myrna Loy film runs at a theater on Sixth Avenue. Communist cells spring up in Brooklyn and the Bronx, enlisting Jewish immigrants, disenfranchised blacks and poor whites. Irish cops, maybe one of my relatives, walk their beats in Manhattan and the FBI dukes it out with gangsters bringing in whiskey from Canada. Raymond Chandler writes The Big Sleep and the first-person noir voice is born.
Unfortunately, my imagination got ahead of me. Adam Christopher's novel contains some of the same elements delivered by my fevered imagination but his novel is something different, more original than just a science fiction novel set within a historical period. His novel owes more to the strange, almost bizarre comics that emerged in the thirties and forties. Anyone who grew up in the forties and fifties is familiar with the strange comic world of Chester Gould's Dick Tracy. Tracy appeared in 1931 and received its impetus and story lines from gangland violence in Chicago. Gould imbued his comic with violence, strange science and villains so evil that they expressed their personalities through their tortured and deformed flesh. Christopher's novel does not allude to Gould but it certainly hums with comic vibrations from the work of Bob Kane. Kane, the creator of Batman, entered the field in 1936. His characters, like those of Gould, are dark, haunted creatures who live in a Gothic universe. Christopher is a young man, who admits that he came to comics late. His sensibilities rely more on Doctor Who, Alan Moore, the Disney film The Rocketeer and Grant Morrison. Consequently, his vision formed in the cauldron of modern pop culture envisions something unique and slightly grotesque; a pocket world, hernia-like, is formed when two superheroes-- disputing lovers--wage a combat to the death over the skies of Manhattan in 1930. From their duel a fissure is formed and a new world created. But it isn't just one world that springs fully formed from New York; it is a mirror image similar to a series of soap bubbles, forming world after world. The first world on the string is Empire State, a pocket world born in 1930.
Within the first fissure, doubles live, unaware of their counterparts above them. It is a strange gaseous place, similar to the world of the film Dark City, where people from both sides of the fissure wander, fall, disappear, and work. The protagonist, Rad Bradley, is a down and out gumshoe, existing without any visible means of support, waiting for that one femme fatale to walk into his seedy office. And , of course, she enters, as sexy as Veronica Lake and as rich as Croesus. Katherine Kopek is looking for her lover, who has disappeared without a trace and she hires Rad to find her. His search will connect him to intrigue emanating from the fissure and the machinations of the cognoscenti within the fissure. So begins his quest and the adventure.
Within the structure of the noir, Christopher creates a comic-book sensibility with enough ideas in this book to fuel a long run of subsequent tales, after all there are a million stories in the Naked City or Empire State.
Empire State, however, is not a re-creation of New York in the 30s; it is a comic book facsimile with modern tonalities and an understanding of various genres--noir, science fiction, portal novel, time travel (of sorts). It is a unique work, although it has borrowed memes from a panoply of authors and genres and it is some-what raw at times, carving its own niche in a field and a publisher known for its unique works.
Finally, Empire State is a veritable petri dish of ideas and images.
As my imagination took off, I heard Scott Joplin tunes playing in speakeasys in Harlem and wild nights spent at the Cotton Club, listening to Cab Calloway, dancing to Minnie the Moocher. Around the city, Murder Incorporated butchered its enemies and bloated bodies floated on the East River, while out-of-work veterans lived in a make-shift Hooverville in Central Park, forgotten men panhandled on Fifth Avenue, and a William Powell and Myrna Loy film runs at a theater on Sixth Avenue. Communist cells spring up in Brooklyn and the Bronx, enlisting Jewish immigrants, disenfranchised blacks and poor whites. Irish cops, maybe one of my relatives, walk their beats in Manhattan and the FBI dukes it out with gangsters bringing in whiskey from Canada. Raymond Chandler writes The Big Sleep and the first-person noir voice is born.
Unfortunately, my imagination got ahead of me. Adam Christopher's novel contains some of the same elements delivered by my fevered imagination but his novel is something different, more original than just a science fiction novel set within a historical period. His novel owes more to the strange, almost bizarre comics that emerged in the thirties and forties. Anyone who grew up in the forties and fifties is familiar with the strange comic world of Chester Gould's Dick Tracy. Tracy appeared in 1931 and received its impetus and story lines from gangland violence in Chicago. Gould imbued his comic with violence, strange science and villains so evil that they expressed their personalities through their tortured and deformed flesh. Christopher's novel does not allude to Gould but it certainly hums with comic vibrations from the work of Bob Kane. Kane, the creator of Batman, entered the field in 1936. His characters, like those of Gould, are dark, haunted creatures who live in a Gothic universe. Christopher is a young man, who admits that he came to comics late. His sensibilities rely more on Doctor Who, Alan Moore, the Disney film The Rocketeer and Grant Morrison. Consequently, his vision formed in the cauldron of modern pop culture envisions something unique and slightly grotesque; a pocket world, hernia-like, is formed when two superheroes-- disputing lovers--wage a combat to the death over the skies of Manhattan in 1930. From their duel a fissure is formed and a new world created. But it isn't just one world that springs fully formed from New York; it is a mirror image similar to a series of soap bubbles, forming world after world. The first world on the string is Empire State, a pocket world born in 1930.
Within the first fissure, doubles live, unaware of their counterparts above them. It is a strange gaseous place, similar to the world of the film Dark City, where people from both sides of the fissure wander, fall, disappear, and work. The protagonist, Rad Bradley, is a down and out gumshoe, existing without any visible means of support, waiting for that one femme fatale to walk into his seedy office. And , of course, she enters, as sexy as Veronica Lake and as rich as Croesus. Katherine Kopek is looking for her lover, who has disappeared without a trace and she hires Rad to find her. His search will connect him to intrigue emanating from the fissure and the machinations of the cognoscenti within the fissure. So begins his quest and the adventure.
Within the structure of the noir, Christopher creates a comic-book sensibility with enough ideas in this book to fuel a long run of subsequent tales, after all there are a million stories in the Naked City or Empire State.
Empire State, however, is not a re-creation of New York in the 30s; it is a comic book facsimile with modern tonalities and an understanding of various genres--noir, science fiction, portal novel, time travel (of sorts). It is a unique work, although it has borrowed memes from a panoply of authors and genres and it is some-what raw at times, carving its own niche in a field and a publisher known for its unique works.
Finally, Empire State is a veritable petri dish of ideas and images.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
