Book Review

  • A Darkness More Than Night, Michael Connelly

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    Warner, 2001, 470 pages, C$10.99 mmpb, ISBN 0-446-66790-0

    At first glance, A Darkness More Than Night looks like a piece of stunt writing, the kind of concept that afflicts writers in mid-career as they consolidate their back list and purchase a beach house: A glorious novel facing off one protagonist against another! Harry Bosch vs Terry McCaleb! A detective extravaganza, a criminal spectacle, now available for C$10.99!

    Fortunately, there’s a lot more to it than simply a grand face-off between Connelly’s protagonists. A Darkness More Than Night ends up being one of the best examinations of Harry Bosch so far, as seen by a third party who also has our sympathies.

    Terry McCaleb is, of course, the star of Blood Work, a previous Connelly novel that has also become a well-known film miscasting Clint Eastwood in the title role. (The written McCaleb may be a fragile heart transplant recipient, but he’s in his mid-forties at best.) As A Darkness More Than Night begins, his retirement is interrupted by an odd request from an old ex-colleague: Could he take a look at a bizarre unsolved case? Just a look, he’s promised, just his initial impressions…

    Of course, it’s never so simple. McCaleb may be retired, but the instincts that made of him such a superb criminal profiler haven’t gone away, and tracking down the mysteries of the murder end up being one of his biggest thrills in years. Alas, all the clues soon point to a certain Harry Bosch, currently in the news as the star prosecution witness of a high-profile murder trial…

    Soon enough, McCaleb and Bosch trade chapters in this two-ring circus of a crime novel. Has Bosch finally flipped out and killed a particularly troublesome criminal? Will McCaleb defy his wife, the police hierarchy and even the reader’s wishes in getting to the end of the case? As with most Connelly stories, there are less coincidences here than it may appear at first glance, and the pleasure of the novel isn’t in figuring out if Bosch did it at much as seeing Connelly tell the real story.

    The big innovation here, of course, is seeing Bosch through the eyes of another character. McCaleb is more intelligent than Bosch, but not as smart. The two detectives have different styles, and using McCaleb’s power of intellectual detection against a street-savvy character like Bosch can provide illumination for both. Bosch, seen from the outside, is a far scarier man than we’re used to. We know enough about his past that the idea of him killing a suspect isn’t so far-fetched… and Connelly does his best to play on this ambiguity. McCaleb’s character also emerges from the novel as a stronger, more interesting character. Untied from the plot mechanics of Blood Work, he ends up being a formidable investigator on his own.

    But as it happens, A Darkness More Than Night is more than the union of Blood Works with the rest of the Bosch story line: it ends up tying together all of the Connelly oeuvre so far: Connelly faithfuls will be rewarded by a secondary role for The Poet‘s Jack McEvoy and by a repeated wink to Void Moon‘s Thelma Kibble. The Connollyverse is in full formation, and it wouldn’t be surprising to see all of those characters work together again at some point.

    As usual, all of the qualities of Connelly’s fiction are to be found here: limpid prose, sympathetic characters, exceptional details, an excellent sense of Los Angeles’ fun-house perceptions and a twisty accumulation of revelations and counter-revelations.

    After the slight side-step of Void Moon, it’s good to see Connelly tackle another full-blown police procedural with such style and panache. The idea of using a character to investigate another proves to be a very clever idea and a triumphant return to form for Connelly. Meanwhile, my Michael Connelly Reading project continues, and there’s still not a bad book in the series so far.

  • Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, J.K. Rowling

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    Raincoast, 2007, 607 pages, C$45.00 hc, ISBN 978-1-551-92976-7

    I’m going to miss the little wizard.

    Oh, I’ve never been much of a Potterphile: I’ve been quite happy to read the books right after the movie adaptations come out, and if I have generally enjoyed the tales so far, I’ve left to my siblings the pleasure of obsessing about the series and going out to the midnight events celebrating the release of the series. I probably won’t read the last book until the release of the film sometimes in 2009-2010.

    But sometimes, you don’t need to read a book in order to review it. Regarding Harry Potter 7, I have gleefully spoiled myself rotten, starting by reading the leaked epilogue and going on to query people who have read the book as well as reading tons of spoilerrific discussions. I can tell you who dies, who married who and the reasons why the epilogue may or may not please readers. I may not have read the series so far, but I certainly know where it’s going, and it doesn’t take much more than that to bloviate about the series.

    So, first up: That seventh volume pretty much goes through the expected motions, doesn’t it? There’s little in here that’s genuinely shocking. The generally amiable tone of the series is darkened but preserved, and if a few minor characters die, well, it’s just to show that Rowling has raised the stakes a bit. Of the main characters, there’s little surprise in who dies and who ends up snogging who. Though I’m disappointed to learn that my long-awaited Harry/Draco fist-fight never happens, the rest is pretty much by the numbers, up to and including the not-really-murder of You-Know-Who by You-Know-Who-Else.

    As for the epilogue, well, I’m usually the last one to complain about heteronormativity, but using “they all got married” as a shorthand for “they lived happily ever after” has always struck me as a bit easy. It’s even worse considering that just about everyone marries people they met in high school: can you imagine being stuck in a universe where that was true? The English wizard world is a bit inbred, isn’t it? Goodness forbid Harry should find a hot non-British witch to woo if he is to maintain the purity of English wizardry. (And what’s up with Cho’s puff-like disappearance from the series? Oh, OK, never mind.)

    But generally speaking, it looks as if that seventh volume is what fans expected, so that’s that.

    It may be more fun to discuss the series’ lasting impact. The Potter series has been a publishing phenomenon beyond measure: It was an experience to go though Ottawa’s biggest bookstore on the eve of Volume Seven’s launch to find the store re-done in Potter regalia, along with a bunch of customers and employees dressed up for the occasion. “This feels like a science-fiction convention”, I said to the cashier who seemed to understand what I was talking about.

    Trying to explain why the series took off involves a conjunction of events and narrative hooks that may not be repeatable. The universality of the series’s premise is wonderful, and so was its ability to expand in a world that was much more complete than the first book suggested. (Though I’d love to study the changes made mid-way through the series.) The vast cast of characters meant that there was something for everyone, and the evolving maturity of the series also meant that the book could appeal to kids as they grew older.

    Ironically, I think that “for the kids” label of the series explained why it reached so many people. The clear prose presented no reading challenge, and the parents could hop along the series alongside the kids. More broadly speaking, I think that the “you know, for the kids” appeal of the Harry Potter universe freed parents to enjoy the fantasy trapping without self-consciousness. Beyond the habitual fantasy readers, adults could just show up on the bus or at the office with the latest Potter book and no one batted an eye. There’s probably a lesson in there for expanding the fantasy readership, but I don’t think anyone inside the SF&F community paid any attention to what it was.

    I’m also wondering if the Potter Craze was well-timed alongside the Lord of the Ring mania of 2001-2003, or the Star Wars Episodes craziness of 1999-2003. More than anything else, I keep hoping that something will manage to catch similar broad attention. Potter may have been the 800-pound gorilla in the fantasy field, but he’s been useful in decrazifying the image of the average fantasy reader. Yes, it’s “for the kids”, but you won’t find too many people saying that it was “just for kids”. As the wonderfully cool concept of people lining up at midnight to buy a fantasy book recedes in the rear-view mirror of 2007, I just realize again that I’ll miss the little wizard.

  • Crooked Little Vein, Warren Ellis

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    Morrow, 2007, 280 pages, C$27.95 hc, ISBN 978-0-06-072393-4

    It’s been a long time since I’ve read Warren Ellis’ blog, but it had one feature that I remember clearly. Once every few days, a link called “Don’t click here!” would appear. These days, “Don’t click” is usually an invitation to see how jaded you can be. Thanks to the Internet, everyone now think that they’ve seen more of human perversion than the Marquis de Sade himself. Well, Warren Ellis meant it when he tells people not to click. Goatse is mere fluffy comfort compared to what he proposed under those links. Most people learned quickly that if Warren Ellis said not to click, you didn’t click.

    For more than a decade, Ellis has written almost exclusively for comic books, racking such hits as Transmetropolitan and becoming something of a net.personality thanks to his work and an active on-line presence. His prose fiction debut, Crooked Little Vein, was eagerly anticipated. Would the book live up to the hype?

    I can probably answer that question with two words: Godzilla Bukkake.

    • If you don’t know those words, Warren Ellis isn’t for you, and I’m not the one who’s going to explain what they mean. (Also: You’ll regret knowing. Don’t click!)
    • If you know those words and recoil at the thought that they could be combined, Warren Ellis and Crooked Little Vein aren’t for you. But at least you already know that.
    • If you know those words and wonder (maybe queasily) how they could follow one another, get Crooked Little Vein and turn to chapter 4. Your questions will be answered. In detail.
    • If you’re hollering and clapping “Godzilla Bukkake! Hell, yeah!”, you probably read the novel before I did. (Also; please stay at some distance until I get to know you better.)

    To see a pope of pop perversion like Ellis turn to novel-length fiction is fascinating on many levels: How will his sensibilities adapt to prose? How will he handle the structural demands of a novel relative to comics? Would be he able to sustain a narrative over hundreds of pages? (Albeit barely: I’d be surprised if the book goes much longer than 50,000 words.)

    The answer is surprising in its cleverness. First, Ellis takes on a standard boilerplate noir template to kick off the action: His narrator is a hard-boiled Private Investigator who’s asked to find an important national relic. Michael McGill is a protagonist living out of his time: He may be in 2006, but he truly belongs to the classical pulp era. His ability to attract the weirdest elements of contemporary society is a handy excuse for Ellis to trot out the worst of what he can find on the Internet, but it also sets up the novel’s examination of what’s weird. The stated assumption, at least at the beginning of the narrative, is that America has lost its way. That the ills of American society are caused by permissiveness and encouraged by the broad availability of amoral depictions.

    But from this hard-boiled premise, Ellis turns to the road novel as inspiration. Chapter by chapter, McGill heads west from New York to (inevitably) Los Angeles. Every step along the way, he meets richer and more amoral characters. From Godzilla Bukkake, we go to genital saline injections, naked animal wrestling, Jesus-themed sex toys and even worse. I would say that delicate natures should abstain, but that should be obvious by now. But it also minimizes the fact that the novel is very funny. McGill’s narration is impeccable, and his mixture of world-weariness and “you’ve got to be kidding me” bewilderment at what he sees is the perfect middle ground for the readers.

    What doesn’t work so well, as the book advances, is the false conflict between America’ “new perversion” and McGill’s so-called conservatism, as given voice by arguments between McGill and the female side-kick that follows him along his trip through darkest America. Ellis is too obviously fond of off-beat weirdness to be truly impartial in the matter, and the two or three plot beats that depend on McGill being an old-fashioned moral beacon in face of contrary evidence don’t really work. The conclusion is entirely expected: Much like Jerry Springer’s series is surprisingly moral under the freak show veneer, so is Crooked Little Vein once you accept the idea that unusual acts between consensual adults can be no one else’s business. It’s interesting to see, late in the book, where Ellis ends up drawing the line between good and bad behaviour. Morality is about people being hurt, not about people being vicariously shocked or offended.

    But if trying to fit Ellis’ novel in an analysis of contemporary morality may be fun for budding sociologists, it’s not where the true worth of the novel truly lies: Crooked Little Vein is the type of vibrant little novel made for the comic-book generation, a short trip through a fun-house world that first wants to entertain its target audience. I have already met people who couldn’t finish the novel, and that’s OK: Much like more of Ellis’ work so far, Crooked Little Vein is bound to offend (or disgust) just about every reader at some point. It’s hardly perfect as a sustained narrative (the episodic structure is transparent, and some passages feel forced into the story, such as the plane ride with Falconer in Chapter 42), but it’s a lightning-fast read and a delicious summer treat for jaded readers.

    Just make sure that you really want to “Click here”.

    Not a review

  • A Just Determination, John G. Hemry

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    Ace, 2003, 259 pages, C$9.99 mmpb, ISBN 0-441-01052-0

    In this cheery twenty-first century where everyone’s interests are being thrown in a swirling melting pot, it may be not be a surprise to find authors attempting unusual genre combinations. Military Science-Fiction has long been a staple, but what about judicial military SF? In this first volume in the “JAG in Space” series, John G. Hemry ends up writing an unambitious, but remarkably enjoyable hybrid of three flavours that, all things considered, go well together.

    A Just Determination begins in 2099, just as newly-minted Ensign Paul Sinclair steps upon the USS Michaelson, a warship (“Long Endurance Cruiser”) protecting U.S. interests in space. As you would expect from the first book in a military SF series, the narrative first dedicates itself to the introduction of the characters, from protagonist Sinclair himself, to the chain of command above him and the other members of the Michaelson. There are a lot of characters, so the time it takes to introduce them all isn’t insignificant. It takes chapters before the action properly starts, but that’s not a big problem: Hemry’s clear prose is readable enough, and Sinclair’s early trials in space are the kind of stuff that will quickly charm readers.

    But the emphasis of the series is different from that of most military SF novel. This “Novel of Universal Law” is far more interested in the mechanics of a military spaceship than in big action scenes or cheap political points. Hemry is a career military officer, and it shows: His depiction of military minds and protocols is surprisingly engaging, and should appeal to readers of all political orientations. As Sinclair learns how to do his job (which includes an unwelcome judiciary dimension, as he’s designated the ship’s lone legal officer) and as the minutia of shipboard life is explained, it feels as if we’re given a tour of life in the military.

    It’s no accident if the Science Fiction angle ends up being the weakest of A Just Determination‘s blending of genres. The USS Michaelson is very obviously a United States warship, which not only provides a solid grounding for readers, but also enables Hemry to use established US naval traditions and procedures as a given for his action. You could easily take the bones of this novel and re-cast them in a current-day technothriller without unduly harming it.

    On the other hand, the military and legal aspects of the novel are non-removable, especially when the main plot of the novel kicks in: During patrol, the Michaelson ends up firing on an unarmed research vessel from “the other side”. The captain of the ship is soon slated for a court-martial, leaving Sinclair to contemplate whether this is a fair trial, or a simple scapegoating exercise. Despite his personal dislike of the man, will Sinclair be able to do his duty and speak the truth?

    If that sounds like a dull and low-stakes plot, you’re not entirely mistaken: A Just Determination is not a novel of intricate twists and sudden revelations. The events unfold evenly, at an expected pace that will shock no one. This is a procedural novel, maybe even a didactic one: Hemry’s goal seems to be to explain why military procedures are the way they are, and find where personal responsibility lies in the grey areas where no one is a hero or a villain. Readers used to more high-octane action may balk, but they’re going themselves a disservice: Hemry’s first “JAG in Space” volume is a compulsively readable, even charming piece of pure military fiction. The characters are well handled, the prose is clean and the procedural approach to military justice leads to some terrific courtroom sequences.

    While it’s true that some characters are too quickly sketched, or that Sinclair’s internal narration is often too one-the-nose, this has little impact of the novel’s overall effect. A Just Determination‘s simple plot allows Hemry to focus his message and wrap it up in a judicious amount of characterization. Readers who think they’ve given up on military fiction may want to take a look at this one: above-average verisimilitude is a welcome breath of fresh air after far too many alien-shoot’em-up tripe. Though I started the series with only the first two volumes in hand, I quickly went out and purchased the third and fourth volumes. Stay tuned for the next adventures of Paul Sinclair, military lawyer in spaaace!

  • Dexta, C.J. Ryan

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    Bantam Spectra, 2005, 451 pages, C$10.99 mmpb, ISBN 0-553-58776-5

    It’s summer and I’m mellow, and that just may be the only reason why I’m still amused by C.J. Ryan’s generally deplorable Dexta. Some books are mesmerizing because it’s hard to believe how ludicrous they are, and Dexta falls squarely in that category. I suspect that the story of how that book was purchased, edited and marketed by Bantam Spectra is a lot more interesting than Dexta itself.

    Where to start? Oh, I know: Let’s first tackle the irony of purchasing this book.

    You see, I’ve been feeling guilty of not reading enough female authors. I thought I’d make an effort and so purchased two unknown SF novels by an equally unknown “C.J. Ryan”. In Science Fiction and Fantasy, first initials are often a reliable indicator of female authors: From C.J Cherryh to J.K. Rowling, many female authors were/are advised to use initials as so to “not scare off the boys”. I assumed that this would be the same and thought I’d bravely do my part to support SF written by women.

    How hilariously wrong this would turn out to be.

    Dexta takes place in a universe a thousand years in the future, at a time where the human empire reigns supreme over thousands of planets. Naturally, such machinery of government requires a bureaucracy, and it’s the lower rungs of the Department of Extraterrestrial Affairs (Dexta) that we find our heroine, Gloria VanDeen. As the manager of a handful of planets, it’s her job to solve the problem when extraterrestrial natives take up arms against their human masters.

    So far, so dull: there isn’t much here to distinguish the premise from countless other mid-list SF novels. One would think that a twenty-first century SF novel with this conventional starting point would use it as a pedestal from which to question the assumptions of imperialism, or as a framework on which to hang the weirdness of a very different future. But I don’t think anyone could have predicted where C.J. Ryan would take this novel. Because within pages, it’s clear that Dexta has taken a turn for the bizarre.

    There’s the power-fantasy element, for instance. Not only is Gloria VanDeen a living DNA-sculpted goddess (perfect “coffee with a little cream” skin, “gracefully flowing blond tresses the colour of honey”, “intense sky-blue” eyes, “high and broad” cheekbones, etc. [all P.16]), but she is the emperor’s ex-wife and is succeeding brilliantly in Dexta despite a rough first year.

    How rough? That’s where Dexta really dives into bizarro-land. As described in the novel, Dexta’s environment is so competitive that its inner rules allow for rough play and aggression at the lower levels of its hierarchy. Quoting the book’s logic, “sexual harassment and intimidation were simply part of the game at Dexta” [P.53] Chapter 4 describes an organization so fundamentally dysfunctional that it suggests an elaborate satire: “Sleeping with a superior at Dexta was a normal and accepted part of life… there were no formal rules governing sex at Dexta, but everyone knew what was expected.” [P.58] There is some thin justification about how Dexta discourages its lower-level employees from forming stable relationships with people outside Dexta, but the damage is done: There’s no way such an organization (one financed with public money, no less) could hope to exist a long time.

    Described like this, from afar, this could be satire… if only it was written as such. There is a very long sequence describing the “Dexta Bestiary” [P.49-53] that feels like an inner-office joke taken too far and then taken seriously for the rest of the novel. What little we get in term of self-awareness about Dexta’s dysfunction comes very late in the novel, as the heroine is basically told “ha-ha, you passed our hazing rituals!” Every character’s mention is tagged with his or her level within the Dexta Bureaucracy, which is obviously very important in the scheme of things. Chapter 4 sets up a particular gag: “Assault was forbidden against either a superior or a subordinate. But staffers at the same level could and often did resolve disputes through sheer force. [P.51] You won’t be surprised to learn that it lead to a good old-fashioned cat-fight in Chapter 20: “You’re a Thirteen, I’m a Thirteen… if we can’t resolve our differences calmly and rationally, Dexta has a time-honoured alternative” [P.316].

    But that’s small potatoes compared to the fascination that the author seems to have for describing what little clothing Gloria chooses to wear. It may seem like an exaggeration to say that her physical appearance or wardrobe is lauded every five pages, but let me just go through pages 100-120:

    • “[He] noticed Gloria. Her ran his eyes over her quickly.” [p.103]
    • “…a wide, plunging neckline that left her breast almost completely uncovered”. [p.105],
    • “Ah, ladies, he cried, you look exquisite.” [P.106]
    • “…those tits of yours won’t get me babbling the way they did with young Olivera.” [p.109],
    • “Standing before the mirror, she pulled some fabric farther apart, completely exposing her nipples.” [P.113]
    • “Gloria… I appreciate your interest, and under any other circumstances, I would appreciate the excellent view of your breasts” [P.114]
    • “She was wearing a loose, nearly transparent white shirt, unbuttoned and knotted at the waist, and… denim blue jeans. Gloria’s were tight and rode low on her hips, a fetching five inches below her navel.” [P.117]

    Throughout the novel, we’re told all about her outfits, her hair, her curves, the way he adjust her clothes to be nearly transparent, or how she makes strategic use of her pubic hair. I have quotes for that too: “She looked at herself in the closet mirror and saw that a single stray pubic hair was curling over the top of her skirt, golden and obvious against her cocoa-toned flesh. She rather liked the effect.” [P.60] Later: “Her blond pubic delta at the junction of her long, silken thighs, and her round, firm breasts were entirely uncovered. She stood before him and let him get as good a look as he wanted.” [P.324]

    The rare passages that aren’t from Gloria’s point of view are no better. Later in the book, a superior reads one of her memos and is impressed that “Her brains were obviously as good as her breasts” [P.374] A few pages later, the emperor himself gravely remarks “Did you see her? Did you see those tits of hers? How in hell can I compete with that?” [P.382]

    Hurrah for Gloria VanDeen, symbol of female empowerment.

    It may be meant as a Statement of some sort, but it frankly comes across as puerile and embarrassing. There’s a Mary-Sueish vibe to Gloria that gets stronger as the novel unfolds, along with an overall feel of creepy bafflement. Despite living in a society without nudity or sex taboos, Dexta’s male characters seem easily swayed by an attractive woman showing some skin and hinting at further carnal knowledge. It’s not only insulting: it’s bad writing and lazy plotting. Once, just once, I would have liked Gloria to face down a gay or happily married man who would just look at her and say “lady, you ain’t all
    that.”

    Throughout, Dexta teeters on the edge of being soft-core SF sex novel. Gloria has a fling with the emperor (her ex-husband), reflects on the many people she’s had to sleep with at Dexta, has a relationship with a handsome outdoors type, shows her body as a social favour to keep up the morale of the troops [P.355] and entraps an enemy by soliciting date rape. (“Gloria cried out involuntarily as he reached the blond tangle of her pubic mound. She felt his wet, slick tongue on her, and then his short, pudgy fingers, stroking and probing and finally penetrating her.” [P.328]) A powerful aphrodisiac is a key plot driver on both the meta and the micro level. Throughout the novel and despite the so-called permissiveness of Gloria’s universe, “having sex with” is a crude and constant shorthand for the fact that two characters have a strong relationship of some sort. Usually a relationship that works to one person’s advantage, or can be exploited by a third party.

    It gets better, or worse, late in the novel as Gloria arranges for storms to be transported around the planet. Whenever the torrential rain starts falling… she strips down naked and starts a good-natured mud fight with her female assistant in front of soldiers: “Gloria brought Petra down with a Qatsima move and both of them were soon rolling around in a puddle, shrieking and giggling madly. Gloria gained her vengeance, ripping Petra’s clothes off as the delighted Marines watched.” [P.360] I swear I’m not making any of this up, nor stealing from porn movie script. (For one thing, there are no lipstick lesbians here despite the girl-on-girl mud-wrestling: the vast majority of the actual or implied sexual relationships in Dexta are strictly heterosexual. It could be all of them, but I’m not re-reading the entire book to check.) A plot twist in the last few pages of the book has Gloria rewarded for refusing to sleep with a superior, but by that point we know what this novel is really about.

    So, soft-core porn or not? The excerpt speak for themselves, but if Dexta wanted to be a naughty care-free sex satire, it keeps misplaying in tone: As mentioned above, Dexta is heavy on coerced sexual relations, twisted power dynamics, attempted rape and a general feeling of distastefulness. Enough to darken any fun (or, heck, any arousal) one could get from the constant sexual content of the book.

    It’s hard to get a naughty thrill out of a novel that reads as if it came out of a cesspool of dominance power games. Dexta is a rude awakening for those who think that SF has become more sexually mature over the past few years: part of it read like adolescent fantasies, while others just make one reach for soap and a hard brush. Say, has anyone seen John Norman shopping a new Gor novel around lately?

    The emphasis on really stupid plot points is enough to make us think that yes this may be meant as a serious SF adventure novel. The background never holds up to scrutiny, and the details give the impression of a fake lazy future with no internal coherency. For instance: The native rebellion, set a thousand years in the future on a planet far away, relies on good old AK-47s. Manhattan/America is still the centre of human civilization. There are mentions of a brand-new religion called Spiritism that reaches “more than 70 percent of the Empire’s human population” despite doubts regarding its origin. But, hey, why worry since it has no nudity taboo and “no one had fought a religious war on Earth for more than a thousand years.” [P.32] Handy!

    And ooh, don’t get me started on the complete lack of perspective on the colonial imperialism issue, or the way the extraterrestrial natives are described as being small, furry, primitive, stupid and smelly. Just don’t.

    Other issues abound, but I’ll make an even bigger fool of myself if I kept treating this novel like a colourful piñata of silly treats. I’m sure that a Dexta fan, somewhere, can argue at length about how this isn’t meant to be taken seriously, shouldn’t be considered as anything but “good fun” and really doesn’t try to describe humanity as we know it. They’ll have a harder time convincing me that the novel is conventionally interesting: The obvious plot peters out and struggles to reach the finishing line. Without the naughty material, there wouldn’t be much to distinguish this book from countless other manuscripts languishing in the slush-pile.

    So that’ll do to explain why, despite enormous misgivings regarding just about every aspect of Dexta, I’ll hold off on calls for mass bonfires. It certainly had its entertainment value… though maybe not in the way that the author intended. On the other hand, Bantam Spectra has dirtied its hands by touching this novel: Dexta wouldn’t have been surprising as a self-published novel, but coming from what’s still known as a major publishing house, it’s an embarrassment. Who acquired this book? Who edited it? Who thought it would reflect well on the brand of the Rooster? I keep feeling there’s a heck of a story under the surface, a Big Name under the shadows or else an intricate joke that I can’t grasp at the moment. Did it, at the very least, sell?

    No one will be surprised to learn that C.J. Ryan was (and is still, two years later) a pseudonym for, and I quote from randomhouse.com, “an author who lives and works in Philadelphia” with no further detail except the added gender-specific note that 2007’s Burdens of Empire “is his fourth science fiction novel.” In a way, I’m happy for Ryan’s true name to remain shrouded in mystery. This way, we can project our own wishes on “his” identity, from a young inexperienced macho geek to a frustrated middle-aged government bureaucrat to a skilled feminist writer brilliantly undermining the clichés of misogynistic SF. I don’t know who C.J. Ryan is, and I’m not sure I want to know —though those things eventually come out sooner or later, often to everyone’s embarrassment.

    [August 2007: Glorious Treason, the sequel, really isn’t much better. It improves nothing (except for a lighter touch on the Dexta bestiary metaphors) and feels a lot uglier. It lazily re-uses a Gold Rush theme and setting without bothering to add SF elements, and barely delivers the outline of a thriller plot. On the other hand, almost all of the naughtiness of the book is tainted with either coercion or manipulation, leaving little harmless fun. The violence is harsher, the scenes generally duller and this time we know exactly what C.J. Ryan is all about… Frankly, there’s little to recommend here, and it will take a while before I even want to touch another Ryan novel.]

  • The Acme Novelty Library, Chris Ware

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    Pantheon, 2005, 110 pages, C$39.95 hc, ISBN 0-375-42295-1

    This may have been one of the most depressing books I’ve ever read.

    Anyone who’s seriously interested in comic books has known that the medium isn’t limited to happy happy stories. Many of the acknowledged classics of the genre, from Maus to Watchmen, have been grim and uncompromising. But few people can be as hilariously dark as Chris Ware and his ACME Novelty Library, and this collection shows why.

    There are, simply put, no heroes in Ware’s work. Every character is revealed to be weak, doomed, deluded or pathetic. Much like Robert Crumb’s work at its most unflinching, Ware has made it his mission to unbolt the little lies that we tell about ourselves. The effect for readers can be a lot like Douglas Adams’ Total Perspective Vortex, and just as shattering. Everyone sucks, and that’s life.

    In its blandest form, The Acme Novelty Library is a repackaged collection of Ware’s work. (Actually, its full title is The Acme Novelty Library Final Report to Shareholders and Rainy Day Saturday Afternoon Fun Book) Since the artist’s material appears in a variety of formats and venues, this doesn’t necessarily mean that the book will feel like a collection of already-seen pieces: if you don’t faithfully buy every issue of the “Acme Novelty Library” periodical (not necessarily available at your neighbourhood comic book shop), chances are that most of the material will be original to most readers. Better yet: Ware has adapted the material in the book, making it feel like a more unified creation.

    Not enough good things can be said about the design of the book. Produced as an oversized “poster-book” hardcover, The Acme Novelty Library is beautifully packaged, leaving little detail to chance. Every aspect of the physical object has been pored over: It features a gilded cover, a comic strip on the edge of the book, another one on the back of the (glued) bandoleer, full colour pages, a glow-in-the-dark astronomical chart as well as cut-and-paste paper-craft projects. Every single page has been filled with material, requiring some deft physical manipulation to twist one’s way through reading all of the content. Ware is a perfectionist’s perfectionist, and the care with which he has designed the book is obvious throughout. Much like McSweeney’s 13, also designed by Ware, The Acme Novelty Library is sure to become a standout piece of show-and-tell whenever guests come over to take a look at your library.

    Whether you’ll let them read the book is another matter. People undergoing depressions, comic fansboys and fragile natures may want to stay well away from The Acme Novelty Library until they feel better about life, the universe and everything else. Every single character in the book’s numerous strips is repelled, deluded or fated to a lonely death. (Loneliness is a big theme for Ware; so is death. Lonely deaths inevitably follow.) Despite the awe-inspiring layout of some pages (just have a look at the “Big Tex” strips on page 33 and 40), there’s a profound sense of misery here. Characters do nasty things to each other, are fated to repeat their failures, and can’t communicate effectively with each other. It’s easy to pinpoint unmarried obsessive comic-book collector “Chester Brown” as the saddest character of the lot, but being married and mature is not much better in Ware’s view of the world: The “Chalky White” strip on page 97 is heart-breaking in how it shows how even the best-natured characters can be misunderstood by the ones they love. Even moronic “Big Tex” is doomed to an inglorious end, surrounded by hostile family members and fated to a vegetative state. And that’s if you do have family members: most of Ware’s characters are stuck alone in joyless surroundings, often self-exiled away from the rest of the world. It doesn’t take much to identify with them. I may not be a comic-book collector, but am I necessarily more aware of my place in the world than Chester Brown’s deluded obsessiveness with useless trinkets? Don’t answer that.

    Ironically, some of the funniest material in the book appears in written format, as satirical advertisement tearing down consumerism, American foreign policy or just plain obsessive collecting. There’s a vivid, chameleon-like quality to Ware’s writing. It’s no exaggeration that he packs more funny text in one oversize page than other writers manage to cram in entire prose chapters. My advice: Read the text whenever the comics get too depressing.

    And yet, The Acme Novelty Library isn’t a dreary piece of work. Wickedly funny, strongly heartfelt despite what initially looks like a mechanical drawing style, it pushes back the limits of what we expect comics to do, and packs an emotional wallop. I’ll gladly lend you my copy… and provide my phone number in case you need to talk to someone.

    [August 2007: As improbable as it may seem, Jimmy Corrigan, the Smartest Boy on Earth is even more depressing than The Acme Novelty Library. Far less amusing, it’s a 300+ pages exploration of loneliness and despair, set against four generations of losers. It’s enough to make you consider suicide, if only for the characters of the book. In some ways, Jimmy Corrigan is pure genius: it tackles issues seldom confronted and nails them with sharp accuracy. In other ways, it’s like being stuck in someone else’s nightmare for a few hours. The few sympathetic characters are shunted away, and even the two glimmers of hope at the end of the book are carefully hidden under uncut pages. Even the flow of the art seems deliberately clunky, which I blame on either the original publication constraints of the story, or a willingness to deliberately trip the reader. At least the typical design touches so characteristic of Ware’s work are everywhere to be found, and add a bit of interest to a profoundly unpleasant experience. It’s a piece of art all right; but it certainly won’t please everyone.]

  • Point of Impact, Stephen Hunter

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    Bantam, 1993, 569 pages, C$10.99 mmpb, ISBN 0-553-56351-3

    It’s commonplace to say that movie adaptation are a chance to re-interpret the material to another medium’s strengths, but it struck me while reading Point of Impact that adaptations are also a form of wide-screen literary criticism. Everyone can read a book and complain about the lengths, the characterization, the ending and the hundred of other choices made by the authors. But who can actually do something about it? Who can authorize radical changes to a story that has already been published? When you realize that the audience for the most average Hollywood blockbusters is an order of magnitude bigger than even New York Times bestsellers, it’s no exaggeration that filmmakers can forever change the perception of a given story. Maybe even improve it, if they know what they’re doing. Have you tried reading Mario Puzo’s The Godfather lately?

    Point of Impact was finally adapted to the big screen in 2007 as SHOOTER after fourteen years on bookshelves. Director Antoine Fuqua transformed Stephen Hunter’s potboiler thriller into a decent action/adventure film that wasted little time and delivered the expected thrills. But it wasn’t a transparent adaptation: a number of details were updated, simplified or changed, and it can instructive to study what has been changed, and why.

    The basic premise remains the same: a retired top sniper called Bob Lee Swagger is called back in service to counter a possible assassination plot against the president of the United States. Unbeknownst to him, his counter-sniping groundwork ends up forming the plan for a true assassination, and he is framed for the attempt. Running for his life, Swagger has to uncover those who played him, clear his name and take revenge. Both the ex-wife of his deceased partner and a disgraced FBI agent end up playing a parts in the events that follow.

    One of the most dramatic change from the book to the movie has been the update of all temporal references. In the 1993 novel, Swagger was a retired Vietnam veteran tied to a plot linked to Central America. In the 2007 film, Swagger is a recent veteran of dirty little wars in Africa, which also ends up being a part of the overall true conspiracy. In order to be played by Mark Wahlberg, SHOOTER’s Swagger is younger, and the events of his personal history have been compressed to only a few years of back-story. Also much younger is sidekick FBI agent Nick Memphis: In an effort to streamline the film, a fairly important subplot about a botched hostage rescue attempt and its consequences has been excised from Memphis’ history, with little adverse consequences.

    Also simplified are Point of Impact‘s main claim to fame as a thriller: Its detailed and lucid description of the art of sniping. Hunter has obviously done his homework in studying the field of precision shooting: The novel is crammed with details about the rifles, the techniques and the shooters themselves. One of the blurbs on the back cover of the paperback edition of the book says that “Stephen Hunter has done for the rifle what Tom Clancy did for the nuclear submarine” and they’re not kidding: Point of Impact is mesmerizing in no small part thanks to the slew of references, lore and little quirks about this specialized field, and the result will certainly appeal to all techno-thriller fans. Perhaps inevitably, this aspect of the novel isn’t carried over to the film, something that will benefit readers tackling the novel after being impressed by the movie.

    One area in which the film does complicate matters is in describing the conspiracy facing Swagger. The Clinton-era book limits itself to rogue elements operating at arm’s length from the government’s intelligence agencies. In the film, reflecting the prevailing winds of the Bush administration, the conspiracy is far more pernicious as it reaches up to the Senate and diffuses loosely in the American “military-industrial” complex. The book ends up with a decisive victory; the film, with a quixotic revenge fantasy.

    But the film at least has the good sense to wrap the action quickly, boiling down a length courtroom epilogue into a short, sharp and hugely enjoyable confrontation in an FBI briefing room. The main point is the same, but it’s handled far more efficiently.

    And that may end up forming the epitaph of every competent adaptation: “Faster, more efficient, more intense” is what’s needed to boil down a satisfying 550+ pages novel into a movie that fits within two hours. If you’re worried about the movie’s simplification, stop hyperventilating: the book is still available, and it’s very entertaining even for those who have seen the movie.

    [August 2007: Black Light is not just a sequel to Point of Impact, but also to Hunter’s Dirty White Boys. Bringing together events and characters from both books, Black Light is smaller in scale and more intimate in tone. Here, the conspiracies take place on a rural level, involving secrets buried for decades. Swagger is once again teamed with a younger, less knowledgeable partner and their quest for the truth takes them in unexpected places as the twists keep piling up. While it’s pleasant to see so many red herrings and plot complications, the conspiracies-over-conspiracies that end up defining daddy Swagger’s death also stretch credibility, even as they allow the book to go back to the sniping theme of the original. Fortunately, Hunter’s prose is readable, the characters have their own appeal (even the antagonist is a likable operator), and no one will feel cheated by the ending. More sniping tactical tricks will appeal to fans of the first volume. On the other hand, it is a bit of a let-down after the large scale of Point of Impact, and is best reserved to fans of Hunter’s entire body of work.]

  • Under my Roof, Nick Mamatas

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    Soft Skull, 2007, 151 pages, C$15.95 tpb, ISBN 978-1-933368-43-6

    Nick Mamatas has long been known for being an iconoclastic Internet personality, and his fiction is no different. Would you , for instance, expect his latest novel to be a young adult novel promoting the joys of home-built nuclear weaponry and secession from the United States?

    Well, maybe. After all, Mamatas’ first novel-length book was Move Under Ground, a horror-story retelling of Kerouac’s On The Road featuring elements of the Cthulhu mythos. After that, no one can really predict what Mamatas will write next.

    Suffice to say that the subject matter isn’t the only difference between Move Under Ground and this new book. From the dense Kerouac pastiche, Mamatas switches gears to deliver a chatty first-person narration from a telepathic twelve year-old (he’s not smart; he just reads smart people’s minds). The first chapter is a little gem as young Herbert Weinberg describes how his father manages to build a home-made atomic bomb from dumpster-diving and mail-order material. (I’ve been lucky enough to hear Mamatas read the first chapter at a Chicago event; it was hard not to imagine his voice narrating the rest of the novel.)

    It’s a good start, but the rest of the book quickly heads in meatier territory. Now equipped with a nuclear deterrent, the Weinbergian household declares independence from the US and, thanks to the wonders of the Internet, eventually finds traction for its claims. The US government, not to mention Herbert’s mom, don’t find this funny or acceptable: the rest of the novel is concerned about Weinbergia’s attempts to remain independent, Herbert’s efforts in making sense of the situation and the reader’s delight in finding where Mamatas is taking the novel.

    To say that it’s meant as satire is to understate the tone of the novel. But there’s a real message under each joke, and Under My Roof goes much farther than expected in its exploitation of its theme. Nationhood, suggests Mamatas, is a consensual illusion. It just takes a few denials to put it at risk. And if that’s subversive, well, why not?

    Still, it’s possible to read through the novel and not think about the deeper issues: the prose is deceptively easy, and the pacing just keeps going. I’m not so fond of the last act (which seems to diffuse the narrative build-up and then scatter in multiple directions), but Mamatas is a writer who seems to spend a lot more time thinking about prose than about plot: complaining about the structure of the book is missing the point of it.

    It’s not as if there isn’t much more to enjoy. Mamatas credibly describes the mechanics of nuclear secession, imagining the media circus, practical issues and political repercussions of such an event with wonderful small details and plenty of quick jokes. Much like the Atkins diet, secession quickly becomes a popular fad and narrator Herbert is in the middle of the attention storm. Given everything else going on, will he have time to grow up?

    There’s a lot to like about Under My Roof, from the narrator to the satire to the understanding that Mamatas can write whatever he wants and it’s going to be worth reading. What are you waiting for? Under My Roof is short enough to be read in one lazy sitting, and it’s going to stick in your mind. If you’re really smart, you’ll even lend it to the brightest twelve-year old you know, and see what he does with it. Just don’t lend him your credit card, and start paying attention if he goes out and purchases a garden gnome.

  • In the Hall of the Martian King, John Barnes

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    Warner Aspect, 2003, 294 pages, C$9.99 mmpb, ISBN 0-446-61083-6

    Well, it had to happen. After two books of generally likable action and adventure featuring young adult protagonist Jak Jinnaka, Barnes finally drops the hammer on his characters in the second half of In the Hall of the Martian King. Happy Barnes characters are generally an anomaly: sooner or later, the real world comes calling.

    If you’re familiar with the rebellious, rabble-rousing Jak Jinnaka, the first few pages of this third volume are a bit of a shock: Jak seems to have settled down and is using his skills for a good cause. He’s now a capable bureaucrat stationed in Martian orbit, tasked with the mission of keeping things together just as his boss goes away on an extended holiday. From an undisciplined teen, Jak has now embraced responsibility and supervisory duties. All is well, except for one small archaeological discovery.

    One tiny, insignificant unearthing of the all-encompassing “lifelog” of a major religious figure. An object that everyone wants, regardless of political authority. Before the end of the fourth chapter, Jak is already making end-runs around his own bureaucracy, setting plans in motion to capture the log for his true employers. If he could just be left alone, things would unfold smoothly. Alas, before even realizing it, Jak is surrounded by a menagerie of friends, fools, enemies and ex-lovers. His capabilities as a bureaucrat are taxed as he’s got to spend more time protecting an ignorant aristocrat against his worst instincts than successfully leading the diplomatic negotiations required to secure the artifact.

    This first half of the novel is very, very enjoyable. It’s easily one of the highlights of the series so far: There’s a pleasant “lone competent man against the universe” feel to this section, one that brings to mind Keith Laumer’s “Retief” series of adventures. Barnes takes on the tone of a farce, and seeing Jak trying to keep all the spinning plates from crashing into the ground is hilarious. Nearly all of the series’ recurring characters are brought together in a tiny space, and the various plots and counter-plots are a delight to follow.

    But pretty soon, even the fanciest diplomatic footwork can’t substitute for direct action. And this is where, true to the series’ structure so far, things change. Every book of the Jak Jinnaka series so far has been divided in two distinct sections, and the division in this third volume is more dramatic than most: The action spins out of control, and even a satisfying victory turns to a nightmare when one recurring character is killed.

    This also marks he shift in tone from a lighthearted farce to a steely-eyed political thriller. Jak has to deal with his grief, settle a few unresolved issues, face down the web of manipulation in which he’s been snared and look at a world that’s much meaner than he expected. The conclusion of the entire story has resonance with John Le Carré’s implacable tales of realpolitik in which bad things happen to people who are worth more dead than alive. This leads Jak ready to face more adventures (as yet unwritten), but those are likely to be a touch darker in tone.

    Fortunately, it’s not all gloom and depression for most of the book’s duration. Barnes’ strong narrative skills keep the book rolling along, and the verve of his prose once again bring to mind the usual comparisons with Heinlein. Barnes, though, has a stronger grasp of socio-political issues, and In The Hall of the Martian King is just as adept as its predecessors at integrating cool ideas with the flow of the story. The “Wager” of Jak’s universe is finally explained, with potentially wide-reaching consequences for upcoming books in the series.

    Despite the abrupt turns in tone, and the growing darkness of the universe, the Jak Jinnaka series has been a terrific trilogy so far, and shows ample potential for further volumes. Barnes just has to write them; I’ll be there to buy them.

  • Void Moon, Michal Connelly

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    Little Brown, 2000, 391 pages, C$34.00 hc, ISBN 0-316-15406-7

    Every other book, Michael Connelly takes a break from his best-known protagonist Harry Bosch and does something else. Often, those “off books” end up being some of his best work: The Poet, featuring a journalist stuck in a serial murderer investigation, was widely hailed as one of Connelly’s best work. Blood Work, about an FBI profiler recovering from a heart transplant, was adapted to the big screen by Clint Eastwood and ended up becoming one of Connelly’s best-known books. At a time where repetition is the biggest artistic enemy of the best-selling author, Connelly is playing it smart and stretching creative muscles on his own schedule.

    Now, with Void Moon, Connelly steps away from procedural investigations and tackles both a very different character, and a slightly different style. For the first time, he features a female protagonist and tackles a story that feels like a thriller. Better yet: This time, the characters are not on the right side of the law.

    First up is Cassie Black, an ex-con who’s trying to rebuild a good life in Los Angeles after a few years inside. But living above ground isn’t easy, especially when something she holds dear is about to leave forever. Pushed by desperation, Cassie goes back to her former handler and volunteers for one last job. Just one more score, for the money. It turns out that there is such a job available to her: a simple casino client robbery in Las Vegas. Routine stuff for Cassie, who knows more about robbery than entire police departments. But this being a Connelly novel, things don’t go as planned, and the first part of Void Moon ends with her raising a gun at her victim…

    Only to cut to another character: Jack Karch, a Las Vegas native who has made such a routine out of burying people in the desert that they call him the “Jack of Spades”. Jack is a casino executioner: he’ll handle whatever needs to be handled. So when a murdered clients is discovered in his hotel, he’s put on the case. Pretty soon, he realizes that his client was no simple client, and that powerful people really want to recover the briefcase that we was carrying around.

    As it happens, Cassie and Jack know each other: Years before, it’s in no small part thanks to Jack that Cassie’s life was destroyed. As Jack tracks down Cassie again, the question arises: Is this time for Cassie’s revenge, or for Jack to finish what he started? Desperate, cut off from the legal world and hunted down step by step, Cassie will have to be resourceful in order to set things right… that is, if she opts for doing the right thing.

    The morally tainted protagonist and utterly ruthless antagonist are part of what make Void Moon different from the author’s other books, but it’s more interesting to look at what still makes it a Connelly novel. Nobody will be surprised to learn that his prose is just as compelling here than in his earlier books: Void Moon starts rapidly and keeps roaring along, carrying readers well past their bed-times. Connelly’s gift for procedural descriptions is just as good here than ever before: Not only does he detail how Cassie is able to get and deploy high-tech gadgets to perform her robbery (“All surveillance technology described in the book actually exists and is available to the public” adds Connelly in his acknowledgements), but he follows Jack as he tracks down the clues leading to Cassie. This PI-turned-bad sequence works just as well as Cassie’s segments, and leads to good confrontations between the two lead characters. Cassie may not be the purest of characters, but she’s more than sympathetic enough to make for a terrific protagonist: There is seldom a doubt as to where our sympathies must belong.

    And so it all amounts to a well-handled thriller. Though Void Moon doesn’t carry the extra kick of Connelly’s best novels, it’s a good reading experience and it does little to tarnish the Connelly brand name. Fans will be pleased to find a subtle link to the novel Trunk Music, suggesting that Bosch himself is not too far way.

    A minor but pleasant interlude in my Michael Connelly Reading Project (“One book per month, every month, until I’m caught up”), Void Moon is another proof that Connelly is one of the top crime writers in America right now. Even on holidays, he’s still as good as other writers at the top of their game. I don’t expect Cassie to disappear from the Connellyverse.

  • Brasyl, Ian McDonald

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    Pyr, 2007, 357 pages, C$31.00 hc, ISBN 978-1-59102-543-6

    It’s hard to over-state the impact that River of Gods has had on Ian McDonald’s career. A solid, but generally under-appreciated veteran author, McDonald suddenly became one of Science-Fiction’s hottest authors: The book was nominated for the Hugo Awards, earned effusive critical praise and was snapped up by Pyr for republication in the United States, rejuvenating McDonald’s American career years after Bantam Spectra’s unsuccessful efforts. Pyr and McDonald benefited a great deal from each other, which may serve to explain why his follow-up Brasyl ended up published in the United States by Pyr, to significant critical expectations.

    Like River of Gods, Brasyl is partly an attempt to recast familiar SF elements in new cultural environments. Surfing on the SF globalization wave first anticipated decades ago by Bruce Sterling’s Islands in the Net (and his own earlier books such as Evolution’s Shore), McDonald imagined a sprawling SF novel in India for River of Gods and now does the same for Brazil with his latest. In doing so, he takes conventional SF ideas and restates them in a setting that is different in time and culture. The impact is more profound that one could think: River of Gods felt fresh and invigorating because it looked at familiar SF clichés from a different angle of interest, a particularity that added to McDonald’s usually strong narrative and characterization skills.

    Brasyl is not River of Gods Part 2, but it’s definitely in the same vein. Here, somber quantum mechanics conspiracies unite three different sub-plots, taking place at three different eras in Brazil’s history. But whereas River of Gods was massive and sprawling, Brasyl is dynamic and sprightly. This is not the same country, this is not the same culture, and this is not even the same prose: Brasyl‘s McDonald is nervy, fast and not particularly concerned by good grammatical form: He gets away with fragmented sentences that mix Brazilian speech with hi-tech slang and dispenses with commas. Reading Brasyl is, at times, like being stuck in a whirlwind of cultural and technical references that all accumulate to give the prose a dense texture that has a unique quality of its own. Beautifully written, Brasyl is another one of those contemporary SF novels that proves without discussion that cool techno stuff isn’t necessarily incompatible with fantastic prose.

    But even that prose style deliberately varies throughout the book: Divided in three temporal streams, Brasyl simultaneously takes place in Brazil’s past, present and future. The current subplot concerns a reality-TV show producer who comes to realize that a Doppelgänger is ruining her life. Meanwhile in the eighteenth century, a Jesuit operative must go up the Amazon to find a renegade priest. Finally, a small-time hustler in 2032 São Paulo gets romantically involved with a dangerous woman who meets a violent end… only to re-appear a short while later. All of this comes together thanks to the magic of quantum mechanics and parallel universes, but not before a wild ride of sword-fights, superhero fetish sex and a present-day plot that seems even stranger than either Brazil’s history or its possible future.

    As a sustained narrative, Brasyl is not quite as successful as River of Gods for a few reasons: Not all three plot-lines are created equal, for instance: After the tornado-like intensity of the present and future segments, the historical subplot can seem like a lull in the action. And while the middle of the book is filled with intriguing mysteries, the resolution of the entire arc can feel like a more conventional let-down. McDonald’s usual knack for describing conventional scenes with unconventional prose can often feel like a distancing mechanism when the book’s action set-pieces occur.

    But even with those slight flaws, Brasyl still ends up feeling like one of 2007’s most vital Science Fiction novels. It’s fresh, slick and exciting. It feels, simply put, like no other SF novel to date. When the pieces finally come together, the unusual nature of the plot and the prose lead readers straight to serious kick-ass coolness that wouldn’t feel out of place in a big Hollywood blockbuster film. McDonald takes a serious option on award nominations with this book, and proves that his career renaissance is well-founded: Everyone who discovered (or rediscovered) the McDonald oeuvre thanks to River of Gods now have something new to enjoy, and Brasyl easily satisfies expectations.

  • McSweeney’s Quarterly Concern #13, Ed. Chris Ware

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    McSweeney’s, 2003, 316 pages, C$36.00 hc, ISBN 1-932416-08-0

    I took years, but I finally snagged a copy of the quasi-legendary “McSweeney’s 13”, the “comics issue” of the relentlessly innovative fiction periodical from the fine folks at McSweeney’s. Whoever says “periodical”, after all, suggests a limited availability, followed by endless trips to used-bookstores in the hope of finding a copy.

    But McSweeney’s isn’t a disposable sort of periodical, and so you may still have some luck, years later, finding latter printings shelved in the “literature” section of your neighbourhood monster bookstore. Don’t look for a brightly-coloured onion-paged digest: Look for a massive saran-wrapped hardcover with a strange cover featuring muted iconic drawings. If you know Chris Ware’s work, just look for his signature style: Not only has he edited the content of the issue, he also designed it –including the beautiful wrap-around cover.

    It’s impossible to review McSweeney’s 13 without spending some time discussing its design. It’s no accident if it costs more than the average hardcover novel: not only is the book solidly bound in a slightly bigger format than most hardcovers, it sports full-color pages and a dust jacket that is much more than a dust jacket. Unwrap it and you will find not only two bonus comic-books hidden within the folds, but also a full-colour, two-sided, newspaper-sized (gilded!) comic by Chris Ware.

    The biting, cynical, nihilist, self-referential, vaguely historical nature of Ware’s work sets the tone for what’s inside McSweeney’s 13: In assembling a special comics issue for one of the foremost literary periodical of our times, Ware has decided to play on two themes. First, that comics are good and literary and worthy of respect –a familiar tune for long-time fans. Second, that the type of comics showcased here would be almost absurdly literary in an autobiographical vein. If you’re looking for good superhero comics, or even accessible genre adventures in a graphical format, well, look elsewhere: McSweeney’s 13 won’t allow such populist riff-raff to sully its pages. Peanuts gets a pass on account of being old and respectable, but otherwise the only time you ‘ll hear about superheroes is through the nostalgic prose essays scattered throughout the periodical.

    That’s not necessarily a bad thing, mind you. I’m coming to McSweeney’s 13 through the comic-sized door, but an equal if not superior number of readers must be picking it up because it’s the newest McSweeney’s and it happens to talk about comics. This is the audience that has to be convinced, not the existing comic fans.

    On the other hand, it leads straight to a theme anthology where you get your pick between a sad autobiographical tales of everyday life, and another dozen so-called edgy pieces whose meaning lurks out of context. Your choices: Be baffled or depressed.

    If you’re not happy with the newer material, you can always gawk at the perfect reproductions of historical pieces, from the first American comic book, to an early Mutt and Jeff, to sketches seemingly stolen from Charles Schultz’s trashcan, to other pieces of American comicana. Also; a handful of essays from such notables as Michael Chabon, Chip Kidd or John Updike. (I suppose that I won’t be the only one surprised to learn that Updike can sketch relatively well.) All of this material accumulates to leave the impression of an affectionate tribute to the art form, of a memento of interest to comic book enthusiasts with long memories.

    Alas, despite the tremendous labour of love that this edition represents, many (most?) of the pieces are not original to McSweeney’s 13 and can’t even stand on their own. Art Spiegelman’s In the Shadow of No Towers is quoted here, as is Chester Brown’s Louis Riel, to cite only two work with which I’m immediately familiar. Some other pieces leave us hanging, deprived of both context and resolution. McSweeney’s 13 is least satisfying when it’s acting as a sampler than an homage or a polemic.

    But it’s hard to truly being critical of this book. I have mentioned the design a couple of time, but McSweeney’s 13 is truly that rarest of literary object: One that feels as if no effort was spared in order to make it as realized at possible. Time and time again, small touches remind us that several people have agonized over this as an object, not a disposable pop culture artifact. The sampler approach can work at driving newer readers to other works, introducing new and little-known artists to the McSweeney’s readership. One can quibble with part of it, but the whole is much greater than the sum of its part. As a entity, McSweeney’s 13 is close to its own kind of perfection.

    It’s not an accident if I can see myself pulling this book from my shelves the next time some one visits and say “You have to take a look at this…”

  • Rant, Chuck Palahniuk

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    Doubleday Canada, 2007, 336 pages, C$32.95 hc, ISBN 978-0-385-66349-6

    It’s done. Chuck Palahniuk has finally turned to Science Fiction after years of teasing us with the possibility. The promotional material remains hush-hush on the issue and many reviewers will tiptoe around the evidence, but Rant is the novel where Palahniuk finally crosses the border into unarguable Science Fiction. After teasing us with a research-heavy writing style that often felt as hard-SF, after revelling in social extrapolations only one step away from SF satire, Palahniuk finally owes up to the genre.

    Everyone saw it coming, of course. Palahniuk’s stock in trade, from Fight Club onward, has always been to imagine the possible. The “What if?” so beloved of SF writers. It doesn’t matter how unlikely it is, if it is possible. Not many people actually like beating up other people and getting beaten up in return, but it is possible, in today’s world, in much the same way bodily modifications can twist a narrator’s identity or how someone can fake choking for a twisted con game. Reading Palahniuk’s fiction is already an exercise is suspension of disbelief.

    It helps that Palahniuk has never been a rigorously mainstream writer. His last three novels, from Lullaby to Haunted, more or less dealt with fantastical concepts. Haunted even included two short stories that, squinting the right way, could be read as classic fifties-style SF. Rant, despite tackling the very science-fictional trope of time travel, is not such a big stretch: Palahniuk can’t be bothered by technological or scientific explanation and reaches straight for the woo-woo bag of tricks. Time travel via the wish fulfilment of Jack Finney rather than the machine-aided rationality of H.G. Wells.

    (I’m not spoiling much: A close reading of the first thirty pages of Rant pretty much give the game away.)

    So this new infatuation with another genre may not be as interesting than it seems at first glance: This is just Palahniuk going further in one of his usual directions, after all. Far more interesting is the way he tells the story: Rant is written as an oral biography, a style of writing that allows Palahniuk to have some serious fun with the way he structures the novel. Nominally a way to present different perspective on a same subject, oral biography is here twisted to serve Palahniuk’s style: He uses the “different voices” motif to create a collage of perspectives that each describe an aspect of the character and the world. The cacophony of voices acquires a pleasant montage-like effect, every bit player whispering something worthwhile in our ear, even if we can’t recognize it at first.

    Rant Casey himself ends up being a side player in his own “biography”: From a strong Trickster-like presence at the beginning of the novel, Rant fades against the lively background that Palahniuk puts together as the book unfolds. Progressively, we’re made aware that the world in which Rant exists is not our own: that substantial social differences exist, and that they mask something even more hideous lurking under the surface. In a way, that’s always been one characteristic of Palahniuk’s oeuvre: presenting a society that may superficially look like ours, but is really not. In this case, though, no amount of rationalization will manage to take in account the radically different world in which Rant exists, even if most of the concepts (party-crashing cars in each other, for instance, in an acknowledge nod to Fight Club‘s main conceit) are at least theoretically possible.

    Those used to Palahniuk’s style won’t be shocked to find that Rant is once again all about, well, shock. Disgust, decency and logic are the three virtues one must learn to ignore in order to read a Palahniuk novel and this one is no exception. It doesn’t always add up, naturally, but Palahniuk’s books are rides more than they’re sustained arguments. Part of the thrill of Rant is in seeing unfamiliar words, concepts and icons gradually become clearer and clearer as the book unfolds. Besides the SF elements, this is another sign of Rant‘s belonging to the Science-Fiction genre: Palahniuks wields exposition like a master and often lets slip strange blips before we’re ready to understand them.

    But also like a Science Fiction novel, the world of the novel eventually overpowers the main character. Rant, after our promising expectations, eventually become a shell of a character in a far more intriguing world. The repetitive ending grates a bit as it goes back to Rant to back-fill obvious parts of his back-story.

    Yet it doesn’t matter much: Rant is easily one of Palahniuk’s most enjoyable piece of writing in a while. The acknowledged SF influence seems to allow him a bit more freedom that usual (which is saying a lot), and the oral biography form shakes up some of Palahniuk’s stylistic quirk. A strong entry… but not for everyone.

  • Angels Flight, Michael Connelly

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    Warner, 1999, 454 pages, C$10.99 mmpb, ISBN 0-446-60727-4

    One of the known problem of my Michael Connelly reading project (one book per month, in order of publication, until I’m caught up) is that I have already read many of the high points of Connelly’s career. After The Last Coyote, for instance, I could skip over The Poet, Trunk Music and Blood Work. This landed me three novels later in Angel’s Flights, with a slightly different Harry Bosch now re-integrated with the police force and struggling through a marriage I barely remembered. Having read Trunk Music nearly eight years ago, it took me a while to get back up to speed with the latest developments.

    Fortunately, Connelly makes it easy to get back into Bosch’s mind: his best-known protagonist is still as taciturn, still as clever, and just as likely to find himself at the centre of a complicated investigation. This time, Bosch is chosen by the LAPD’s high management as the lead inspector on a case with the potential to revive racial riots: the murder of a black attorney who specialized in cases against the police. Worse: the victim was killed in a way that suggests a policeman with a score to settle. Already marginalized by his colleagues, Bosch finds himself stuck with investigators he can’t trust and a mystery some people don’t want to see resolved.

    As the clock starts ticking, the investigation roars into gear. Bosch doesn’t have much time: Already, the media is driven to a frenzy of speculation by the killer-cop angle. Before long, Bosch realizes that the investigation is a poisoned gift: No one inside the LAPD particularly wants it to succeed, and even Bosch’s team may not be entirely trustworthy. As if that wasn’t enough, it seems that the deceased attorney had a source deep inside the police force…

    But it gets worse. Seemingly impartial people turn out to have a web of connections to the victim, including one of Bosch’s ex-partners. Pulling on all the threads revealed by his investigation, Bosch starts paying renewed attention to a case that everyone thought closed, a sordid child murder that may not be as simple as everyone had figured. The title of the book eventually acquires another meaning as Bosch is forced to investigate something he’d rather leave to others…

    This may not be among Connelly’s best novels, but it’s certainly up to his usual standards. The writing is clean and immediately absorbing. The characters are efficiently introduced and developed, which is of even bigger importance here as the cast seems much larger than in previous books. The plot keeps moving forward relentlessly, making it hard to stop reading once it gets going.

    This technical proficiency makes it easy to forget about the thick density of issues tackled through the novel. Angels Flight is, first and foremost, a novel about Los Angeles in the nineties, as it recovered from the scars left by the 1992 riots. But it also weaves in themes of lost innocence, of police violence, of what makes good people go bad. Bosch has never been a happy character and Angels Flight seems grimmer than most, especially given how it really doesn’t solve any of Bosch’s romantic problems.

    What doesn’t work so well are some of the technical details: Written in 1998, Angels Flight still has a gosh-wow approach to the then-Internet, and some of the vocabulary used to describe the investigation as it move on-line is just wrong. Not a big deal for most, but frustrating to the knowledgeable readers in the context of a police procedural where details should sound right.

    The other nagging element of the novel is the ending, which manages to be predictable and frustrating. Twenty pages before the end, you can practically predict what will happen to who, based on nothing but the situation and the knowledge that American crime fiction would rather kill a villain than punish him through the course of law.

    But these are small issues in such a successful novel. While Angels Flight doesn’t have the extra boost to propel it among Connelly’s best novels (of which there have been more than a few), it holds its own as another decent entry in his oeuvre. The Michael Connelly Reader Project continues at a good clip with nary a misfire in sight.

  • The Lies of Locke Lamora, Scott Lynch

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    Gollancz, 2006, 505 pages, C$24.95 tpb, ISBN 0-575-07802-2

    Hype is two-edged sword: If it’s true that I wouldn’t have read Scott Lynch’s The Lies of Locke Lamora had it not been lauded on-line, it’s also true that it made it impossible to pick up the novel as “just another fantasy book”. This is, after all, the novel that touched off the Great Blog Critic-Payoff Crisis of 2006, which contributed to the end of Emerald City and megabytes of bitter debate about the nature of on-line criticism.

    It almost makes me want to avoid reviewing the book.

    But I’ve got a monthly quota to fill, and The Lies of Locke Lamora has spent more than its fair share of time on my bedside table. So here goes.

    The most intriguing thing about Scott Lynch’s debut is how it marries the conventions of caper thrillers with the environment of a fantasy novel. Our titular hero is a master con artist, a man able to fool just about everyone into handing over their money. Locke Lamora isn’t particularly smart or handsome, but he’s got what it takes to be a gifted con artist: a gift for gab, a murderously effective education and a strong circle of friends with unique areas of expertise. The Lies of Locke Lamora is built around a structure that follows Lamora during a particularly stressful period, and interleaves that story with interlude that explain who Locke Lamora and his friends are, and what has made them the way they are.

    This is where, as an infrequent (and, frankly, generally uninterested) fantasy reader, my impressions part ways with the critical consensus. While many have lauded the completeness of Lynch’s vision of Lamora and the city he lives in, I found myself skipping ahead whenever I hit another historical interlude –which is to say every other chapter.

    I have no major problems with the bulk of the novel’s plot: As Locke thinks he’s pulling off a grand coup by defrauding a rich merchant, troubles comes looking for him as a mysterious “Gray King” decimates the local criminal power structure. Blackmailed into doing the Grey King’s bidding against his own boss, Locke has little time to figure out how to pull his own skin out of the fire. If he does manage to do so, it’s not certain that he’ll be able to do the same for his friends… Before the book is over, Locke finds himself rediscovering his conscience, using his illicit skills for the greater good and doing things he would never had imagined doing pro bono.

    If The Lies of Locke Lamora had just been about that plot thread, chances are that I would have been far more upbeat about the book: the fusion between caper plotting and fantasy setting is interesting, and the low-key nature of the fantasy (save for the magicians, one could almost squint and imagine Locke running around a slightly different version of medieval Venice) doesn’t overwhelm the particular nature of Locke’s story.

    But the constant flashbacks do drag down the story every couple of pages. They alone explain why the book spent nearly three months on my bedside table, even as I was tearing through other books: Though I was enjoying myself in Locke Lamora’s world, I would close the book every time I’d hit another flashback, and feel no particular impulsion to pick it up again.

    I can only hope that the further volumes in the Gentleman Bastard sequence are finished with the flashbacks and will proceed at a faster clip. The richness of Lynch’s prose is satisfying, and the inclusion of modern sensibilities in the dialogue (which is to say: frank Anglo-Saxon swearing) is pleasantly honest in a sub-genre that often tiptoes around harsh expletives.

    Not being much of a fantasy reader, there are definitely limits to how much I can like the book, but that’s all right: such reactions come along with the Hype, and fantasy readers who somehow happen to read this review are far more likely to like this book than I did. I see with some satisfaction the The Lies of Locke Lamora landed Scott Lynch on the Campbell award shortlist: a fitting achievement for a novel that, despite its length, is already reasonably successful.

    Not entirely successful, but if all it takes is a bit of selective skimming… the hype may have a solid basis to it.