Our analysis of this peculiar item can be found here.
Spoiler red alert: this is an assessment, not a review, of
Interstellar. A film in which:
Michael Cain is revealed as cinema’s least convincing science-genius. Retire already!
Matthew McConaughey pushes his grufflo-whistly-voice into the red zone. McConaughey’s character, Cooper, also undergoes total consistency fail to make sure we get to Act V.
Jessica Chastain channels steely-beauty energies in order to overcome abandonment and solve the “problem of gravity”. A lone genius scribbling on a blackboard.
Anne Hathaway claims that love is empirically verifiable. That’s science, don’t you know: methodical, logical, emotionally void. Like Hathaway’s acting.
Matt Damon appears. Impersonates Bourne gone loopy. Re-enacts classic fight scene from Arena. Why, oh why?! Don’t wake him up!
The robots, TARS and CASE, don’t go mad. They save the day. Multiple times. They totally steal the show.
Interstellar is not original. It’s not a homage to 2001. It’s a mish-mash of The Fifth Element, Close Encounters, Contact, ET, Solaris, and 2001; a dash of Prometheus, Alien, The Tree of Life. Most of all it reminded me of Danny Boyle’s much under-rated Sunshine, and the 60s family show Lost in Space. Interstellar is a high-brow wannabe girded with lashings of sentimental twaddle.
The low point: When they arrive at Saturn’s black hole, and the science guy explains to Cooper that faster-than-light travel “is like folding a page”. Argh! As if ashamed at their clichéd exposition, the producers decided to make the black hole a sphere. “A sphere? I thought it would be a hole,” says Cooper, speaking on behalf of the dumb audience members. Science guy slaps forehead: “4D, man, 4D!”
The low, low point: When they wake up Dr Mann and its Matt Damon.
The low, low, low point: more physics exposition. I half expected Brian Cox to enter stage left and start bumbling on about how this or that new planet was billions and billions and billions of light years away.
As with all Nolan’s films, aggressive sound pummels you into submission. Like a giant, all-encompassing dust-storm, the score waxes so loud it fills all plot holes, corrodes all lumps in pace, suffocates all shonky dialogue, and forces you to retreat to the deepest recesses of your cinema seat. Noise power can be exhilarating – the post disaster docking sequence is genuinely awesome – but it is also obvious and tiring.
The low, low, low, low point: the Final Act. Deathbed scene with your decrepit daughter? That’s just base sentimentality worthy of Hanks/Spielberg.
I don’t get why critics call this film incomprehensible. Its obvious.
George Monbiot’s analysis is totally on the money: “This fantasy permits us to escape the complexities of life on Earth for a starlit wonderland beyond politics.” He is so right it leaves little to say. Except that the film isn’t about life beyond earth. The film never even gets that far, really; it just transmutes space exploration into ‘love dilemmas’. Dear Mariella, I’m one hundred and thirty years older than my daughter due to a temporal anomaly, what should I do? Dear Mariella, my boyfriend crash-landed on a planet, but I don’t know if its habitable – should I call him?
Interstellar doesn’t explore the cosmos – it retreats into heteronormative, US small town, family drama.
Item 1: The team are all American. Small point, but it flies against the internationalism of, say, Sunshine, or the post-national techno-asceticism of 2001. They are also obviously American – the old school NASA logo, the corn-farm as ground zero. And all the humans going to be saved in Plan A, or in the eugenic-tastic Plan B are – we can only presume – American. Just as Dr Bland describes the arch-pioneer of the first mission as “the best of us,” we can only assume that this American embryo bank represents the best of us too.
Item 2: The robots steal the show. The human characters are totally shackled to Earth by the messy ties of love, unable to think about the cosmic importance of their mission. Coop bleats on about his children, who he sort of liked but are estranged and annoying (and billions of billions of billions of miles away anyway). Brand Jnr is prepared to alter the mission to chase after her squeeze – it takes Coop to remind her that ‘love’ is not generally an acceptable parameter in hypothesis formulation. I’m not quite sure whether Dr Mann (Matt Damon) is trying to save the mission or himself.
By contrast the robots are faster, stronger, smarter. They are able to crack jokes (even if they are weak sf-homage/rip-off ones about setting the auto-destruct sequence they bring much-needed levity…). They save people on multiple occasions.
Why was the mission not run by the robots? Matt Damon tells us that this is because they “can’t improvise.” But since all the mission problems come from people improvising and changing their minds having a few more robots around might have been a good idea! The real clincher is the way that TARS and CASE are prepared to go into the singularity to collect data (Coop’s motives make no sense here). The robots are still doing science long after the best of humanity have descended into dribbling sentimental idiots.
The final Acts reveal that instead of dwelling in deep space and infinite time, we are caught in claustrophobic, recursive loops: love, love lost, love regained. That isn’t uplifting. It’s boring, because it’s a drivelly kind of cinema schamltz writ cosmic.
The only wormhole traverse here is Nolan’s yearning for a parochial, apolitical, happy-family mythic world that can’t exist. It’s a retreat, a surrender in the face of a challenge to do good science fiction.
Ursula Le Guin is a goddess; her work, the antidote to dumb, techno-imperialist science fiction.
I’ve just finished The Word for World is Forest, published in 1976. While less well known than the sublime Left Hand of Darkness (1969) or the epic The Dispossessed (1974), it has all the characteristics that make her writing so compelling. Even if it suffers from two big flaws…
The setting: Earth, we learn, is a barren, treeless wasteland. Humans have set up a military-industrial colony on a vast ocean- and forest-covered world, which they have dubbed ‘New Tahiti’. (Yes, it’s a bit like James Cameron’s Avatar, but without body transfer, blue aliens, Sigorney Weaver, or those silly flying critters).
The colonists want the planet’s priceless trees; they have enslaved some of the indigenous humanoids to help them. Driven to desperation, the indigenous people eventually rise up and wage a guerrilla war.
The Word for World is Forest is one of Le Guin’s more allegorical works: the Vietnam parallels are obvious. In a lesser writer this would mean you could stuff the book in its pigeon hole and forget about it. Not so with Ursula! While allegorical, the commentary is not laboured. Le Guin’s work, while always of its time, usually transcends its time too.
Her prose is disarming: prosaic, yet moving; precise, yet ethereal. Her feminism is consistent, political, anti-essentialist – a far cry from Margaret Atwood’s more recent, compromised concoctions (more on that soon!). Thematically, Le Guin worries away at the prospects for trans-species friendship, for fleeting but real connection across a gulf of difference. In this book a friendship, at once insubstantial and capable of transcending death, emerges between the indigenous humanoid, Selver, and the human coloniser-scientist, Lyubov.
Lyubov is one of the colony’s ‘speshes’ (silly neologisms are one of the book’s forgivable of-its-era minor weaknesses), specialist scientists sent to learn about the indigenous people and their planet’s ecology. Lyubov is no detached, objective scientist however. He forms a friendship with his alien informant. He is aware of the political umbrella safeguarding his work space, and of his own meagre political capital. Alone, isolated amid military and company men, he breaks down in tears at a meeting where the future of the indigenous inhabitants is being debated.
Lyubov is an admirable scientist: meticulous, curious, polite, but also engaged, emotional, caring, angry and passionate. He shows science transcended the strictures of personal objectivity, willing to lay bare the ethical and personal investments required to make knowledge. He is the ‘good guy’ if you hadn’t guessed.
Lyubov explained to Selver why the humans had come. Selver, as far as he is able, recounts this explanation to his kin.
“He [Lyubov] said they had come from another place which is not the forest; the trees there are all cut down; it has a sun, not our sun, which is a star. All this, as you can see, wasn’t clear to me … It does not matter much. It is clear that they want our forest for themselves. They are twice our stature, they have weapons that outshoot ours by far, and firethrowers, and flying ships … They have left their roots behind them, perhaps, in this other forest from which they came, this forest with no trees.” (p56)
Like all the planet’s indigenous people, Selver hasn’t experienced violence until the human colonists arrive. Le Guin errs here: she gives the planet’s people no history or politics; they exist in a dream-state of innocent balance with their dark forests until the humans show up. It is borderline unforgivable, really: an anachronistic throwback to 1960s noble-indigenous-living-in-harmony type guff. This is Big Flaw No.1. Her other books don’t reproduce this mistake.
1st Edition (left) and later edition cover. The indigenous people are described as simian and fur-covered (right), not green nymphs (left)
Early in the book we learn that the arrogant military administrator, Davidson, raped and killed Selver’s wife. Davidson is very clearly the bad guy. Lyubov = good, Davidson = bad. This is Big Flaw No.2: in-your-face moral ciphers. The book reminded me of another forest-world fiction, Oliver Stone’s 1986 film Platoon. The good/evil dynamic in this Le Guin novel really is alarmingly similar to the fight for Charlie Sheen’s tortured middle class soul between the evil Barnes and good soldier Elias.
The more I think about it the stronger the parallels. Did Stone read this book?
In Platoon, as Sheen flies away in the chopper he realises that evil Barnes and good Elias will forever wage war in his soul, and that he is a “child born of those two fathers”.
The outro in The Word for World is Forest has Selver reflecting that both Davidson and Lybov will haunt his world forever, even if the humans were to leave. For once one has learnt killing, one cannot forget it:
“’Sometimes a god comes,’ Selver said. ‘He brings a new way to do things, or a new thing to be done. A new kind of singing, or a new kind of death … There is no use pretending, now, that we do not know how to kill one another.’”
The humans arrived and from them Selver’s kin learned violence, aggression and authority. Yet some hope – even if ultimately dwarfed by violence – lies in the trans-species friendship between Selver and Lyubov.
At once an anti-colonial polemic, a plea for respecting difference and a dirge for lost innocence, The Word for World is Forest might not be Le Guin’s best work. But that still puts it in the science fiction top 10. Because Le Guin is a goddess.
What do the public intellectual Clive Hamilton’s best-selling Earthmasters (a scathing critique of geoengineering) and a run-of-the-mill film, The Colony, (released to absolutely no acclaim in 2013) have in common? I shall explain.
Hamilton’s argument is simple. The 400-year Enlightenment project of progress, which has relied on rational techno-science, having created climate change, now reaches its high point in geo-engineering: the deliberate modification of planetary systems.
Geo-engineering is the Promethean dream of scientists like Ken Caldeira and David Keith to ‘fix’ climate change. Instead of reigning in the reckless subjection of the planet to [a historically and geographically specific subgroup of] humanity’s ends, we enter into that appropriation more fully – to proclaim mastery of the planet. Earthmasters concludes gloomily that when the temperature racks up and climate change threatens not just the livelihoods of the poor, but also the shopping options of the rich, entrenched power will look to all means at its disposal to shore itself up. And that means geoengineering is depressingly likely.
‘The Colony’, meanwhile, is a mediocre post-apocalyptic flick. The northern hemisphere has been turned into something like Greenland. We are shown a claustrophobic world: a tunnel-dwelling group of survivors, barely holding on, their society slowly unravelling. The film serves up the requisite decay, mould, and light-flickering desperation, but its all a bit Budget Motel. Even filming in the defunct NORAD aeropsace defence base in Ontario, Canada, doesn’t really help.
The inhabitants of the Colony eat lots of rabbits. Tragically, the bunny population is declining, which leads to the film’s one decent line:
“You know you’re screwed when even the rabbits won’t fuck”.
They have sketchy communication with other outposts, but their survival is threatened by the common cold: in Arctic Earth, the smallest sniffle is a killer. The real threat, though, is Mason, the hotheaded upstart. He wants to shoot people at the first sign of a runny nose: frogmarched outside, your brains shot out, staining the snow. Other group members hanker for a more civilised response. Anyone with an infection is put into quarantine. But if they don’t get better after a few days, then it’s a “long walk” into the icy wilderness.
What has the Colony to do with geoengineering? Well amid the snow are giant skeletal ruins, funnels pointed skyward – “weather-modification towers” built before the freeze.
The grunts that inhabit the bunker world don’t know what went wrong: “The truth is, one day it started to snow and it never stopped”. These machines started, recorded history stopped; all else, after, is mere survival. This is to my knowledge the first Hollywood film to use geoengineering to frame its disaster.
The film then takes a serious nose-dive, switching genre to survival horror. A badly choreographed fight with a rampaging horde of posthuman mutants, crazed for blood. Yawn.
The stakes in this fight are thus: the Colony’s scientist has a hypothesis that, if the weather modification schemes can be turned back on, she can reverse the global freeze. But only if our manly hero can safely defend her from the rampaging mutant crazies!
No spoilers here. In fact, how about an anti-spoiler: Probably don’t bother watching the film.
So what do Clive Hamilton’s critique of geoengineering, Earthmasters, and The Colony have in common? The answer: Enlightenment techno-science and progress is both the cause of, and the only hope of redemption from, apocalypse.
In The Colony, the weather machines that snuffed out civilisation with a snowy apocalypse turn out, in fact, to be the only way to save life once more. The heroine tells us that We just need to work out how to turn them back on, but in reverse… We have nothing left, in the snowy cold, but a reflexive grasping back at the wonders of science. Of course they don’t really don’t know if it’ll work – the dwindling band of survivors returns to the weather controls more out of hope than self-belief.
Hamilton, too ultimately has nothing to offer but a belief in Enlightenment rationality. This may seem a perverse claim, given that his book indicts the hubris of the geoengineers. But he wants his scientific cake and to eat it. He dislikes the part of climate science that gives us geoengineering; he likes the part that gives us climate scenarios and models of future environmental change (a bit glibly he calls the good scientists the Soterians, after the Greek goddess of safety/deliverance, in contrast to the Promethean geo-engineers). But these are two sides of the same project. Hamilton hopes that our rationalism, informed by proper climate science can prevail. Science for Hamilton appears at once as a secular authority to ground his political claims AND as a great evil about to embark on a ridiculous gamble with earth systems. Science, for Hamilton, is to be used for political ends: it cannot be political itself.
That said, Clive Hamilton’s book is the best popular overview of geoengineering you’ll find. The Colony is rubbish. Not so similar after all.
This post reflects on a few recentish post-apocalyptic films, but in particular on the role of animals therein…
As a great, great many people have noted, apocalyptic imagery, narrative and revelry are circulating with a certain dull, frenetic energy: it’s hard to get away from zombies (figuratively anyway), zoonoses, or environmental collapse. Apocalypse is a rejoinder to the pervasive risk management of late modernity, in which the future becomes something mouldable through action in the present: all this management won’t do any good, apocalypse implies; accounting and governance are not sufficient to avert disaster, nor are they the proper response. As the old man in The Road, Ely, puts it:
“Even if you knew what to do, you wouldn’t know what to do”.
Of late, it’s the post-apocalyptic that is in the ascendency. In such fictions the world doesn’t end with either a bang or a whimper, but continues interminably on, in slow entropic decay. Post-apocalypse abandons traditional narrative form – no story, no prospect of a conclusion, instead we have a fascination with being on the verge of an end that never comes. This is a vision which offers no ‘cosy’ after-fall gathering but instead a slow, uncomfortable, and above all gloomy future.
If the light of modernity was about highlighting our own animality that we might better manage it, in order to become political beings, that light was acquired from the sun. Since the sun bequeathed us oil, and in turn fossil fuels made possible the Anthropocene and carbon humanity, then the sun must also, to follow Timothy Mitchell, set its limits. That is to say, the anthropos of the Anthropocene is not a self-sufficient subject – it has been made out of a willing together of flows of geology, biology, materials and energy
Thus the absence of the sun in The Road (which while a bit old now  was such an instant classic that it is still impossible to ignore), brings the dark animality of North American humans into the light. Thrust from deadening routine and habit, from their pre-fall introspective bubbles of egotism and meek supplicancy to capital, post-apocalyptic life on the road forces its characters (and us) to affirm what they want to live for – to affirm their (and our) desire for something positive. Not to be cannibals. The Road’s moral lines are starkly drawn: do they eat babies? This question becomes the basis for a new ethics for the Child in a world with no justice, no accounting or law, just interminable survival. Throughout The Road, the Man looks back to his past, a past the Boy cannot share – the Boy’s burden, meanwhile, is the future, carrying forward the ‘fire’. Thus what lurks on the far side of apocalypse is our own animality, let loose from a political subject constituted by geological networks of fossil fuels. There is a new project of on-going enlightenment (small E) in which the challenge is not just to survive, but to surpass that which we were before.
But while the film version of The Road is largely faithful to Cormac McCarthy’s novel, there is one striking addition: a bug. The bug of course embodies that weird combination of fear, instrumentalism, disgust and fascination, but above all radical alterity, so wonderfully traced by Hugh Raffles. The Boy discovers a beetle in a metal container, which flies heavenwards into dark cloud. On one hand, this could be seen as an attempt to recoup some possibility for redemption – that not all animals did die, and that other beings, too, struggle towards a precarious future. Life continuing is a supposed consolation against pain and loss of certain beings. But the bug does not show that nature has survived the Fall after all, for it too will surely die. Instead, it heightens the feeling of loss, showing how we recognise, belatedly, that the absence of non-human others limits our own possibilities of becoming with. But at least its final flight takes the film beyond an anthropocentric tragedy – we are robbed of allies for world-making loops, denied the ways of being human-in-connection, through companion species of all kinds, be they commoditised forms of life, domestic critters, or ingested food. This reading of the Road still leaves us, however, in a landscape where the line is drawn too simply, with non-humans as victims.
In other films animals are behaving more oddly, and more interestingly.
In The Life of Pi (which is not properly apocalyptic because we assured of a happy outcome by the Hollywood flashback) Pi is trapped on a lifeboat with a (CGI) tiger, with seemingly no possibility of co-existing peaceably. However, a moment of connection is made, but not until the boat’s life-sustaining processes have been exhausted and the pair face imminent death – it is only then the tiger rests its head on Pi’s lap. After the pair are miraculously saved, however, the tiger just wanders off into the jungle without looking back, without saying goodbye, rejecting any chance of friendship or shared kinship. Similarly, in Melancholia, Kirsten Dunst’s horse seems to refuse to carry on when they come to a bridge – it seems to be the first creature in the film to realise that the planet is going to hit the earth after all (as suggested by Bruno Latour in his Gifford Lectures).
A horse is also a key character in Hungarian director Bela Tarr’s 146-minute epic The Turin Horse – a gruelling film shorn of the sentimentalism of The Road and which replaces McCarthy’s natural theology (typical of American apocalypse and largely absent in this and other genres of apocalypse – these will be the subject of post no.2!) with a bleaker cosmic un-making.
The Turin Horse describes six days on a wind-swept, dusty farmstead. After the first opening scene, a mesmeric close-up of the journey home from the village, which seems to stress how family and horse are bound together in suffering to a blasted scrap of land, the horse is packed away in his damp stable. The old farmer and his daughter begin their daily routines: they stare out the same windows, eat the same meal (one boiled potato) each day. On day two however, despite being whipped, the horse refuses to move. On day three a neighbour warns them of the encroaching final darkness, and on the fourth day the horse refuses to eat or drink, or to respond to the woman’s entreaties, and then the well runs dry. The farmer and daughter try to escape. They load up their possessions on their cart and disappear over the horizon, the daughter pulling the cart, the horse following meekly. But they are forced to return, even more desperate and exhausted than before. The horse is shut away again, and does not reappear. On the sixth day, the wind and storm has ended, but a great darkness has descended; their lamp can be lit, but only for a short while before it gutters and dies. The film’s closing shots are of the man desperately clawing at a raw potato; although we don’t see the final breath, the end is inevitable.
On one level Tarr’s film is an all-too human Nietzshcean vision in which the farmer and daughter fail to break out of their lives and drown in repetition, even as the cosmos slowly slides back to its dark origins: “What is all this?”, the woman asks, “I don’t know, let’s go to bed,” the man replies. By the time they realise what they have to do they cannot leave – change comes too late. But attending to the horse takes us further. The farm’s residents are a companion species knot bound together on a journey into darkness. The horse, their more-than-human ally in farming and with whom they inherit a shared history stretching back to the Eurasian steppe, although it shares unequally with humans in the suffering of a hard life, seems to want to go it alone. But it is far from the dumb beast of burden who can only accede to demands, as described by Nietzsche. Instead, the horse becomes more than that, it betrays the man and daughter and embraces the inevitability of decline and death. Crucially, it is when the horse refuses to eat that any possibility of escape is extinguished. The final terror here is not any historical calamity; the final terror is that that ‘we’ are deserted by our non-human allies.
When preparing dinner yesterday, my fingers parsed a vegetal fold between the crusty yellowing head and the fibrous green leaf of a cauliflower. In so doing I squidged against – something moist.
Only the firm discipline of academic enquiry let me press on and record the encounter. Which was short and brief.
I threw the slug out my window.
Recently I mentioned a forthcoming article on slugs (ok, my piece that is slowly crawling to the relative light of online early) to a ‘new person’ at a conference and they suggested – at an academic conference, I re-emphasise – that I look at Warhammer 40,000’s representation of the Tyranid ‘slug-like beasts’. Madness!
I was taken aback. The Tyranids are, admittedly, awesome. They are extragalactic baddies that come from the depths of space to destroy humanity, the orks, eldar, necrons and all other inhabitants of the Milky Way in the 41st millennium. They are inscrutable bugs – think Starship Troopers but slimier and spikier. Fear not, the Tyranids are not real. They are made up by Games Workshop geeks, although I grew up with them through all three of my adolescences.
The ‘Great Devourer’ has three terrors:
- They come from the void. Pesting their way here from beyond our galaxy, they share no evolutionary heritage with humanity, post-humanity or any other ‘local’ critters.
- They come from below. A bit like a pan-galactic sequel to the classic film Tremors, you can be shlurped down anywhere.
- They devour you from within. All ammunition/forms of attack involve parasitism, living bullets and appropriation of your genetic self. Eeech.
But the true horror of the Tyranid menace is not that they are moral-less villains intent on destruction, but rather that they show the vacuum of what passes for human civilisation in 40kA.D. By then, while still alive, (post)humanity hangs on by the thinnest of administrative and psychic threads (the lore of this particular universe is vast and complex). By the time these inscrutable villains arrive, the sprawling empire of post-Humanity has nothing left to survive for.
Actually, given that they are gaming models a few inches high, the really really true horror is that you can’t realistically beat an army with three Carnifexes and a couple of Hive Tyrants in a sub 3000-point game. Believe me, I’ve tried.
I’ve been cataloguing slug imagery for a while, and in particular these resonate: giant slugs parading around France, each made of tens of thousands of plastic bags.
According to the artist they represent the suffocating nature of consumer capital, the prismatic form of slow death, stuff like that.
They don’t show actual slugs being killed by Bayer chemicals, their bodies dehydrated ferociously as a matter of course on fields across our agricultural planet. After all, who cares about slugs?
Just another form of the banal, routine violence needed to bring me my cauliflowers.
Stephenson’s books are usually like the third season of Battlestar Galactica: silly, epic, genius, immersive, and addictive. Although his breakthrough 1992 book, Snow Crash, is usually seen as a seminal cyberpunk novel (it coined the use of ‘avatar’, for example) – it isn’t. Stephenson was always too erudite to be a proper cyberpunk believer, though he played its conventions well: libertarian capitalism cross-fertilised by post-human, urban Darwinism, and an anti-materialist disdain for the flesh.
Which is why it was so great to see Stephenson out to play in Reamde. He makes William Gibson’s prolific recent output look like throwback chaff (Gibson’s books seem to be populated by the same boring archetypes – Case by a million other names).
I won’t even begin to summarise the crazy plot. One central character, Richard Forthrast, has made $ billions through an MMOG, T’Rain. Central to the success of T’Rain is that players can make real money in its imaginary world. Forthrast makes gem and $-farming not just legal, but part of the game’s lore and life. T’Rain even comes replete with a crazy temple where in-game riches get whooshed into the sky as offering to the ‘gods’/paypal accounts.
“Video games were a more addictive drug than any chemical, as he had just proven by spending ten years playing them. Now he had come to discover that they were also a sort of currency exchange scheme.” p34
To cut 1050 densely typeset pages short, the message is: ultimately, virtual reality doesn’t help when Jihadists invade North America. When that happens you need guns, lots of guns: preferably described in salacious, pornographic detail. Although amusingly, both the Jihadists and Forthrast’s survivalist relatives (or, as the Russian Sokolov wryly dubs them, the ‘American Taliban’) get armed up at Walmart. (In fact, the whole plot arc was quite like Anathem, his brilliant previous novel, in which a cadre of bookish monks morph into space-swimming, martial arts experts, before dishing out some hurt to the alien baddies, waxing philosophical even as they capture the bridge of spaceship).
Anyway, it was nice to see some online shenanigans divested of the usual sf hyper-libertarian, ‘wouldn’t-it-be-great-if-we-could-all-like-download-our-brains’ ideological façade. Reamde, the biggest ever MMOG (bigger than World of Warcraft…) is about $$$.
Reamde is worlds apart from Peter F Hamilton’s latest book, which I also just finished. Hamilton is best known for his Night’s Dawn trilogy, which while awesome also polluted the science fiction genre with all the worst hallmarks of fantasy: over-sexed teenage-brained protaganists, pneumatic air-brushed female characters, derivative plots and bad writing. (There must be an equation somewhere in which you can plot the quality of the sf inversely to the number of zero-g sex scenes). Still, Hamilton’s books are a guilty pleasure.
The bloated Great North Road has lots of silliness to commend it. Newcastle (the upon-tyne version) has become a pan-galactic hub for bioil, which flows in via some gateway-thingie from the planet St Libra. St Libra, luckily, has no sentient life to colonise, just lots of spiky but virginous green. And its of course the only place where the spice melange bioil can be manufactured, distorting free market forces and shoring up a nasty oligarchy of cloned corporate uber-barons.
There is a truly dreadful ‘police investigatory’ side-plot, but the main ‘story’ is revealed slowly. Giving it all away, the plants of St Libra turn out to be a gestalt consciousness. For narrative purposes the gestalt is embodied by a wood-skinned, dagger-fingered villain who goes around gutting, eviscerating and generally behaving un-hospitably. Tssk, pesky native.
It turns out that this ‘being’ knows how to defeat the real villain, the trans-dimensional Zanth who threaten not just the galactic economy, but the survival of humanity (the Zanth? Seriously?). So a bargain is struck: St Libra is turned into a wilderness park, humans learn how to make bioil on a terraformed planet instead: deal done. There probably is some tortuous eco-message in here about that which we recklessly exploit being the only thing that can save us, but after 1085 pages of sexist drivel I couldn’t be bothered to think about it.
As a palate cleanser I’ve looked out some good old feminist sf to read: Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower, and Sheri Tepper’s Grass.