Book Review

  • Antarctica, Kim Stanley Robinson

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    Bantam, 1998, 511 pages, C$34.95 hc, ISBN 0-553-10063-7

    Kim Stanley Robinson has done it again.

    If you loved the Mars trilogy, you will like Antarctica. If you thought Robinson paid too much attention to detail in his trilogy, you will feel the same way with Antarctica. If you liked the political theory in all Mars books, there more of it in Antarctica. If you like his newly-matured stylistic techniques exhibited in the martian trilogy, rest assured that he’s doing much of the same thing here. In short, Antarctica is one of the most obvious follow-up possible to the Mars trilogy. Fans as well as non-fans will find what they expect here.

    Antarctica is a cold, vast, lonely place. One of this planet’s last frontiers (it was only explored at the beginning of this century), it remains, even today, quite mysterious. Far from being a vast plain of eternal ice, Antarctica proves itself a varied, fascinating continent.

    In his latest novel, Kim Stanley Robinson tells us about the Antarctica. It’s a book best compared to lengthy travelogues written by explorers: Not much of a plot, but a wealth of details.

    In 1995, Robinson went to Antarctica courtesy of the National Science Foundation, as part of the U.S. Antarctic Program’s Artists and Writer’s Programs. It obviously shows. Whatever tax dollars were spent in order for Mr. Robinson to spend some time down under, they were well-invested. The resulting book is a solid testimony of the beauty of the continent.

    Even though it’s marketed under the mainstream Bantam logo (not the Bantam Spectra SF imprint), Antarctica is straight science-fiction. Not only because it takes place sometime in the early twenty-first century but mostly because it espouses and deals with the themes dearest to SF: the nature of scientific change, the effect of technology on humans and the environment. It’s as if Robinson applies the talent he has sharpened in SF to a problem that’s almost contemporary. The result is awe-inspiring.

    Antarctica contains some technological gadgets, some sociological innovations but many digressions about the history of Antarctica and the human presence on this decidedly difficult continent. Robinson effectively creates and sustain a mystique about Antarctica through historical digressions and carefully selected vignettes. We’re not there, but we get the sights without the frostbite.

    Characters are well-handled. Although the usual “visitor” character is kept suitably under-developed (a must if he is to be the reader’s fictional surrogate), the two other main protagonist are well-sketched, and elicit our sympathy. The assortment of secondary characters is also developed with great care. There are no outright villains, Antarctica being formidable enough as opponent.

    The fiction content of the novel is less impressive. The story doesn’t revv up until half the book has passed, and then mostly resolves itself in barely more than 150 pages, leaving characters around for almost another hundred pages. This is where fans and non-fans of Robinson will diverge opinions: Fans simply don’t care because they like what they’re reading anyway while non fans won’t care because, effectively, they don’t care. Caveat lector, or so to speak.

    Antarctica is a good follow-up to the Mars trilogy. Of exceptionally worthy docu-fictive value, it will please those who like this kind of stuff. Robinson really makes Antarctica come alive in his novel. Well-written if thin plot-wise, it’s nevertheless one dense, satisfying read. Try not to miss it.

  • The Moon and the Sun, Vonda N. McIntyre

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    Pocket, 1997, 421 pages, C$31.00 hc, ISBN 0-671-56765-9

    I’m mad, and I’m going to tell you about it.

    A few months ago, members of Science-Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA) decided that The Moon and the Sun was the best Science-Fiction or Fantasy novel published during the preceding year, beating out such contestants as A Game of Thrones (George R. R. Martin), Ancient Shores (Jack McDevitt), Bellwether, (Connie Willis), City on Fire, (Walter Jon Williams), King’s Dragon, (Kate Elliott) and Memory (Lois McMaster Bujold).

    Leaving alone the issue that these were most definitely not the worthiest books published in the oh-so-confusing Nebula period of eligibility (which here seems to go at least from April 1997 to September 1998), was The Moon and the Sun the best of the seven books? Of course not. Let me tell you why.

    The Moon and the Sun is the story of a young woman in King Louis XIV’s court in 1693. Her brother has captured a sea monster, and various royal things happen around her. Eventually, she figures out that the sea monster is intelligent. Of course, she’ll try to free it.

    I have seldom had as less motivation to read a book. It takes almost half the book to get out of the historical details and get on with the “fantasy” element. Despite a certain elegance of the prose, this novel is a colossal bore. If this hadn’t been a Nebula-Winner, I would have likely abandoned it well before the end. McIntyre mentions in her after-word that this has also been written as a movie screenplay: I would have rather read that than the book.

    The overemphasis on explicit feminism is annoying. The problem isn’t with the idea of feminism, but the treatment. McIntyre should have remembered to show, not tell. Far better to keep the heroine trying to acquire freedom and go against obstacles rather than make a few speeches about it. It’s ridiculous to see concerns of the nineteen-nineties clash with the historical atmosphere in this way.

    Then we come to the difficult question of the genre. The Moon and the Sun is a novel billed as an alternate history that won an award by and association originally founded by Science-Fiction writers. Problem is, it’s neither SF nor alternate history.

    There is nothing “alternate” about the history presented here: What are the repercussions of the sea monsters? The divergences with our history? Unseen, untouched, unimagined. This is historical fantasy.

    Then there’s the astonishingly positive advance blurbs on the back cover of the book, by author friends of McIntyre who should know better. “The finest alternate history ever” (Le Guin), “One of the best novels I’ve read” (Preuss), “engrossing story” (Gabaldon)… ack, ptui! Even granted that I don’t even like these authors, what were they smoking?

    In a sense, you could say that it’s fortunate that The Moon and the Sun won the Nebula: Otherwise I would not have read, or finished, the book and would not have anything to complain about. It still doesn’t erase the boredom and the pain.

    The Nebulas have a substantial history of choosing The Wrong Book as a winner; boring, stuffy fantasy novels that are neither remarkable or especially meritorious. Years later, who still remembers the unspectacular Where the Late Birds Sang (Kate Wilhem) or the incredibly boring The Falling Woman (Pat Murphy) or the rotten The Einstein Intersection (Samuel Delany)? I confidently predict that The Moon and the Sun is headed straight for this memory abyss. The infuriating thing is that the novel will bore generations of Nebula completists. Forever and ever.

  • The Callahan Chronicles, Spider Robinson

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    Various, 1977-1997, ???? pages, C$??.?? mmpb, ISBN Various

    Callahan’s Crosstime Saloon: Ace, 1977
    Time-Travellers Strictly Cash: Ace, 1981
    Callahan’s Secret: Berkley, 1986
    Callahan’s Lady: Ace, 1991
    Lady Slings the Booze: Ace, 1992
    The Callahan Touch: Ace, 1993
    Callahan’s Legacy: Tor, 1997
    Off the Wall at Callahan’s: Tor, 1994

    Somewhere along highway 25 in Suffolk County, Long Island (Spider Robinson tells us) once existed an inauspicious bar called Callahan’s Place. That bar wasn’t your average neighbourhood drunk-hole, however. Robinson chronicled the weird, strange and marvellous incidents that happened there: Time-Travellers, Aliens, People with special talents… or just plain unfortunate folks in need of cheering up.

    As a non-drinker, non-bargoer, non-whatever, I’m far from being the ideal target audience for Robinson’s own brand of uber-hedonistic philosophy that permeates his work in general and the Callahan chronicles in particular. Despite his well-meaning tone of desolation, I like being a product of the conservative eighties, with all its petty monetary concerns, monogamous sexual relationships and cautious attitude toward alcohol.

    And yet, there is a definite charm about the Callahan sequence that is very, very hard to resist. Although it’s a definite possibility that reading these books will infuriate you, you will still come away from it with a sense of goofy satisfaction.

    Not least among Robinson’s many talents is the effortless prose and the engaging characters. Simply put, it’s a pleasure to read these books. When this pleasure fades -see below-, we can see the holes in the stories.

    The sequence is composed, quite neatly, of three epochs:

    The first one comprise the stories contained in the three earliest books. It’s the Callahan’s Place era. This period is characterized by a collection of several short stories setting up of the divergent rules that eventually coalesce to make up the universe in which the Callahan sequence takes place. In many respects, this is the best Callahan’s period: It’s fresh, exciting, invigorating and not too silly. (Fortunately, it is now contained in an omnibus volume from Tor called The Callahan Chronicles.)

    The second era takes at about the same chronological time, but at another place: Lady Sally’s House, the best… er… house of pleasure in New York. The two “Lady” books are far more prurient than the opening trilogy and written as novels, not an assembly of stories. The result is more coherent but less impressive. For some reason, Robinson decides to save the world from nuclear terrorists late in Lady Slings the Booze, and that particular plot clashes badly with the remainder of the sequence. Generally speaking, Callahan’s works best when dealing with small-scale weirdness and personal problems: It’s when it tries to be too ambitious that the problems arise.

    Finally, the narrator of the first trilogy decides to go in business for himself, and the two more recent books of the series chronicle his time at Mary’s Place. In a way, these two are a return to the familiar environment of the first three books. While written as novels, they’re far less linear than the Lady Sally books. Unfortunately, silliness happens (like the cluricaune and the oh-so-sensual-group-telepathy/orgy-to-save-the-world) and the effect is more ridiculous than uplifting. A curious tendency to showboating and unarguable sermonning by Robinson also diminishes the effect of the later books.

    (Off the wall at Callahan’s is a compendium of quotes, puns and jokes from the first five books. It’s recycling, but great recycling.)

    Still, readers will be hard-pressed to find this sequence other than enjoyable and refreshing. Reading another Callahan book feels exactly like coming back to a place where everyone knows your name. And that’s probably exactly what Robinson intended.

    Cheers!

  • Tesseracts^6, Ed. Robert J. Sawyer & Carolyn Clink

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    Tesseracts, 1997, 297 pages, C$8.95 mmpb, ISBN 1-895836-32-8

    Next step in my Aurora-nominee reading program this year: The sixth Tesseracts anthology of Canadian Speculative Fiction. A tradition has been established that each successive Tesseracts volume has a different set of co-editors. This year, the husband-and-wife team of Robert J. Sawyer and Carolyn Clink are serving their tour of duty at the forefront of what has become Canada’s most celebrated SF anthology series.

    They say that an anthology is well-served by great stories in the opening and closing slots. In this regard, Tesseracts^6 succeeds admirably well. The opening fiction is by Eric Choi, a promising hard-SF author. “Divisions” tackles a very-hard-SF story upon an alternate history where Quebec secedes in 1981. The result is very satisfying. At the other end of the book, Robert Charles Wilson delivers the kind of fiction that has made his reputation with Protocols of Consumption, a character-based tale with adequate scientific content and a surprising amount of paranoia.

    For the most part, you get what you expect from Tesseracts^6: The top authors keep their level of quality. I have yet to read a boring story from Andrew Weiner, as he proves with “Bootlegger”. James Alan Gardner is also a reliable author, and his “Love-in-Idleness” is one of the best stories of the volume. “What Goes Around” (Derryl Murphy) doesn’t quite lives up to its premise but remains a fun read. Yves Meynard enhances his reputation as a fantasy author with the curiously pleasing “Souvenirs”.

    But there’s also some good material from newer names (at least to me): Catherine McLeod’s “Skulling Medusa” is an excellent hard-boiled action featuring a futuristic Private Eye. Douglas Smith’s “Spirit Dance” does interesting things with a love triangle, were-animals and the CSIS. (!) Additionally, Tesseracts^6 might make you realize that some of the latest novels seen in libraries are in fact from Canadian authors, like Scott Mackay (Outpost) and Nalo Hopkinson (Brown Girl in the Ring).

    Four of the stories are from French-Canadian authors, although it seems like two of them (Yves Meynard’s “Souvenirs” and Jean-Louis Trudel’s “Where Angels Fall”) were written directly in English. Annoyingly, like the previous Tesseracts anthologies, there is no mention of where the two translated stories (Sylvie Bérard’s “The Wall” and Élisabeth Vonarburg’s “The Sleeper in the Crystal”) originally appeared.

    Due to poet Carolyn Clink’s co-editorship, this Tesseracts volume contains a fair amount of poetry. As a reader, I have seldom been attracted to this genre, and have to report that I have not been convinced by what I have seen here. Readers with different background can feel free to disagree.

    On another register, I am happy to report that the interior typesetting is greatly improved over the past few Tesseract publications: The font is crisper (though still not heavy enough) and the margins are adequate. It’s a shame that the page header doesn’t indicate each story, though. The curiously unfamiliar paperback format (halfway between mass-market and trade paperbacks) takes a while to get used to. Unfortunately, the cover illustration is one of the worst I have seen in recent memory. It’s probable that the awful colour balance and the amateurish collage of elements will keep this book away from a few prospective readers. An unfortunate change from the beautiful cover of the previous volume.

    Tesseracts^6 proves, if it was still left to be proven, that Canadian SF is strong enough not only to be fill a volume of good stories, but to do so at a yearly rate of publication and with different sets of editors. It also provides good reading… so what more is there to say? Bring on the next volume!

  • Trader, Charles de Lint

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    Tor, 1997, 464 pages, C$8.99 mmpb, ISBN 0-812-55157-5

    Many cinephile will remember a spate of body-switching “comedies” around 1988: BIG, LIKE FATHER LIKE SON, VICE VERSA, 18 AGAIN… Along with 1977’s FREAKY FRIDAY, these movies used body-switching as an excuse for character-driven comedies of, mostly, mutual redemption. (The latest film of note in this sub-genre, 1997’s FACE/OFF, used slightly-more-plausible face switching as an excuse for a rather good guns’n’mayhem movie.)

    Charles de Lint’s Trader is markedly different. Not only is it decidedly not a comedy, but it actually treats the improbable subject of body-switching with a certain realism that always seems to be sorely lacking is the afore-mentioned movies.

    For one thing, this isn’t a kid’s story: Trader is mature, comfortably adult fantasy. The hero of the tale is Max Trader, a renowned, introvert maker of guitars. When he suddenly wakes up in the body of an unemployed, despicable loser named Johnny Devlin, he has to face the fact that he has not only inherited Devlin’s problems, but that Devlin (now Trader) doesn’t want anything to do with him. After a fight with Devlin’s old girlfriend, being kicked out of Devlin’s apartment and being unable to return to his old home, Trader finds himself on the streets. What follows is his journey toward redemption.

    In a lesser story, Trader could have been faultless; a quiet, introspective man not given to meanness. But part of what gives Trader its power is the realization that Trader himself isn’t as perfect as we could think. We realise that even as average and mild-mannered as Trader is (or we are, for that matter), he still has things to learn to enjoy life at its fullest.

    Trader doesn’t only tell a story; without bashing the reader over the head with it, it also contains a surprising amount of not-so-conventional philosophy. Trader is about life, what you make of it, and the friendships that let you go through it.

    de Lint’s prose is typically engaging, effortlessly drawing the reader into the story. Characters are very well handled. While this critic isn’t a de Lint reader, the comments read elsewhere about him returning to old friends in Newport seem dead-on accurate.

    The novel does have its flaws: part of the last third venture more in some sort of fantasy dreamland where almost anything can happen; a departure from the relatively realistic remainder of the novel. In retrospect, one character’s aggression also seems unwarranted.

    With good characters, easy prose, a lot of heart and an undeniable maturity, Trader shows why de Lint is at the top of his field. A strong contender for this year’s Auroras, and a worthwhile read, it is hard to ask much more of this book.

  • King of the Killing Zone: The Story of the M-1, America’s Super Tank, Orr Kelly

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    Berkley, 1989, 288 pages, C$5.75 mmpb, ISBN 0-425-12304-9

    With a title like that, you can bet it’s not a book about fluffy rabbits.

    No, King of the Killing Zone is definitely a book for the intellectually macho guys among us, the ones who also devour Hustler magazine for the military hardware articles, who buy Tom Clancy novels in hardcover, who don’t quite think that an obsession about military hardware is somehow unhealthy.

    (Am I describing myself? Ahem…)

    King of the Killing Zone is definitely a dream come true for military buffs among us.

    (Which reminds me of the old saying: The difference between a fan and a buff is that the buff in interested in stuff where dying is involved. Witness Military buffs, WWII buffs, history buffs, etc… Are there Spice Girls buffs? There you go.)

    There is a special magic in the creation of an expensive machine. The process leading up to the design, debugging and manufacture of your car is sufficiently fascinating in itself. Now imagine the whole story behind the introduction of a completely new tank in the U.S. Army. That’s the subject of King of the Killing Zone.

    During your reading, you will not only learn about the M-1, but also about tanks in general, major figures in the U.S. Army since WWII, the military equipment acquisition process, intelligence work, tanks warfare strategy and hundreds of small details that you wouldn’t necessarily associate with tanks at first glance.

    This could have been a long, dry read. The drudgery of military administration can be terribly annoying if you’re outside the system. Fortunately, author Orr Kelly has mastered the none-too-obvious trick of writing a densely packed, yet easily readable prose. He obviously knows his subject, and the notes on sources are very complete. A useful index completes an already-great non-fiction account. As a result, King of the Killing Zone moves briskly, yet satisfies the reader.

    Among the highlights of this book are the incredible tale of Chobham armour, the competition between GM and Chrysler to decide who would build the tank, the tactics revolution brought by the M-1’s speed, quiet and manoeuvrability, the man who made “all the right decisions for the wrong reasons”, the debugging of the tank’s most obscure flaws…

    Behind the whole book, though, stands the question: Is the M-1 Abrahms a good tank? To that, Orr answers with a cautious optimism. The publication date (1989) of the book is ironic, coming two years before one of the most significant military event of the late twentieth century. The Gulf War proved to sceptics that the M-1 could deliver what had been promised. Despite heavy use of fuel and problems due to the infiltration of sand in machinery, the M-1 swept the battlefield and erased most doubts concerning the tank’s worth in combat. It would be interesting to see a post-1991 revision of King of the Killing Zone.

    It is only too rare to find a book that lucidly and knowledgeably explains the steps by which new weapons systems are developed, tested and put into service. In an age where the easy 30-second clip on the evening news can weigh more heavily than a thoughtful report, King of the Killing Zone demystifies the process and takes the time to explain. A must-read for techno-thriller fans, and military hardware buffs.

  • Céline Dion: Behind the Fairytale, Ian Halperin

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    Boca Publications, 1997, 191 pages, C$9.95 mmpb, ISBN 0-9659583-0-2

    Nowadays, it seems like every two-bit celebrity has a biography on bookstores’ shelves. Even being a celebrity isn’t a requirement any more; just being a megastar’s ex-girlfriend can now net you a fat publishing contract. But as ever, there are two very different kinds of biographies. Authorized, and not-so-authorized ones.

    Authorized biographies are written by the celebrity, or most likely by a writer with bills to pay and the celebrity’s cooperation. However “honest” they claim to be, it’s no surprise that these authorized biographies end up painting a rather positive portrait of the star.

    On the other hand, unauthorized biographies are usually perceived as being written by malicious, talentless money-grubbing hack without any ethics, scruples or restraints. Many fans, pundits and managers are quick to characterize unauthorized biographies as unmitigated lies on paper, and readers of these putrid pages as only slightly below unicellular slime.

    They fail to mention that these biographies are much more interesting.

    Céline Dion is, like me, a French-Canadian. It would be a common error to assume that given this shocking similarity, I would be a die-hard Dion fan.

    Not quite. From a musical standpoint, Dion mostly sings ballads, which are definitely not my favourite kind of music. Furthermore, most importantly, I’ve never been too impressed by… ahem, let’s stay polite… the cognitive abilities of Miss Dion. As female signers so, I have much more respect for Melissa Etheridge, Sheryl Crow or Lisa Loeb (who compose, write and sing, not to mention can hold their end of a conversation) that for the pretty voice that is Céline Dion. Dion is a pleasantly packaged set of vocal chords. Nothing more.

    [Unrelated anecdote: There was a TITANIC special on French-Canadian TV at the end of 1997, where Dion and ditzy talk-show host Julie Snyder were interviewing an expert on the Titanic disaster. It was a lot like watching the protagonists of DUMB & DUMBER interviewing Einstein.]

    The fascination of my fellow French-Canadians for “le clan Dion” is nothing short of mystifying for me. Why glorify a not-especially-pretty woman whose only talent is to sing? The gushing acceptance of her marriage to slimy manager René Angelil (almost thirty years his senior) still manages to creep me out. Is this how we want the world to perceive French-Canadians?

    Now that I’ve come clean both on the subject of Céline Dion and unauthorized biographies, let me be honest enough to say that if you like going through trash, you will love Behind the Fairytale. It’s a collection of gossip, just-this-side-of-libelous assertion and veiled half-truths mixed with saucy innuendoes. I could have lived a few more years without knowing about Dion’s suicide attempts, anorexia, unhappy marriage, nervous breakdowns and raging nymphomania.

    One the other hand, it’s a breath of fresh air compared to the holier-than-church portrait of Dion that is spoon-fed to and by the media. I believe that there is more truth in this book, warts and all, than the official story. Halperin doesn’t quite establish himself as a credible journalist (he did co-author a book on the “assassination” of Kurt Cobain), but does not shies away from revealing his disgruntled sources, his personal favorable opinion of Dion (in the foreword) and that, in his opinion, the true villain of Dion’s life is manager/husband Angelil.

    It is very unlikely that any fan of Dion will agree with Behind the Fairytale (just read the vitriolic comments on Amazon’s web site if you’re not convinced), so this biography will probably please most those readers not -yet- converted by the massive Sony/Angelil publicity machine. This is worth a look at the library (I couldn’t manage to buy such a book), if only to be able to see Behind the Fairytale.

    Just remember: Trash can be fun, but at the end it’s still trash.

  • Easy Riders, Raging Bulls: How the Sex-Drugs-and-Rock’n’Roll Generation Saved Hollywood, Peter Biskind

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    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.

  • How Like a God, Brenda W. Clough

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    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.

  • Red Dragon and The Silence of the Lambs, Thomas Harris

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    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.”

  • Triad: Three Complete Science-Fiction Novels, A.E. van Vogt

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    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.

  • Formula One, Bob Judd

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    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.]

  • Kilo Class, Patrick Robinson

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    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.

  • Takedown, Tsutomu Shimomura with John Markoff

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    Hyperion, 1996, 509 pages, C$7.99 mmpb, ISBN 0-7868-8913-6

    As today’s world is becoming increasingly dependant on electronic networks for communications, business and entertainment, the potential for abusing these systems is also expanding. On one side, clever young anarchists with time to lose and the “Information should be free!” slogan. One on the other, computer security specialist and corporations with information to protect.

    It’s not only a technical issue. Without effort, it also touches ethical, philosophical and personal issues. In an age where the Internet is now offering more free information than was available to every human that ever lived before, property issues are become more important than ever.

    Unfortunately, Takedown only briefly touches on these important questions. This might not necessarily be a criticism of the work, given that the book is about one particular instance of computer crime.

    On Christmas Day 1995, somebody broke into Tsutomu Shimomura’s system, copied files and went away. Unfortunately for the cracker, Shimomura happened to be an expert in computer security. Takedown details Shimomura’s hunt for the culprit, a hunt that eventually took him to a Raleigh suburb for the apprehension of the suspect.

    There have been a few books on the subject of computer security, and Takedown is an average entry. It’s an enjoyable book: simply written, not too technically obscure, satisfyingly resolved. Despite the cover blurbs, it’s not as good as a detective novel, but it holds its own. The process of detection, identification and localisation of the computer cracker is gradually revealed, and the chase even becomes exciting when Shimomura has to go on the terrain to investigate. (You can tell that this isn’t a movie by the fact that the cracker and Shimomura don’t meet until after the cracker’s apprehension.)

    But somehow, Takedown isn’t as fascinating as it should have been. Worse, a better similar book exists. The Cuckoo’s Egg, by Clifford Stoll, told the tale of an eclectic astronomer who managed to catch teen crackers by luring them in a network of false information. Not only are the stakes higher in The Cuckoo’s Egg (military info versus cellular phone software), but Stoll is -I’m sorry to say- a far more interesting individual. Both books work in a considerable amount of detail of the two men’s personal lives, but whereas Stoll is a genuine eccentric, Shimomura comes out of it as a brilliant hacker desperately trying to pass himself as “normal”. His interests in skiing, hiking and other pursuits besides computers seem tacked-on to humanise the characters, not as essential parts of the narrative. His romantic interest also seems -with apologies to these two- pretty weak.

    In the end, we’re left with an interesting tale of modern detection, spiced up by a deliciously portentous “physical” dimension when the narrative moves to Raleigh. Critics voiced on the Internet have complained that the Intruder’s side of the story has been given short thrift, but that’s an insignificant assertion given the source of the story. Far more damaging is the rather obnoxious narrator and the sometimes-ridiculous attempts at humanizing the character. Whatever your opinions about cracking, Takedown is unlikely to convince anyone. Readers, let them be laymen, hackers or crackers, will get out of the book what they bring into it.

  • L.A. Confidential, James Ellroy

    ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

    Mysterious Press, 1990, 496 pages, C$25.00 hc, ISBN 0-89296-293-3

    Faithful readers of these chronicles will remember that I had finally seen L.A. CONFIDENTIAL shortly after it was re-released in February. Given my reaction (“…as enjoyable as a good book… triumph of storytelling… masterful script… excellent performances… L.A. CONFIDENTIAL gives me back my faith in cinema.”), it was only a matter of time until I broke down and read the book.

    So, when I had the chance to buy a (very bruised, very tattered, very cheap) first hardcover edition, I didn’t hesitate and plunked down the change.

    No regrets.

    Opinions about book-to-movie adaptations are usually uniform: People prefer the book, are disappointed by the movie and hate the unnecessary changes the scriptwriters thought necessary. In the worst cases, the entire message of a book can be completely perverted by the adaptation, not to mention the novel’s storyline.

    So, it’s a surprise to notice that in the case of L.A. Confidential, they not only made significant changes, but that they work.

    Both versions of the story are about crime and corruption in Los Angeles during the fifties. Three cops must unravel a complex cover-up and learn to deal with each other: Bud White, a thug who likes to impose his justice on wife-beaters. Ed Exley, a straight-arrow policemen with dark ambitions. Jack Vincennes, Hollywood junkie and no stranger to the occasional bribe.

    The novel L.A. Confidential is huge and takes place over an eight-year period. The movie has an unspecified duration of about six months. Two of the three main characters are considerably less honourable in the book. The “dead father” subplot has been added to the movie, while entire chunks of the book are missing from the film. A significant character loosely based on Walt Disney is completely gone. The orders of certain event has been switched around, as well as who did them.

    Given this, it would be natural to believe that the movie has no resemblance to the book any more. That’s not far from the truth: Save from the opening sequences and the final scene, the film adaptation takes considerable liberty with the material.

    But what remains is the noir atmosphere, the attitude itself of corrupt cops, flawed protagonists, seedy crime and burgeoning California that permeates the book. James Ellroy’s sparse but incredibly dense style is the same one used in the movie. Despite the complexity of the tale, only a few rough spots exist.

    As a crime novel, L.A. Confidential deserves the term “epic”. It mixes together cops, criminals, Hollywood, politics and real-estate development. At least three separate crimes are intricately mixed up together. It features a breadth of characters that’s hard to match elsewhere. Ellroy has attempted big, and mostly succeeded.

    However, it might be a good idea to see the film first. Not only does it clears up the opening of the book considerably (and gives you the impetus to go forward), but it’s sufficiently different to keep you surprised throughout.

    In fact, I think I will take the heretical position of saying that I like the movie storyline more than the book: It’s more focused, offers more thematic closure and is probably more enjoyable as a movie than the novel is as a book. As William Goldman said in his March 1998 “Premiere” article, the final eight minutes are unnecessary, but it’s still a great movie. The screenwriters fully deserve their Best Adaptation Academy Award: They have produced a very complex yet gripping work of art from another work of art.

    Whether you’ve seen L.A. CONFIDENTIAL or not, James Ellroy’s L.A. Confidential is still strongly recommended for crime fiction fans. Don’t miss it!