(On TV, August 1998) A weak successor to the original film. Part of it may be that it tries to deal with racial issues directly rather than just making a fun movie where the characters happen to be black, like in the first film. Unfortunately, the characters also seem diluted, and the dance numbers are less energetic. The bizarre romantic subplot also annoys more than it entertains. A disappointment.
(On TV, August 1998) “Shut up and drive!” would be my only recommendation to the scriptwriter (The quasi-legendary Robert Towne) of this moderately enjoyable sport thriller. Simply put, Days Of Thunder is more interesting when our stock-car-driving hero (played by Tom Cruise) is on the circuit driving. Everything else feels like filler, up to and including the romance with the pretty neurologist (Nicole Kidman, now Cruise’s wife). Otherwise, it’s another movie from the Simpson / Bruckheimer team. Consciously made to appeal to the blue-collar crowd. Works well.
(On TV, August 1998) Far from being as good as the other humans-and-toons comedy Who Framed Roger Rabbit?, but at least has the merit to try for a more adult approach. I say “try”, because ultimately the adult potential of the movie (and there is a lot of it), seems diluted in atrociously unfunny adolescent antics that end up cheapening the rest. A considerable disappointment. This movie should have been re-written for a hard-R rating.
Simon & Schuster, 1998, 506 pages, C$35.00 hc, ISBN 0-684-80996-6
In the classic Brave New World, Aldous Huxley took a certain pleasure is describing the inane entertainment (“feelies”) perpetrated by Hollywood in his imagined future. It was obviously intended to be a parody of the lousy movies of the thirties, with its simplistic plot, stereotyped characters, obvious racism and happy expected ending.
Fast forward half a century: We’re still being fed pap by Hollywood. From a storytelling standpoint, cinema is the mentally retarded cousin of prose fiction. Most of the time, it does simplistic things, only to be applauded when it does something decent. The average novel on any shelf -including romance- is a better story than the average movie.
And yet, for a brief time in the seventies, it seemed as if Hollywood was re-inventing itself. Young film-makers like Hopper, Coppola, Friedkin, Bogdanovich, Scorsese were making challenging movies like EASY RIDER, APOCALYPSE NOW, THE GODFATHER, THE EXORCIST, RAGING BULL… But then came JAWS and STAR WARS, and the blockbuster mentality that now prevails.
At least, that’s the history that Easy Riders, Raging Bulls tries to tell. A fairly fat book, this non-fiction account remains unusually readable while also being formidably well-researched. (There is an excellent 23-pages index, as well as 35 pages of notes, most of them referring to personal interviews between Biskind and the people concerned.)
There is a lot of dirt in this book. The Seventies are described by Biskind as an era of unbridled hedonism, where everyone slept with almost everyone else, drugs were supplied by the bowls and rock’n’roll defined a generation. Biskind spares no punches in describing the descent through hell of most of the film-makers of this era, their troubled love lives and their constant flirting with auto-destruction. This should be a source book for anyone trying to portray South California as the modern Babylon.
Most of the book is in the details. It’s a shock to read about the behaviour of some now-quite-conservative personalities. This accumulation of anecdotes helps to sustain our interest in a book that could otherwise be stuffy. This is one great book for party anecdotes: “Did you know that Coppola once said to…”
Beyond the dirt and the shocking stories, though, Easy Riders, Raging Bulls fares less well at convincing the reader that there was indeed a “New Hollywood” in the seventies. A look at the most popular movies of the time probably reveals a bunch of movies that were neither superior, nor particularly innovative. We remember THE GODFATHER and THE EXORCIST… but the rest? If drugs, sex and rock’n’roll were necessary for better movies, was the price worth it? Or was the “New Hollywood” of the seventies only an new extension of the general climate of revolution that swept through the sixties?
It is ironic, though, to find out that the main perpetrators of the blockbuster mentality (Spielberg, Lucas, Don Simpson) were encouraged -even nurtured- by the “New Hollywood”. Biskind’s chapters about the success of JAWS and STAR WARS take on a bittersweet quality that’s well developped.
On the other hand, Biskind’s conscious silence about some latter work is surprising and self-defeating: Why not mention that of all these film-makers, only Spielberg and Lucas have managed to take control of film-making means (Lucas with ILM, Spielberg with Dreamworks)? Why conveniently forget Spielberg’s brilliant and artistic SCHINDLER’S LIST? Why not mention Coppola’s THE GODFATHER III? Or the good movies of the eighties and nineties? Or the bad movies of the seventies?
You could say that Easy Riders, Raging Bulls is a book to read for all the wrong reasons: For the dirt and the scandals; for an unbiased history of STAR WARS; for the self-destructive paths of a few brilliant film-makers… An interesting book in its own right, Easy Riders, Raging Bulls nevertheless fails to convince that the “Sex, Drugs and rock’n’roll generation saved Hollywood.”
Imagine that.
(On TV, August 1998) Now, why are people calling this Mel Brook’s greatest movie? It’s amusing, but not funny. It has its moments, but doesn’t sustain them. Some bits are fun, but most aren’t. Even Spaceballs was better. Seems to me that the western genre is ripe for another send-off. (Although, to be fair, the pacing of modern comedies is so much more frantic that it probably spoils what must have been hilarious twenty-five years ago.)
(In theaters, August 1998) This is the movie that Spawn tried to be. A very cool comic-book-inspired action-fest starring a bigger than-life superhero against a conspiracy of evil creatures (in this case; vampires). Blade begins with one of the most gripping introduction possible (I won’t spoil it), and if it doesn’t quite maintain this level of energy all throughout the movie, it finishes on an adequately action-packed finale. The direction is kinetic, and the little over-the-top stylistic touches push Blade in the realm of the really cool movies. Wesley Snipes is great, the girls are cute, the hardware is mouth-watering and the villain does a creditable job. It’s not only a B-movie, it’s a B+-movie!
(Second viewing, On DVD, May 2002) Most dynamic vampire-hunting film ever? Well, not since the sequel came out, but the original Blade still kicks a lot of blood-sucking butt, and the DVD is still one of the best collector’s editions out there. Not only does it include the requisite making-of, but it also features a half-finished alternate ending, plus plenty of discussion about how and why they settled on the finished product. The best thing about the disc, though, is the commentary track, which features snippets from various crew and cast members. Wesley Snipes seems arrogant and silly; Stephen Dorf sounds a bit sloshed and star-stuck. There is a cinematographer that can’t stop bitching about the compromises he must make in his work. A considerable amount of time is spent discussing rejected concepts and alternate sequences. (One of which, the “baby vampire” seems cruelly absent, though the “body freeze” answers one huge logical howler I’d noted in a previous review.) In sum, a very good track that takes some time to deliver, but which really does hold our interest. The filmmakers always knew what kind of movie they wanted to deliver, and the result is there in its full DVD glory. A must-buy if you’re a fan of the film.
(In theaters, August 1998) For a reason I cannot fathom, Baseketball flopped badly, pulling in less than $5M on its opening weekend to finish 11th at the box office tally. It was at our local dollar-theatre its second week. For $2.75C., it couldn’t be much of a disappointment, and wasn’t. Baseketball is funny. Not a classic, not a very good comedy, but a relatively satisfying one. Moments of cleverness lurk behind the remainder of this enjoyably silly movie. I predict a certain cult-status among late-night movie fans. Give or take a star whether you like cheerleaders in tight black leather underwear or not. It’s that kind of movie.
(Second viewing, On DVD, August 2002) I was one of the few supporters of the film when it was first released (and then promptly sank at the box-office), but a look at the film four years later only confirms my moderate enthusiasm. Hey, I still think it’s one of the most solid spoofs of the late nineties, but I’m not quite as taken by the (relatively modest, given its latter contemporaries) degree of gross-out humor or the often-inconsistent pacing. The film sets itself in a familiar narrative structure that’s very comfortable but doesn’t do much to spoof itself. It’s too bad that the film’s tone never equals its brilliant first two minutes about the decline of professional sports. There are several lulls, and a lack of background gags but there are also a few good moments and the two lead actors pull their own. Give it a try if you still haven’t seen it. The DVD contains a perfunctory making-of, but not much more.
Tor, 1997, 287 pages, C$32.95 hc, ISBN 0-312-86263-6
While “superpowers” are usually the province of comic book superheroes, Science Fiction also touches on the subject from time to time, usually from a much more “realistic” perspective. Compare Robert Silverberg’s Dying Inside to any issue of the X-Men for a good shock.
Brenda W. Clough seemed to be aware of this as she wrote How Like a God. It’s the story of an ordinary husband, father and computer programmer named Rob Lewis who suddenly acquires the power to read and shape minds. Clough’s protagonist makes several explicit references to the numerous comic books he had read at a younger age, while undergoing a descent through the lowest levels of society.
Unfortunately, How Like a God combines attempts a science-fiction sensibility with comic-book plotting to create a book that’s pleasantly readable, but also disappointing in its unevenness.
For instance, there is almost no scepticism about the powers of Rob Lewis. Even he seems to arrive fairly easily to the conclusion he’s a super human. People around him also seem to believe him quite easily.
The psychology of the characters seems suspect. When Rob’s wife starts sprouting presidential ambitions, when Rob callously leaves his family, when Edwin Barbarossa starts helping a strange-looking hobo, when Rob almost assaults a young girl… they all seem like forced choices.
Which brings us to the numerous coincidences that make up most of How like a God‘s plot. The two worst are the meeting of Barbarossa and Lewis, and the fire that destroys Lewis’ workplace. No explanation is provided. These two things simply happen. While worse fault have been seen elsewhere, there are ways of bringing coincidences in a story in an acceptable manner. (This reviewer’s favourite example is in Tom Clancy’s The Sum of All Fears, where twenty pages are devoted to explaining how a beam of solid American wood comes in contact with the screw of a nuclear-powered submarine in the middle of the Pacific ocean. Amazingly, it works.)
The Atlantic City passage is also incredibly weak. Couldn’t Lewis just try his hand at poker instead of blackjack?
Then there’s the last third of the book, which abandons all pretence of scientific verisimilitude, and goes full-throttle in magical fantasy-land where Gilgamesh (yes, that Gilgamesh) is a full-featured character. The novel drags on for another fifty pages after what should have been the final confrontation and has the gall to end on the steps of what should have been the book’s most powerful scene!
Is there anything else to say? Well, the title alone is a source of countless nanoseconds of fun: Apart from the obvious parodies (How? Like a God!, How Like a Dog, How so Very Very Much Like a God, How to Like a God, Show Like a God, How Licks a God?, etc…), you can spend some time trying to find ways of saying “How Like a God” in normal, everyday conversations.
The cover illustration by Rick Berry is oddly attractive, suggesting both personal power, pain and transcendence. (That ugly mug in the upper right corner has to go, though!) [September 1998: The ugly mug is gone from the paperback edition, although the resulting illustration loses some power.]
Nevertheless, How Like a God isn’t nearly as bad as the above might presuppose. The writing is brisk, and the story flows along at an acceptable pace once you accept the succession of coincidences. Not one of SF’s shining releases for 1997, but reasonable entertainment as long as you don’t spend too much money on it.
St. Martin’s, 1981-1988, ??? pages, C$??.?? mmpb, ISBN Various
Red Dragon: 1981, 348 pages
The SIlence of the Lambs: 1988, 352 pages
They took away the student’s notebook when he entered the prison.
“You can’t be serious!” he protested “he can’t be that dangerous!”
“Amical Lecteur is a sick man” replied the orderly responsible for the student’s well-being. “He is the most dangerous reader you will ever meet. Always remember that.”
They went down the stairs toward the maximum-security wing of the prison.
“A few months ago, one of our nurses forgot a copy of The Bridges of Madison County near him. He read it in less than an hour, called it a pretty ordinary story about bad photography and cardboard characters. His pulse never went above seventy.”
“Gee.”
“We took away your notebook because you had written something in it. Lecteur will go frantic in the presence of reading material. We have restrained him, but you never know.”
They approached the last cell of the corridor. A chair had been placed in the middle of the corridor, facing the bars of the cell.
The orderly checked one last time and retreated, leaving the student with Lecteur. The student could only see the outline of the prisoner in his darkened cell.
“Doctor Lecteur? I’m here-”
“I know.” He advanced, and even despite the darkness of his cell, the student could see the heavy blindfold that had been placed upon Lecteur’s eyes. “-they might have tried to make me blind, but not stupid.”
The student gulped. “I’m here to ask you about-”
“The two serial-killer thrillers by Thomas Harris. Red Dragon and The Silence of the Lambs. Am I correct?”
“Yes- Yes, sir.”
“Did you know that since 1977, Harris has only published three novels? All of them have been adapted to successful movies. The Silence of the Lambs even won a Best Picture Academy Award-”
“Yes. Were you aware of the movies when you read the book?”
“Aware yes. I even saw parts of that movie, but never all of it.”
“Did it help?”
“Curiously, seeing only disconnected parts of the movie probably set the tone, characterisation and overall atmosphere of the book while leaving most of the plot surprises intact. Then again, given the publicity surrounding The Silence of the Lambs, you don’t even have to have seen the movie.”
“What about MANHUNTER, the adaptation of Red Dragon?”
“I knew it existed. That is all.”
The student paused, thinking about his next questions.
“What did you think of the books?”
“Why is it important to you?”
“Why is that important to you?”
“You never learned never to answer a question by a question?”
“Who told you that?”
Silence.
“They’re both fairly good crime thrillers” finally says Lecteur. “You’ve got to realize, though, that both novels have basically the same premise.”
“Oh?”
“In both, you’ve got a protagonist asking the advice of this really sadistic psychopath, Hannibal Lecter, to catch a serial killer. In both cases, he’s able to do it and make life miserable for the policeperson sent to interrogate him.”
“Much like our discussion, then.”
“Do you have to point out the obvious?”
“Sorry.”
[Pause] “In both case, the result is an tense novel. The similarity of the plots even help, since Harris does it better the second time around.”
“How?”
“First off, Clarice Starling from The Silence of the lambs is a stronger, more interesting character than Will Graham from Red Dragon. The same also holds true for the serial killers, although both are portrayed as wimps. I guess this is to show off Harris’ centrepiece, which is Hannibal Lecter.”
“He’s chilling?”
“Utterly. Brains combined with complete evilness. A very memorable villain. The damning thing is that he’s also endlessly charming. Just as you think he’s a pretty likable fellow, well…”
“Are the books very violent?”
“Somewhat. They stay in the norm for crime thrillers. It’s the impact of that violence that remains with the readers, though.”
“So, which is the better book?”
“Silence of the Lambs, without a doubt. Even though it’s a remake of the previous volume, readers having read Red Dragon first should read the sequel. The reverse isn’t necessarily true, though, as Silence of the Lambs greatly improves on the predecessor. Think of it as a computer game remade five years after the original, with better graphics and gameplay.”
“You recommend The Silence of the Lambs?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you sir. I think-”
“Don’t leave me like this! Give me-”
“I really must go.”
“Give me a book! A baseball program! A cereal box! Anything to read!”
The orderly rushed to the cell, electric prod in hand. As Lecteur became even more frantic, the orderly silenced him with flashes of blue-white electricity. Lecteur retreated in his cell.
“Sorry about that, sir.” said the orderly. “He gets violent from time to time.”
“At least he doesn’t kill people.”
“Sometime, we almost think it would be better that way.”
Simon & Schuster/SFBC Edition, 1951, 527 pages, C$??.?? hc, ISBN Unavailable
Tonight, ladies, gentlemen and extraterrestrials from Cylonak, we are going to delve deep into the archives of Science Fiction to dredge back a forgotten masterpiece, or three for that matter. At a time where men were men and women were irrelevant… at a time where it was plausible to postulate non-Aristolean logic without howling with laughter… at a time where you could have spacemen waving vibrators around without having your book banned… at a time where SF fans perceived themselves as being persecuted and hunted down like rabid dogs… lived an author named A.E. van Vogt.
A curious fellow, this Arthur Elton van Vogt. Born in Canada in 1912, emigrated in the United States in 1944, he had by that time established himself as one of Science-Fiction’s giants. He specialized in grandiose tales of space-opera, of supermen, of monsters and empires. He never made too much sense, but he wrote with such intensity that few were left unimpressed. Today, we will see three of his finest novels, brought together in one handy package unimaginatively called Triad.
van Vogt’s first novel was Slan, a classical wish-fulfilment fantasy starring a superhuman boy, a princess, an evil empire and a book-long chase. It was enormously popular among SF audience, who identified with the persecuted protagonist. Slans being superior humans, the novel was the basis of a fannish rallying cry: Fans are Slans!
As for the novel itself, we can already see in Slan the distinguishing characteristics of the latter van Vogt: Endlessly surprising twists and counter-twists of plot, often brought up without rhyme, reason or latter accountability. It is never too clear whether van Vogt has a fantastically complicated outline, or is making it up as he goes along. Modern readers will find Slan interesting in a certain naïve way, as if the sheer chutzpah of van Vogt can carry the novel through. But modern readers will most likely see in Slan the blueprint for more than fifty years of wish-fulfilment novels.
With The voyage of the Space Beagle, modern readers will experience virulent déjà-vu reactions. Not only does the Space Beagle function eerily like the “Star Trek” paradigm, but a sequence from the novel contains the genesis of the movie ALIEN. (van Vogt sued, and settled out of court for $50,000, says the Encyclopedia of Science-Fiction)
The Voyage of the Space Beagle is a collection of mostly enjoyable short tales describing the adventures of a space ship on a deep exploration tour. Surprisingly, the human squabbling and political infighting are more interesting than some of the aliens. The hero is likable, the plot twists are numerous and the aliens are imaginatively created. It reads like STAR TREK on acid. Creaky, musty fun.
The World of Null-A has an interesting MacGuffin: There are other modes of thought than Aristolean, Newtonian and Euclidean logic. Nothing interesting is done with this premise, but the ever-exciting plot has a twist every five pages and quickly buries its incoherencies under a cloud of plots, counterplots and counter-counterplots. Again, you never quite know if van Vogt has an incredible outline, or he’s just making it as he goes along. No matter; even despite all its numerous faults and its increasingly hilarious creakiness, The World of Null-A manages to entertain.
If Triad teaches us something, it’s that SF has certainly grown up. No author could now afford to publish novels as ill-conceived as van Vogt’s. On the other hand, it’s unclear if today’s fiction has the same sense of fun that’s present in van Vogt. It’s also a matter of debate as to which kind of fiction will read better among non-literary readers a half-century from now.
In the meantime, Triad contains the essential van Vogt. A worthwhile buy if you can find it in used bookstores, along with a copy of his other major novel, The Weapon Shops of Isher.
Avon, 1989, 374 pages, C$4.95$ mmpb, ISBN 0-380-71014-5
Novels being works of imagination, it’s surprising to find out that some readers devour them to learn things. Why not grab a non-fiction book instead? Authors are free to imagine whatever they want in any given context: why should any reader trust the author?
This is in many ways a false argument. Compare sitting down for a few hours with a quantum mechanic textbook, or a Greg Egan hard-SF novel. The choice is pretty easy to make. Fiction involves the reader. Sure, it’s less rigorous, but the basic elements still come through, especially when dealing with non-tangible subjects: someone who wants to know about the camaraderie and competition between fighter pilots will more easily grasp it reading a Stephen Coonts novel than a non-fiction account.
As for trust, it has a lot to do with an undefinable authenticity in the text itself, added to the author’s credentials. While Arthur Hailey has never been an airport or hotel manager, his novels Airport and Hotel (among other “educative” thrillers) have mesmerized whole beachfuls of readers. Hailey has acquired a reputation for research; Coonts is a former aircraft pilot. Both are known for getting their facts right.
Which brings us to Bob Judd, who brings us in turn in the fast-paced world of Formula One racing for his debut thriller Formula One. With fast cars, loose women, big money and high stakes, the world of Grand Prix racing seems a natural background for any thriller. Formula One takes full advantage of its setting.
Ace Formula One driver Forrest Evers has problems. After three disastrous races, he has abandoned racing. Now, in the opening pages of the novel, he watches as the second driver of his team kills himself in a stupid 200mph accident. Soon afterward, Evers is back behind the wheel with only one idea: Find out who killed his friend and who’s trying to kill him again.
Many thrillers boast intriguing promises but fail on delivery. Not so here. Judd writes like a racer going for the pole position. Evers’ first-person narration is immediately gripping and carries the novel through like few thrillers read recently.
Even better, we readers get a first-class ticket to the world of F1 racing. The jargon, the mechanics, the shady dealings, the political nature of the game are all explained in painless terms. Best of all, Formula One stays with its subject most of the time. It’s not a coincidence if the novel falters around the three-quarter mark, where the protagonist stops being a driver and behaves more like an amateur secret agent. Soon afterward, Evers and the novel are back where they belong—behind the wheel. The climax is memorably written.
What’s more, you will enjoy learning about F1 racing here. The details are well-mixed with the action, and seldom feel like exposition lumps. Judd acquires his credibility not by past novels or by an author blurb, but by being very, very good at what he does. It’s a challenge to pull off a first-person narration by someone who’s obviously in a technical field, but Judd achieves it magnificently.
There’s plenty to like in Formula One: The writing is delicious, the protagonist is likable, the gallery of supporting characters is sharply drawn, the technical details are right and the plot moves. You’re unlikely to read a better thriller soon.
[July 1998: Just discovered that Formula One is the first of four (so far) Forrest Evers thrillers. I’m unsure to read further, lest inferior sequels taint my memories of the original.]
(In theaters, July 1998) As a casual fan of the TV show, I was adequately satisfied by this adaptation, which retains most of the qualities and faults of the TV show. On one hand, it irresponsibly promotes goofy conspiracy theories, makes no attempt at internal consistency, confuses “complexity” with “incoherence” and can’t have the guts to answer its own questions. One the other hand, it’s beautifully cinematographed, competently realized, fairly entertaining and the leads actors have a nice chemistry. A good TV episode, it’s a bit of a let-down -content-wise- on the big-screen. Wait for the video.
(In theaters, July 1998) You wouldn’t expect a film about guys stalking a woman to be hilariously funny, and yet it is. In the not-so-grand tradition of the “gross-out” school of comedy (see Dumb & Dumber), here comes There’s Something About Mary, which uses props such as mentally retarded people, crutches, bodily fluids, genitalia-caught-in-zipper, sun-wrinkled breasts, homosexuals, hyperactive pets and almost-dead dogs. It’s vile, disgusting, not subtle but also incredibly hilarious… but you will hate yourself for laughing at these things. (The movie is very probably lost on anyone older than 25.) In short: Very funny, but I can’t recommend it.
(In theaters, July 1998) As kids, I suspect most of us dreamed of having action figures that could act as our best friends, carry on conversation and generally be more animated that they were. Small Soldiers carries this concept all the way by proposing action figures equipped with military CPUs. Before you can say “Hey, haven’t we seen this in Gremlins before?”, the small soldiers of the title are busy wasting most of our young protagonist’s neighbourhood. The special effects are okay, but the script is strictly by-the-numbers and by the end of the movie, that’s what matters: Whereas Small Soldiers could have been so much more, it ends up being fairly ordinary. Side note: In February, I managed to grab hold of an early draft script of Small Soldiers. (don’t ask how.) While the theme and characters remain in the final movie, a lot of material has been cut. The result is a tighter and better movie, but also one that loses a lot of the draft’s most memorable parts. Curious…
Harper Collins, 1998, 442 pages, C$35.50 hc, ISBN 0-06-019129-5
In the Science-Fiction community, there is a certain prejudice about the so called “Hard-SF” segment of the genre, which is the epitome of scientific exactitude in SF. This concern has led critics to charge that the genre consistently privileged scientific content (ie; the “Science” in “SF”) over such niceties as characters, plotting or writing style. (“Fiction” in “SF”)
Amusingly, this debate also takes place outside the genre of SF. In the category of thrillers, for instance, you’ve got the same division. On one side, these fairly generic writers content to churn out pulpish book after another about spies, war and conspiracies. On the other, these authors who take great pain into researching the hardware, the politics, the procedures. Ludlum, Follett and Le Carre versus Clancy, Coonts and Coyle.
Patrick Robinson made a certain splash in the thriller audience last year with the release of Nimitz Class, a novel that begins with the nuclear vaporization of a Nimitz-class aircraft carrier.
In my previous review of Nimitz Class, (“starts promisingly enough… a few characters are efficiently set up… then the novel goes awry… goes on an unexpected direction… then on another tangent… very anticlimactic… unconvincing romantic thread… odd bits of exposition in dialogue… barely worth a library loan. In paperback.”) I was disappointed by the lack of plotting skill, the laughable romance and the useless detours. The faults were made worse by what is unarguably a fairly strong first third.
Kilo Class is more even, but overall a weaker entry than its predecessor. The plot is of a laughable simplicity: China has bought ten submarines from Russia. The United States doesn’t want China to receive these subs, so they do everything they can to destroy them.
Gimmicky; given that two subs are already in safe haven at the beginning of the novel and that this is pretty much everything the good ole’ USA will tolerate, you can bet that the novel won’t stop until most of the submarines are destroyed.
Most of Kilo Class, then, is like watching one (or several) car (or sub) accident happening. These dastardly americans hatch their plot, then send their best elements to execute them. Most of the time, they succeed. Since Robinson is a “hard-thriller” writer, he lays on the details pretty thick. We’re not only told that SEALs have blown up a submarine, but we also get fully fifty pages of preparations plus a twenty-page investigation by the bad guys. The result is almost interminable.
Unlike Nimitz Class, Kilo Class becomes more focused as the story evolves, and while most readers will find themselves asking why they’re reading the first half of the book, the last hundred pages are a lot more fun. But it’s an uphill battle until then.
Robinson’s weak characterisation (don’t plan on making any friends in this book) and suspicious plotting (what was it with the Kerguelen Islands?) make things difficult for anyone else but a dedicated techno-thriller buff. Fortunately, bits and pieces of interest spice up the going, like a tremendously exciting description of three submarines’ demise.
Of a most serious nature is the ludicrousness of the main premise. The United States risking war, attacking enemy ships under no clear and present threat? I don’t think so, and the afterword didn’t convince me.
Summing up: Mixed reactions toward Kilo Class. It’s definitely not worth the $35.50C. for the hardcover. In fact, I’m not even sure it’s worth a library loan. Nimitz Class fans might want to read it to find out what happened to Bill Baldridge (it’s a loose sequel to Nimitz Class), but beyond that… Summer 1998 has too many good new books by established techno-thriller authors (Bond, Brown, Coonts… even Clancy!) to waste on Kilo Class, a decidedly average entry in the genre.