(On TV, March 2000) This film as the story of an undercover cop seduced by lure of gangster life, struggles in the shadow of Scorsese’s Goodfellas and Casino, but manages to hold its own. No, it’s not near as good as these films are, but then again few films are. What you get, instead, is a moderately entertaining mob story with occasional moments. The ending is relatively abrupt, though.
Tor, 1998, 374 pages, C$8.99 mmpb, ISBN 0-812-57585-7
The sub-genre of aquatic Science-Fiction has been dominated, for years, by Arthur C. Clarke, who parlayed a scuba-diving obsession into at least two fine novels of futuristic sea adventures, The Deep Range (harvesting whales for food) and The Ghost from the Grand Banks (raising the Titanic). That’s in addition to several other stories, subplots and non-fiction writing about the subject. Anyone even daring to cover the same ground better pay homage to the master, or else.
That’s exactly what Toronto resident Peter Watts does in “A Niche”, the short story that formed the basis for Starfish: One of the protagonists is named Clarke. (The other; Ballard) “A Niche” ends up being the first chapter of Starfish, and the novel follows what happens after the events of the short story. “A Niche” was rather good (it was notably featured in Northern Star, a best-of anthology of Canadian short SF) and so is Starfish, despite a few problems.
The biggest of those is probably the premise. Some things work in short stories and simply don’t translate well to bigger lengths. The concept of using mentally unstable persons as deep-sea explorers is one of these things. Suspension of disbelief is easy to sustain over twenty pages (oh, another wacky SF concept!)… but three hundred? Does anyone really think that a multi-billion mega-corporation would willingly entrust important projects to crazy personnel on the dubious premise that “an environment that drive the sane insane might drive the insane sane again?” Is anyone in the audience truly surprised when people start cracking up under all sort of pressures, both physical and psychological? Is it any wonder if none of the characters is overly sympathetic to the reader?
Okay. Never mind that. Suspend disbelief and proceed.
…only to be stopped again by some major structural problems. The book suffers from its origin in that the major character of the short story -Lenie Clarke- is probably not the best viewpoint characters for the full-length story. That character would probably be the “sane” psychologist Yves Scanlon, but he doesn’t arrive on-site until the novel is well in its second act. Before that, the viewpoint keeps shifting between characters who often disappear before mid-novel, creating an unfocused impression that really doesn’t help the novel get underway. Have I mentioned that for the first half of the book there’s no one even remotely worth cheering for?
In fact, most of my good opinion of the novel comes from the last fifty pages or so, when new exciting elements (like Βehemoth) are introduced and developed as a credible plot thread. Suddenly, most of what comes before is negated or trivialized. This is good at first (it basically saves the novel), but rather unsatisfactory on further reflection. In fact, the Βehemoth plot element is so good that its late inclusion smacks of sloppy editorial guidance; why couldn’t the novel be re-conceptualized around this?
But, as ever, let’s not be overly critical of what is, after all, a first novel. It would be unfair to forget the obvious strengths of the novel; a daring sense of originality which is admirable even when it misfires; a good grasp of unusual characters; some really good ideas that could have benefited from much more development; an obvious willingness to do keep the science exact and to present the best parts to the audience and, perhaps most importantly, a readable style that should work wonders in a different context.
Starfish isn’t without problems, small and large, but it’s certainly a worthwhile read and a promising first novel from someone who should deliver good things in latter books. It follows in the aquatic footsteps of Arthur C. Clarke and doesn’t seem out of place in the company of the SF grandmaster. That’s not bad at all.
Possibilities for a sequel? Get more information on that, and Peter Watts at http://www.globalserve.net/~pwatts/
(On TV, March 2000) Now what was that? A comedy? It’s too dark for that. A thriller? Not a very effective one. A vehicle for Gibson’s penchant for weird characters? Not a bad… theory. In any case, this is a seriously misguided film, with mismatching comedic/dramatic tones, a Taxi Driver opening and boring-stock-thriller finale. Sure, Gibson is fine and Julia Roberts is cute, but the script oscillate between silly and lame, with shameless pandering to the “National Enquirer” crowd (again; a comedy?) and interesting threads dropped midway through what’s already a very very long script. A considerable disappointment, and not really an entertaining one.
(On TV, March 2000) If someone with only a superficial knowledge of -and no particular affection for- comics books set out to do a big-big-big budget blockbuster, s/he probably wouldn’t do worse than Joel Shumaker’s Batman & Robin. Let’s get all the positive out of the way first: The set design is fabulous, and none of the actors really embarrass themselves with the material they’re given. The rest of the film is pure trash. The scenario makes no attempt to be smarter than the average adult’s worst prejudices about comic books they never read. The dialogue is almost uniquely composed of one-liners, and they’re so lame that the audience laughs at them, not with them. The direction shows occasional blips of interest, but usually seems unaccountably off by some ill-defined degree. The film is shot in one of the most garish, less visually attractive neon-on-black colour scheme you’ll ever see. Subplots abound, and strangle each other in an effort to get some recognition. But in all its awfulness, Batman & Robin attains some kind of bad-movie nirvana of compulsive watchability. How worse can it become, after its first moronic fifteen minutes? Not much, but you can’t stop watching. A surefire candidate for a home-grown group MST3K session.
(Second viewing, On DVD, April 2010) An extra decade hasn’t been kind on this film, which is just as terrible now as when it first escaped in theaters. Yes, there is a lot of work in what’s shown on-screen… but the childish script, overdone set design and garish cinematography quickly kill off any interest we could have in the rest. If the 2005 DVD re-issue has a saving grace beyond the lavish making-of featurettes, it’s that the filmmakers seem to have an idea that the film wasn’t well received, and (for what it’s worth), director Schumaker half-apologizes to those (read; everyone) who were disappointed in the film.
(In theaters, March 2000) This would seem to be, in many respect, a very disappointing film: The plot is relatively innocuous, especially for controversymeister Oliver Stone. The script is rather average, not really rising above the usual sports clichés. The directing is too choppy, too gimmicky, too focused on fast editing to give the sports scenes the grace they need. In short, this is a film with substantial problems. But, it still manages to be a lot of fun. Is it simply that a sport film can’t go wrong with a young male audience? Is it the fact that the direction improves in time for the final game? Is it because, despite its problems, this is a solid, conventionally satisfying story? Possibly. Probably. The soundtrack adds to the fun: Though it’s of unequal quality, the sheer number of songs used virtually guarantee there’s something to like in there (It’s also more effective if you already know the songs: A particular dance piece played over a match against San Francisco takes on an extra dimension when you know the title of the piece is Propellerheads’ “Take California”. Ditto for a rookie’s first moments on the field, scored with Fatboy Slim’s “Right Here, Right Now.”) In short: It’s pretty much what you want on a big-screen, big-sound football film. Crunchy, unchallenging fun.
W.W. Norton, 1999, 289 pages, C$33.99 hc, ISBN 0-393-04702-4
Okay, so your first novel, Fight Club, is an angry Gen-X declaration of war against the Baby-Boomers. It’s written in a dense, hyper-charged style that sends critics back to their thesauri for “genius” synonyms. It becomes an underground hit. It’s bought by a major Hollywood studio, adapted by a hot new screenwriter who doesn’t butcher the material and directed by one of the decade’s hottest talents. The final film is praised by younger critics, frightens every one over forty and stars Brad Pitt, fer chrissakes! What do you do for a follow-up?
Something different, but not that different.
Start with a great premise: The narrative is presented as being a recording inside the black box (orange, really) of a 747 about to crash in the Australian outback from lack of fuel. To reinforce the point, the pagination in Survivor run backward, from 289 to 1. The narrator, Tender Branson, is alone on the plane. All the passengers have disembarked, and the pilot has long since parachuted to the ground. Now, as Tender awaits the inevitable crash, he intends to tell how he arrived at this point.
Continue with a memorable protagonist: Before his short career as airplanes hijacker, Tender Branson was a domestic servant. Before that, he was a member of a cult. After that, he was a media messiah. Wait. Rewind. Tender’s cult childhood has prepared him to be the best domestic servant there was. But after the whole cult suddenly self-destructs, the Government assigns a case worker to prevent Tender from killing himself like the other exiled members of the community are doing. As things evolve and his remaining fellow ex-cultists all commit suicide (or are they really?), Tender finds himself the last surviving member. Fame is only one step away, and that’s how Tender finds himself wreaking chaos at the Super Bowl half-time show. No, wait. Darn. That’s too much stuff to compress in one single paragraph.
Wrap up everything in wacky details: The world of Tender Branson is a funhouse parody of ours, with mass suicide cults and moody clairvoyants that are also sterile surrogate mothers and underground suicide lines to pick up chicks and big murderous brothers and case workers more screwed up than their clients and prepackaged celebrities and pornography landfills and tricks to get almost any stains out of almost any material. Go ahead; ask him how.
And polish off with a sheen of style: Fight Club would be a daunting act for anyone to follow, and indeed Chuck Palahniuk’s second novel is far less memorable that his debut, but Survivor is still a blast. Palahniuk’s style is a mix of catchy quotes (“the only difference between suicide and martyrdom is press coverage” repeats the jacket blurb.), a mass of technical details to provide unarguable authenticity, a compulsively readable narration and some truly off-the-wall concepts. Not to mention the wacky humour: Survivor is surprisingly funny, with plenty of laugh-aloud moments that will positively bother your fellow bus passengers. (The media messiah chapters or Survivor reminded your reviewer of Mark Leyner’s underrated Et Tu, Babe? in sheer manic satire of egomanical celebrities.) Palahniuk’s vision of the world is almost positively science-fictional in nature, mocking today’s obsessions by extrapolating trends to their logical outcomes. As with Fight Club, one finishes Survivor with a sense of giddy exhaustion, a whirlwind trip through an imagination littered with land-mines.
So lead your readers to a conclusion: Survivor is a worthy follow-up to Fight Club. Less angry, less unique, but sufficiently enjoyable in its own right. The latest rumors assign Jim Carrey and Jerry Bruckheimer as protagonist and producer of the upcoming film adaptation. Isn’t that weird enough for a weird enough book?
An important note: The ending is not what it seems. Check out the Official Chuck Palahniuk page at http://www.chuckpalahniuk.net/ for more details.
Berkley, 1996, 338 pages, C$8.99 mmpb, ISBN 0-425-16053-X
The publishing industry seems to work in booms and busts. One year, fat fantasy trilogies are the rage; others, procedural murder mysteries are what gets bought. These cycles usually dramatically affect the midlist catalogue, causing good times and bad times. Die-hard fans of one particular sub-genre may pine for “golden years” when their chosen genre was all the rage.
Among techno-thriller fans, this period is roughly between 1988 and 1992 (ironically enough; the last years of the Cold War), where big complex novels of imaginary wars underwent their apogee in terms of publishing attention. During that time, Tom Clancy wrote The Cardinal of the Kremlin and Clear and Present Danger, Dale Brown Day of the Cheetah, Larry Bond Vortex, with other authors like Harold Coyle, Payne Harrison and Joe Weber producing their best novels.
Now, Clancy feels bloated, Brown has lost its freshness, Harrison has turned UFO-nutso and Bond, Coyle and Weber have moved on to historical novels or -gack- plain thrillers. It’s easy to say that the technothriller boom of the early has come and gone. But that’s a simplistic view of things, because no publishing sub-genre ever dies; it may go underground, sustain less authors, but if you look hard enough, nothing ever prevents you from finding a steady trickle of good technothrillers in the late nineties.
James H. Cobb’s first novel, Choosers of the Slain, is a perfect example of the kind of totally enjoyable technothriller to come by in the “lean” years of the technothriller. It’s short, snappy, to the point, completely fluent in the conventions of the genre and genuinely thrilling. As with most memorable techno-thrillers, the setting has been chosen with maximum impact in order to provide chills to the reader: Antarctica.
This isn’t the first time that the Southern latitudes have been mined by technothrillers authors. Payne Harrison’s superlative Thunder of Erebus used the setting to maximum effect, producing a novel as exciting as it was memorable. More recently (ah-ha, another good late-nineties technothriller!), Judith and Steven Garfield-Reeves’ 1998 Icefire used Antarctica’s ice shelf as a pivotal plot device for a globe-spanning techno-thriller.
But Cobb brings new things to Antarctica, the most striking of them being a female military protagonist, USS Cunningham Commander Amanda Garrett. It is she who will have to hold sentry for the US Government, as a blockade is imposed on Argentina for the invasion of British bases on the south continent. While Argentineans prepare intimidation manoeuvres and, later on, all-out attacks on her stealth destroyer, Garrett also finds herself attracted to another member of the crew… already proving herself to be a notch above her automaton cardboard counterparts in most other technothrillers. Neither superwoman nor feminist poster heroine, Garrett is entirely believable, and it’s to Cobb’s credit that he’s able to sustain her presence without resorting to easy clichés. Support human characters; buy the book!
Most importantly, Choosers of the Slain has everything you’d like in a technothriller: Great title, believable premise, sympathetic supporting protagonists, very cool gadgets, historical depth, optimized length (neither too short nor too g’darn long), spectacular combat scenes and limpid writing. It has its flaws (the romantic subplot grates somewhat, though it must be noted that this isn’t the immediate down-and-dirty affair you’d expect, but a rather restrained, even mature, series of quiet scenes), but usually it’s simply a lot of fun.
Cobb proves that the legacy of the technothriller’s heydays is still alive and well. Choosers of the Slain is the first book in a series and bodes well for the other volumes. (The equally enjoyable Sea Strike is available in paperback, with another announced later in 2000) In the meantime, techno-thrillers fans will be able to get their escapist fix and discover a new hot author to replace the fallen ones.
Gollancz, 1999, 249 pages, C$21.95 tpb, ISBN 0-575-06855-8
Greg Egan is back, and this time he’s offering something different.
Egan has made his enviable reputation in the Science-Fiction field (“One of the genre’s great ideas men” —The Times) by delivering stories and novels with an unusually high concept density. It also helps that he’s a hard-SF writer of the old school: All of his stories are built around one cool idea and the question “What if…?”
On the other hand, most critics have been prompt to mention that Egan isn’t a good stylist, doesn’t build compelling characters or writes lamentable dialogue. (To be fair, there’s some truth to this: Egan often comes up in English-French translation discussions, as a case example of the trade-offs needed to remain faithful to the source material; most translators just itch to “improve” his prose style.)
Egan’s previous 1998 novel, Diaspora, was a dense, fiercely original, quasi-unreadable work of impressive vision and frustrating writing. Any SF writer could justifiably take a break after such an effort. Most readers, however, won’t expect the complete shift taken with Teranesia.
It starts with a lengthy prologue in which we’re introduced to Prabir Suresh, a nine-year-old boy living with his sister and his parent scientists alone on Teranesia, an isolated Indonesian island. Stuff happens and Prabir is forced to seek refuge in Canada along with his sister. Years later, Prabir finds himself drawn once again to Teranesia, lured by reports of unexplainable mutations.
The first surprise of Teranesia is its pacing. Unlike the often-frenetic movement that characterized the first few pages of his first novels, like the breathtaking “digitalization” scene that opens Permutation City or the mesmerizing after-death-confession of Distress, Teranesia leisurely establishes Prabir’s character before doing anything else. It’s unusual for Egan, and not really practical in hooking the reader’s attention.
The leisurely pace is maintained though most of the book, but the book’s appeal picks up once the narrative moves to Toronto, just in time for vicious (and overdone, yet hysterically funny) attacks on new-age / feminist / post-modernist / anti-science rhetoric. If you pay attention, you’ll notice by this point that the prose is more pondered, the characters more fleshed out than in Egan’s previous work. There aren’t as many idea, though, even if Egan fans will recognize most of the landscape. In representing a non-Anglocentric near-future scenario, Egan evokes memories of recent works by Bruce Sterling.
The late explosion of concepts, when it comes, is a lot of fun though there’s a feeling that they arrive a little too late for full satisfaction. The unfinished ending (“AND WHAT HAPPENS *NEXT*??”) is also disappointing, -yet a cut above Egan’s usual reformat-the-universe conclusions- and adds to the feeling that for a writer who ventured in post-human territory as often as Egan, he’s taking a curiously reactionary position…
The result is kind of a new Egan, one that seemingly set out to write an easygoing novel to address most of his perceived weaknesses: the prose, the characters, the ending… While Teranesia doesn’t fully live up to Egan’s previous body of work, it’s a novel that shows promise for the author’s next books. It’s probably not coincidental that Teranesia is also the author’s most accessible novel. It’s always interesting to see an author grow…
Avon EOS, 1998, 374 pages, C$8.99 mmpb, ISBN 0-380-79052-1
Even though “Science” is fully half of science-fiction, its representation in most SF stories is simply appalling. One cannot count the number of cheap stories in which The Answers seem to be held by one clever fellow who can also whip up a universe-saving device in five minutes and still get the girl. (Watch INDEPENDENCE DAY again. Discuss your disgust.)
Real-world science truly doesn’t work that way. Answers are found after messy, meticulous trial-and-error procedures that don’t result in flashes of insight as much as in slow theoretical elaboration. And that’s still in the lab, because outside the lab lies even more drudgery; endless paperwork to apply for research grants, constant academic or corporate social infighting, political pressures… The appalling state of today’s science is matched only by our disgusting lack of knowledge about it.
All of this must have crossed Gregory Benford’s mind as he sat down to write Cosm, his latest science-fiction novel. Benford is a professor of physics at the University of California, so he presumably knows what near-future hard science-fiction is all about.
At first glance, there’s not much excitement in Cosm‘s premise: Almost by accident, an ordinary scientist creates a shiny meter-wide sphere in a particle accelerator experiment that goes wrong. She keeps the sphere and starts studying it. No big pyrotechnic displays, no mind-blowing SF concepts.
And, for most of the book, that’s where things stay. The sphere proves to be an interesting phenomenon, but not one that has the inherent potential to arouse the jaded reader’s interest.
Most of the novel’s impact comes from other strengths, such as its insider’s glimpse into contemporary science. The political battles, dirty academic tricks and real-world concerns of most working scientists are faithfully described.
Second is the attention that Benford brings to his protagonist. Alicia Butterworth is, simply put, one of the most impressively realized characters in recent SF. She’s not a beauty queen (far from it), she’s not a terribly charming person (her dismal dating record proves it), she’s not supernaturally smart (part of her appeal is that she’s an average scientist) and she realistically suffers from the twin handicaps of being both black and female in a white male environment. Her struggles and triumphs are made more real by being solidly anchored in the real world.
The result is, without question, Benford’s best book. The prose is lively and compulsively readable, the pacing holds up, the supporting characters are well-defined, the book is peppered with great throwaway lines and as a result, the book nearly reads itself in less time than you’d think. Good scenes, believable dialogue, a few physics jokes and a lot of nifty personal insight: Cosm raises the bar for the rest of Hard-SF. Through exceptional writing, the appeal of the book goes well beyond SF territory, though fans of the genre will not feel any dumbing-down of the material.
There are still a few rough spots whenever it’s time to place all the events in a greater context, like some knee-jerk media-bashing, and simplistic fundamentalist overreaction. (Though this leads to a typical kidnapping scenario that, for once, plays as if a smart kidnapee was involved.) General-interest readers might quibble that the science stuff is overwhelming (sheesh; a few graphs and everyone screams bloody murder!) and that the pacing is dull. Nothing that we’re not led to expect, really.
But with Cosm, Gregory Benford turns out the novel we’ve been waiting to read from him: A purely hard-SF tale that’s at the same time written with zest and a whole lot of skill. Recommended reading.
(On VHS, February 2000) Let’s be upfront about it right away, and admit that this film is pure popcorn: It’s built around plot twists, spends a lot of time focusing on curvy female forms and never aims at providing anything more -or less- than two hours of pure entertainment to its viewers. But what it does, it does damn well. Naked people (including Denise Richards), dead bodies, double-crosses, a briefcase filled with money, alligator wrestling and gorgeous south-Floridian cinematography are some of the elements composing this crunchy thriller. A great performance by Bill Murray, classic quotes such as “You skanky bitch!” and “My mother will kill me if she finds out I took the Rover”, Neve Campbell as white trash, a score by George S. Clinton and plenty of comic relief are others. Don’t expect much, but be prepared to have a lot of fun.
(On VHS, February 2000) This is, from stupid title to trite finale, one of the most inept piece of celluloid I’ve seen in a long, long while. Think of almost any element that could go wrong in a terrorist thriller, and they’re all there: An heroine (Lori Petty) that looks like a crack addict, a whiny villain that’s far more annoying than threatening, wrong technical details, implausible developments, bland action scenes, no suspense, an ending that’s more laughable than exciting, obvious dialogue and a complete lack of tension. Those all outweigh the rather interesting intentions of the film, like setting up a female protagonist with a Japanese policewoman and/or killing off most of the characters. In short; a video rental to avoid, and a study in how *not* to build a thriller. We asked our money back at the local Blockbuster. They easily complied.
Seal/Bantam, 1995, 275 pages, C$7.99 mmpb, ISBN 0-7704-2707-3
If you’re like me, you tend to assume that the vast majority of modern spying is handled by the Americans. Dozens, hundreds of spy movies and semi-fiction technothrillers, most of them produced in the United States, have conditioned us to accept the FBI, CIA and NSA as undisputed masters of electronic spying. Compared to them, the very though of, say, Canadians trying out their luck at espionage is somehow completely ridiculous.
And yet, even masters need their apprentices. Mike Frost was one of them, an employee of Canada’s NSA-equivalent, the Communication Security Establishment (CSE). From the early seventies to 1990, Frost was at the forefront of Canada’s electronic spying initiative. As he makes it clear, it was all sponsored, equipped and suggested by the Americans… though the apprentice would eventually surprise the master.
Electronic spying isn’t exciting in a cinematographic fashion. Instead of seducing enemy agents, photographing secret documents and shooting oneself out of trouble, it basically means intercepting, decoding and analyzing radio communications. All of which can be safely conducted from a more-or-less safe location, like an embassy.
But even if physical danger isn’t a factor, the international spying game has its own sets of rules, where embarrassment can be the ultimate failure. It’s simply not done to pack up electronic equipment and set it up in the embassy. Things have to be done stealthily as so not to awaken doubts, even among the embassy personnel itself.
Frost, along with collaborator Michel Gratton, clearly traces the evolution of Canadian electronic spying efforts, from amateurishness in Moscow (lack of preparation leading to funny anecdotes concerning the shipping of the electronic equipment, including sending a high-powered drill to pierce a safe, cutting up a five-foot dish antennae in shippable pieces and taking chances with an underpowered elevator.) to stealing profitable trade secrets from the Chinese.
This is heavy-duty modern spying, and each step of the way is meticulously detailed. Embassy selection, equipment installation, personnel training and data transmission are all crucial steps, described in here. And it all feels real, without too much sensationalism or outlandish claims.
Well, almost without too many outlandish claims. Like most general-interest books about the spying business, Spyworld raises issues of domestic privacy and government powers in communication interception. Should the CSE have the power to intercept domestic communications? Should it be overseen by a committee of elected officials? Unfortunately, these questions are nothing new; the book is more effective in demonstrating the powers of contemporary spying capacities than in explicitly decrying its possible excesses.
In any case, the end result is a non-fiction account that’s interesting, not too technically obscure, with some great anecdotes and which lifts a small corner of the veil over some very real spying practices. Not a bad read, if only for a few moments of national pride.
(On VHS, February 2000) John Frankenheimer is best known for the classic The Manchurian Candidate, but he should get special mention for this almost-forgotten piece of speculative fiction. The film begins as one middle-aged businessman is offered the opportunity to start afresh as a new person (played by Rock Hudson, no less). But, of course, there’s a hidden price… Starts off well -if longuishly-, lags a lot in its middle (What was that bacchanal scene all about?) but makes it up in its last nightmarish minute. Not exactly a piece of fluff cinema for a Saturday night, but a worthwhile film for serious SF fans.
(In theaters, February 2000) This film ends the Scream trilogy on the worst possible note, being exactly the type of film that the first one parodied. Surprisingly tepid for a horror film, mostly because there’s never any tension (idiot characters do stupid thing, and the oh-so-infallible Ghostface kills them.) nor any unsettling elements. Formula? Hell, yes! Not much laughs either, and those feel more forced than anything else. Catch it on video if you must, but there’s not much to be found here.
(On TV, February 2000) It takes some effort to put together a good thriller, but no one ever accused Ron Howard of not being a professional filmmaker. Here, he draws upon Mel Gibson, Renee Russo and Gary Sinise to set up a sombre kidnapping affair that quickly goes awry. Solid leading-man Gibson is perfect for the role, and Sinise makes the most of his name’s resemblance with sinister as the bad guy. Even though the film feels slightly too long at more than two hours, it moves quickly and the viewer is never bored. The conventional finale disappoints somewhat, as if the scriptwriters didn’t know what to do with their last-minute twists. But Ransom mostly delivers what it sets out to do; a good, fun, crunchy thriller.
(Second Viewing, On Cable TV, May 2022) So, TCM just had a double-bill with both the 1956 version of Ransom! and the exclamation-less 1996 Ransom remake – I just couldn’t let the occasion go by to compare and contrast. I had dim but favourable memories of the 1996 film, so I was curious to find out if my disappointment in the 1956 film was a nostalgic artefact or a real appreciation. Well, the verdict is in and the remake is the best film for two or three reasons. The first, obviously, is that director Ron Howard had many more tools in his mid-1990s toolbox – decades’ worth of thriller-film formula elements, better equipment, use of colour, slicker sets (including many exteriors) and arguably better actors in Mel Gibson and Gary Sinise. Which brings us to a second, crucial improvement: showing hero (Gibson) and antagonist (Sinise) trying to outwit each other throughout the film. Finally, let’s acknowledge that there’s simply more plot to this remake: While the 1956 film essentially concluded on the central idea of both films (offering the ransom as bounty-hunting prize), the remake adds at least an act’s worth of increasingly frantic action as the consequences of this turn play out. The result being executed with the big budget that standalone thrillers could still command back in the mid-1990s, Ransom still feels like a terrific, clever thriller. It’s got some style, great anchor performances and a twisty script that throws in one curveball after another, often as the two lead characters change their plans in reaction to one another. (That tit-for-tat plot leadership may feel like an elementary thriller asset, but you’d be surprised at the number of suspense films where the protagonist is constantly on the defensive from the villain’s plans.) I had no trouble liking Ransom all over again a few decades after first watching it, and even –especially- when measured against its inspiration. It makes the 1956 film look like a prototype, which is about the best thing one can say about a remake.