Suspension of disbelief

John Scalzi is being a bit silly about suspension of disbelief:

“When my daughter was much younger, my wife was reading to her from a picture book about a snowman who came to life and befriended a young boy, and on each page they would do a particular activity: build a snow fort, slide down a hill, enjoy a bowl of soup and so on. The last three pages had the snowman walking, then running, and then flying. At which point my wife got an unhappy look on her face and said ‘A flying snowman? That’s just ridiculous!’

[…]

“So, yeah: In a film with impossibly large spiders, talking trees, rings freighted with corrupting evil, Uruks birthed from mud (not to mention legions of ghost warriors and battle elephants larger than tanks), are we really going to complain about insufficiently dense lava? Because if you’re going to demand that be accurate in a physical sense, I want to know why you’re giving the rest of that stuff a pass. If you’re going to complain that the snowman flies, you should also be able to explain why it’s okay to have it eat hot soup.”

No, no, you don’t.

Suspension of disbelief is a private thing and like all matters of taste cannot be discussed. If you don’t believe in flying snowmen nothing will get you to take them seriously. And while that’s a deliberately silly example, we do this all the time, whether or not it’s drawing the line at vampires that sparkle in the sunshine or at having the Force explained as being caused by socalled midichlorians. Especially when these sort of developments go against the earlier established “rules” of an universe or don’t fit the traditional tone of a (sub)genre, they can be hard to swallow. This also explains why some adaptations of e.g. Sherlock Holmes work and some don’t. The recent modern BBC updating of Holmes worked because it kept the cores of Holmes and Watson intact, but for some people it just won’t work without the Victorian fogs.

But that’s not really what Scalzi was talking about, because his original ire was awoken by a discussion about the realism of the lava at the end of the last Lord of the Rings movie. This is entirely different from not believing in flying snowmen, as this is about something that actually exists in the real world and you therefore can get wrong. Just like there was no reason for sound in space in Star Wars, there was no real reason for the lava to behave wrongly in the LotR movie, save for dramatic reasons. It’s therefore sort of acceptable in this example, but usually this sort of thing is either an error or just pure sloppiness on the part of the writer.

It’s the writer’s job to make their worlds as believable as possible — unless it’s not of course — and these sort of mistakes drop people right out. Even in a fantasy world you need to keep everyday reality straight. One commenter at James Nicolls’ place, quoting C. K. Chesterton, put it best:

“It really is more natural to believe a preternatural story, that deals with things we don’t understand, than a natural story that contradicts things we do understand. Tell me that the great Mr. Gladstone, in his last hours, was haunted by the ghost of Parnell, and I will be agnostic about it. But tell me that Mr. Gladstone, when first presented to Queen Victoria, wore his hat in her drawingroom and slapped her on the back and offered her a cigar, and I am not agnostic at all. That is not impossible, it’s only incredible. But I’m much more certain it didn’t happen than that Parnell’s ghost didn’t appear; because it violates the laws of the world I do understand.”

Spirit — Gwyneth Jones

Cover of Spirit


Spirit or The Princess of Bois Dormant
Gwyneth Jones
472 pages
published in 2008

So about halfway through Spirit, or The Princess of Bois Dormant, when the heroine is rotting away in prison on an alien world, forgotten by everybody, it looked like the novel was going to be a science fiction adaption of The Count of Monte Cristo. It wouldn’t have been the first; The Stars My Destination just being the most famous example of such an adaptation. But while the imprisonment of Bibi, Spirit‘s protagonist does consciously echo Dumas’ famous novel, including having an older mentor imprisoned with her who leaves her a fortune, it changes its mind almost instantly and doesn’t become a revenge story after all.

Which is for the best, as Bibi is no Edmond Dantès. Whereas the latter was unknowingly framed for a political crime for those he thought his friends, only discovering the truth years into his imprisonment, Bibi was just collatoral damage, not for the first time either. She had started live as Gwibiwr, the probable daughter of a (Welsh?) chieftan of the White Rock clans who’d long lived in rebellion against the one world government, a rebellion now crushed. Bibi herself is taken into the entourage of Lady Nef and becomes a minor servant, young enough to have lost most of her memories of before. She was therefore a victim of politics long before she was left ot rot in an alien prison for being part of a conspiracy against an emperor who hadn’t yet taken the throne when she had last been on Earth. And unlike Dantès, the people on which she could’ve had her revenge were mostly innocent bystanders as well.

Read more…

Snuff — Terry Pratchett

Cover of Snuff


Snuff
Terry Pratchett
416 pages
published in 2011

Wouldn’t you know it; you try to start writing a review and suddenly you can’t find the bloody book anywhere. Which is not just annoying because I want to get started but also because I’m now worrying I lost it somewhere. If I have I will have lost a piece of history, it being the last Discworld novel she and I read together before her death, as we did with all the new Discworld novels when we were together; usually she read them first as I could be slightly more patient. We not only were both fans of Pratchett, but we actually met thanks to him, through the dedicated IRC channel at lspace.org which had been set up for the alt.fan.pratchett newsgroup. What’s more, his documentary this year on assisted suicide and the dignity of choosing your own death helped Sandra make up her mind once she was convinced she couldn’t go on anymore.She had thought about it before, but seeing that really firmed up her conviction not to suffer if there was no point to it. Reading Snuff therefore was a bittersweet experience.

Snuff itself is a typical late Pratchett novel, good but not outstanding with few surprises for the longtime fan. Once again, as in Jingo, The Fifth Elephant or Thud to name but three, Samuel Vines is taken out of his element and has to maintain the peace outside of his jurisdiction and once again there are powerful forces who profit from the lack of it he has to conquer. This time Vimes is sent on holiday to his wife, Lady Sybil Ramsbottom’s country estate to play the laird, something he’s not good at nor likes much. Fun is had with city boy Vimes’ discomfort with country ways, again as in previous novels. Finally, there’s yet another fantasy race rescued from its stereotypes: after trolls, dwarfs, golems, zombies and vampires it’s goblins this time.

Read more…

No Present Like Time — Steph Swainston

Cover of No Present Like Time


No Present Like Time
Steph Swainston
294 pages
published in 2005

I was quite taken by Steph Swainston’s debut novel, The Year of Our War, which I read from the library back in 2008. When I was looking over my bookshelves late last year to decide which books I was going to use for my Year of Reading Women project my eye fell on the omnibus edition of Swainston’s Castle series, of which The Year of Our War had been the first and I had the idea to save the second book, No Present Like Time for November as a treat. I knew I was going to like it which I wasn’t sure of with some of the other books I was going to read and I needed some incentive to keep me going.

Steph Swainston is one of the new breed of British science fiction and fantasy writers that rode to prominence under the ill fitting “New Weird” label in the first half of the noughties and one who got a lot of both commercial and critical succes. Unfortunately however she choose to stop writing to pursue her dream of becoming a chemistry teacher, which means that for the moment we’ll have to make do with the four novels she has written so far. A shame, as I quite liked both the novels of her i’ve read.

As said, No Present Like Time is the second novel in the Castle series, but this is not a proper fantasy trilogy and you can read this as a standalone; you’ll just miss a bit of context. It’s set a couple of years after the crisis of the first book, but moves into an entirely new direction. The Year of Our War had a fairly standard fantasy plot of the countries of the Fourlands being threatened by a unending horde of Insects which had already taken over the northern part of the Fourlands and which was only held in check by the powers of the immortal emperor San and his Circle of Immortal warriors only for political intrigue threatening their very existence. In No Present Like Time barely play a role, as a new, insect free island is discovered in the middle of the world ocean and the emperor sends out an expedition to persuade them to join his protection. Things quickly go wrong.

Read more…

Cyberpunk: erasing the seventies

A couple of days ago James Nicoll linked to Jeanne Gomoll’s open letter to Joanna Russ which I hadn’t seen before. Written around the time William Gibson’s seminal cyberpunk collection Burning Chrome was published, it talked about how Bruce Sterling’s editorial in it rewrote seventies science fiction history, turning the seventies from a decade that explored the boundaries of science fiction and opened up the genre to writers with a greater range of backgroundsrs into something that was just a bit dull. Something which Gommoll argued was systemic for how science fiction fandom was remembering the seventies a decade later, erasing the very real accomplishments women science fiction writers had made:

It was not one or two or a mere scattering of women, after all, who participated in women’s renaissance in science fiction. It was a great BUNCH of women: too many to discourage or ignore individually, too good to pretend to be flukes. In fact, their work was so pervasive, so obvious, so influential, and they won so many of the major awards, that their work demands to be considered centrally as one looks back on the late ’70s and early ’80s. They broadened the scope of Sf exploration from mere technology to include personal and social themes as well. Their work and their (our) concerns are of central importance to any remembered history or critique. Ah ha, I thought, how could they suppress THAT?!

This is how:

In the preface to Burning Chrome, Bruce Sterling rhapsodizes about the quality and promise of the new wave of SF writers, the so-called “cyberpunks” of the late 1980s, and then compares their work to that of the preceding decade:

“The sad truth of the matter is that SF has not been much fun of late. All forms of pop culture go through the doldrums: they catch cold when society sneezes. If SF in the late Seventies was confused, self-involved, and stale, it was scarcely a cause for wonder.”

With a touch of the keys on his word processor, Sterling dumps a decade of SF writing out of cultural memory: the whole decade was boring, symptomatic of a sick culture, not worth writing about. Now, at last, he says, we’re on to the right stuff again.

So help me, I bought into this back then. When I started reading science fiction sometime in the early/mid eighties, I was almost completely dependent on the local library, which had a fairly good collection of classic forties and fifties science fiction, a lot of seventies sf, but not much published after that. Once I’d read my way through the children’s section and could finally get into the adult section, the science fiction that I had to my disposal was all seventies New Wave doom and gloom, or so it seemed to a twelve to fourteen year reading somewhat above his comprehension level. Especially since I could get into the English books earlier than the Dutch adult section, as the latter had an age check and the former …didn’t. It seemed to me that a lot of “adult” science fiction was just dull and depressing, not to mention a bit old fashioned and dated.

So when the cyberpunk revolution finally hit my provincial library, it hit me pretty hard. Here suddenly was evidence that science fiction, adult science fiction could be modern, could be relevant and didn’t have to be dull or depressing. I lapped up Bruce Sterling’s editorial in Mirrorshades telling me how smart and clever I was for liking cyberpunk, how all other science fiction was just awful and uncool.

I was just a dumb teenager then and I sort of learned better later, but I do think Jeanne Gomoll had a point. There was a backlash against what had been achieved in the seventies, even though most science fiction written since has build on these achievements. We’re still noticing the consequences today, as the whole kerfuffle over reading female sf writers last year and this year shows.