Hideaki Sena - Parasite Eve
320 pages
I want to be your parasite god, so I can show you what you really are
Okay, time to make everyone really paranoid for a second. In an average day, out of all the actions you take, how many can you say for certain are actually yours? That sudden urge to get something to eat, to go into a shop, to call someone. Are you entirely sure it's all you? Can you say with absolute certainty that everything you say and do is all your own decision? Or is there something urging you to take certain decisions on occasion? A little voice, a tug, an instinct making you think that this idea would be better?
Are you sure that you are really you?
If you're familiar with Parasite Eve, it'll more than likely be with the PS1 game series. Released in 1998, it was described as the first 'survival horror RPG', and while fun, it was a seriously flawed game. I've actually been playing it myself recently, and finding myself getting frustrated with the awkward pre-rendered environments, a kink that would be worked out in its spiritual successor, Vagrant Story. But this is a review of the original book, not the games, so let's forget about them for a moment.
If you've played the first game, you'll already have some idea of how it all begins. The story focusses on Toshiaki Nagashima, a scientist working in the field of biological research. After his wife is rendered braindead in a car accident, Toshiaki arranges for her organs to be donated. However, he feels compelled to harvest some of her liver cells for experimentation. However, it's soon revealed that the accident was no accident, and what caused it is looking to expand its empire.
Okay, I'll be the first to admit that the central concept is a goofy one - "Oh noes, my cells are evil and have turned against me" is, at first glance, kinda dumb. But think about it: an unseen enemy, forcing you to do its bidding and you won't be aware of it until it's too late? terrifying if done right. And here, a few translation flubs aside, it's done remarkably so. The first half is very dry. The writer, Hideaki Sena, has a background in medicine, and it shows, large swathes of text being used to discuss medical procedures or experiments in mind-numbing detail. It's medical porn, plain and simple. More than once you'll find your eyes sliding down the page as the steps of an experiment are run through in depth. It's authentic, sure, but doesn't make for the most exciting reading. Once the primary villain makes Her presence felt, things start getting much better, with the final third being a desperate race to stop Eve, as she has now named herself, from evolving to the next stage. Again, there's a tendency to go indepth into the the genetics and biology, when you want the writer to concentrate on the big gloopy superbeing that can set people on fire, but when it does, it's worth it.
If you're a fan of the games, you'll probably be wondering where all the hideously mutated monsters are. Well, bad news is, there aren't any. This is closer to the Ring/u school of horror - slowly building up til it drops everything on the reader in one big clusterfuck of fire and mutilation. It's hard going at times, and the translation has a number of glaring flaws - upon hearing his wife has been in an accident, Toshiaki groans like he's been asked to do the dishes, for example, and the onomatopoeia chosen for Eve's movements is the none-more-chilling sound 'flap'. Know fear and despair. But still, it's well worth a read, especially if you're familiar with the games. Finding out exactly what that 'incident' in Japan was all about adds a few things to the original, even if it does introduce a plothole to the narrative. Apparently the second printings of the bookfix a lot of the errors, so a first edition, while a nice thing to have, may not be the best thing to get. Either way, worth a look for the curious and the fans.
Showing posts with label book. Show all posts
Showing posts with label book. Show all posts
Friday, October 23
Monday, August 10
Robert Rankin - Raiders of the Lost Car Park
350 pages
What is this I don't even
Writing a review is, despite what some of you might think, bloody hard work. Yes, it's mostly 'this is why X sucks/does not suck' when you get down to it, but it's also about making sense of what you've seen/read/played in your own head. Hard enough at the best of times, and that's when the thing actually makes sense to begin with. Take Raiders of the Lost Car Park, for example. It's the second in the Corenlius Murphy trilogy, but don't let that put you off, it's not like it'll make the book any easier to understand. In the last book, he discovered that mankind is actually being secretly oppressed by the Hidden King of the World, that the world itself is a hell of a lot bigger than any of us have been lead to believe, and that his father is actually the legendary Hugo Rune, a guru of Absolute Wisdom, a ladies man enough to put Errol Flynn to shame, and the arch nemesis of Bud Abbot. Involved in this adventure were a clan of mad Scotsmen, an electric blue Cadillac Eldorado, his loyal circus midget friend, Tuppe, and a train named after a Greek god that went 'Yabba Dabba Doo' instead of more conventional train sounds.
Cant say you weren't warned.
Your enjoyment factor for this book will directly proportional to your tolerance for the absurd. It's fair to say that if you have no time for pointless asides, running jokes or meandering stories that may or may not have anything to do with the plot, you're going to hate it. The plot, such as it is, is little more than a framework to hang said jokes and stories on. It involves a quest to open the Forbidden Zones, where the hidden wealth of the world is kept, with a reinvented ocarina, Prince Charles, Santa Claus and a gigantic rock concert held in Brentford.
Again: you can't say you weren't warned.
Like I said, it's hard to state definitively whether this is a good book or not. I mean, I enjoyed it, it's a good quick read, the funny bits are actually funny and there's a fair number of references that brought a knowing smile to my face. But this is definitely not a book everyone will enjoy. The reliance on asides and running gags in lieu of actual plot borders on the self-indulgent at times, and there's a definite feeling of 'repetition = funniness, right?' more often than I'd like. This is easily the most love it/hate it thing I've encountered in quite some time. Definitely give it a try, especially if you want something different, just...
...oh bollocks, it's become a running joke, hasn't it.
350 pages
What is this I don't even
Writing a review is, despite what some of you might think, bloody hard work. Yes, it's mostly 'this is why X sucks/does not suck' when you get down to it, but it's also about making sense of what you've seen/read/played in your own head. Hard enough at the best of times, and that's when the thing actually makes sense to begin with. Take Raiders of the Lost Car Park, for example. It's the second in the Corenlius Murphy trilogy, but don't let that put you off, it's not like it'll make the book any easier to understand. In the last book, he discovered that mankind is actually being secretly oppressed by the Hidden King of the World, that the world itself is a hell of a lot bigger than any of us have been lead to believe, and that his father is actually the legendary Hugo Rune, a guru of Absolute Wisdom, a ladies man enough to put Errol Flynn to shame, and the arch nemesis of Bud Abbot. Involved in this adventure were a clan of mad Scotsmen, an electric blue Cadillac Eldorado, his loyal circus midget friend, Tuppe, and a train named after a Greek god that went 'Yabba Dabba Doo' instead of more conventional train sounds.
Cant say you weren't warned.
Your enjoyment factor for this book will directly proportional to your tolerance for the absurd. It's fair to say that if you have no time for pointless asides, running jokes or meandering stories that may or may not have anything to do with the plot, you're going to hate it. The plot, such as it is, is little more than a framework to hang said jokes and stories on. It involves a quest to open the Forbidden Zones, where the hidden wealth of the world is kept, with a reinvented ocarina, Prince Charles, Santa Claus and a gigantic rock concert held in Brentford.
Again: you can't say you weren't warned.
Like I said, it's hard to state definitively whether this is a good book or not. I mean, I enjoyed it, it's a good quick read, the funny bits are actually funny and there's a fair number of references that brought a knowing smile to my face. But this is definitely not a book everyone will enjoy. The reliance on asides and running gags in lieu of actual plot borders on the self-indulgent at times, and there's a definite feeling of 'repetition = funniness, right?' more often than I'd like. This is easily the most love it/hate it thing I've encountered in quite some time. Definitely give it a try, especially if you want something different, just...
...oh bollocks, it's become a running joke, hasn't it.
Monday, July 20
Clive Barker - Cabal
268 Pages
He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man
Clive Barker's had some terrible luck when it comes to movie adaptations. Sure, he's got Hellraiser 1&2 under his belt, two of the finest horror movies of all time, and Candyman was fairly decent, but aside from that, by and large, he's gotten the shaft each and every time. The Hellraiser sequels have ranged from 'surprisingly good' to 'oh sweet lord, no', Lord of Illusions was either hilarious or pitiful, depending on who you asked, and the most recent adaptation, Midnight Meat Train, was, in a word, abysmal, being related to the original short story in name and basic concept alone. Which would've been perfectly acceptable if the movie hadn't committed the cardinal sin of being terrible. Of all the adaptations, however, Nightbreed holds a special place for many. Helraiser aside, it demonstrates arguably the greatest breadth of Barker's vision, the freaks and monsters that populate his mind. The quality of the film itself is debatable, but for sheer visual impact, it's definitely a keeper.
Cabal is the book it was based on, and with a few deviations, the two are remarkably close to each other. Our main character is Boone, a man with some serious mental issues, to put it mildly. While being treated by his doctor, Deckard, he comes to realise that he may be a serial killer, responsible for the deaths of dozens. One unsuccessful suicide attempt later, he has a purpose: he heads to Midian, a necropolis of the lost and damned, where monsters like him can find respite and absolution. But upon arrival, he's attacked and told that, despite his beliefs, he's actually innocent. Running from his assailants, he's discovered by the police and shot down on the spot.
Of course, the story doesn't end there.
Cabal is arguably Clive Barker by numbers. All his typical themes and obsessions are here: transformation, both overt and otherwise, the sacred and the profane, the thin line between the mundane and the magical and, of course, his obsession with the flesh. Midian is filled with the Nightbreed, monsters of all shapes and sizes that have banded together for mutual protection. The breed are a true phantasmagoria of the weird, grotesque and bizarre, from the dog-headed painter to the man made of a flock of birds. Most of them are just mentioned in passing, but it gives a fascinating view of the larger world.
Less impressive is the main central theme. So let me get this straight: the Breed are the ones who look all scary and weird, but the ignorant hicks that want to stomp them out immediately upon discovery are the real monsters here, you don't say, do go on. It's a tired, hackneyed theme and, unfortunately, it's not one that's particularly dealt with well. The only character from the town that comes across as having any real decency is the priest, held over a barrel by the arrogant sherrif for being a transvestite, and even he's unfairly treated throughout the story, his only real role being to show how not everyone is a complete bastard while simultaniously having the literal and metaphorical crap kicked out of him. He also seems to be setting up a plot hook for a sequel, which would explain a lot more, but it's been over 20 years and we've not seen much more since, so who knows.
Worse are the two sex scenes which... well, Barker came out as being gay some years after this book was published, and in retrospect, it's not entirely surprising. You ever seen that episode of South Park where Mr. Garrison tries to write a book, and everything ends up having a fixation with wangs? It's like that. Each scene basically boils down to "Penis penis penis, penis is awesome, penis penis, did I put enough detail into describing the penis? Alsonakedgirlmasturbatingonabed, okay, back to the freaks!" Without that knowledge, it seems a little suspect, and with, comes across as outright hilarious. More so especially if that South Park episode happens to pop in your head at the time.
If you're looking to get into some Clive Barker, this, along with the Books of Blood collections, is a great place to start. Yes, as I said, it's somewhat formulaic, but it covers everything you'd probably want to know about the man's work, and it's easier to get into than something like, say, Weaveworld or Imajica. It's short, reasonably to the point and filled wth some nice moments of action and horror, with some occasional moments and lines that shine wonderfully. Consider it the literary equivilent of a 'Best Of' album and be done with it.
The story of the Nightbreed was continued in a series of comics, published in the early 90s by Marvel's Epic Comics imprint, alongside a Hellraiser anthology. The comics primarily take the canon of the film with elements of the book added to fill out the gaps. The Hellraiser comics have been reprinted recently, so there's every chance the Breed will rise again. For now, we, like the characters at the end of the tale, will need to wait and see.
268 Pages
He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man
Clive Barker's had some terrible luck when it comes to movie adaptations. Sure, he's got Hellraiser 1&2 under his belt, two of the finest horror movies of all time, and Candyman was fairly decent, but aside from that, by and large, he's gotten the shaft each and every time. The Hellraiser sequels have ranged from 'surprisingly good' to 'oh sweet lord, no', Lord of Illusions was either hilarious or pitiful, depending on who you asked, and the most recent adaptation, Midnight Meat Train, was, in a word, abysmal, being related to the original short story in name and basic concept alone. Which would've been perfectly acceptable if the movie hadn't committed the cardinal sin of being terrible. Of all the adaptations, however, Nightbreed holds a special place for many. Helraiser aside, it demonstrates arguably the greatest breadth of Barker's vision, the freaks and monsters that populate his mind. The quality of the film itself is debatable, but for sheer visual impact, it's definitely a keeper.
Cabal is the book it was based on, and with a few deviations, the two are remarkably close to each other. Our main character is Boone, a man with some serious mental issues, to put it mildly. While being treated by his doctor, Deckard, he comes to realise that he may be a serial killer, responsible for the deaths of dozens. One unsuccessful suicide attempt later, he has a purpose: he heads to Midian, a necropolis of the lost and damned, where monsters like him can find respite and absolution. But upon arrival, he's attacked and told that, despite his beliefs, he's actually innocent. Running from his assailants, he's discovered by the police and shot down on the spot.
Of course, the story doesn't end there.
Cabal is arguably Clive Barker by numbers. All his typical themes and obsessions are here: transformation, both overt and otherwise, the sacred and the profane, the thin line between the mundane and the magical and, of course, his obsession with the flesh. Midian is filled with the Nightbreed, monsters of all shapes and sizes that have banded together for mutual protection. The breed are a true phantasmagoria of the weird, grotesque and bizarre, from the dog-headed painter to the man made of a flock of birds. Most of them are just mentioned in passing, but it gives a fascinating view of the larger world.
Less impressive is the main central theme. So let me get this straight: the Breed are the ones who look all scary and weird, but the ignorant hicks that want to stomp them out immediately upon discovery are the real monsters here, you don't say, do go on. It's a tired, hackneyed theme and, unfortunately, it's not one that's particularly dealt with well. The only character from the town that comes across as having any real decency is the priest, held over a barrel by the arrogant sherrif for being a transvestite, and even he's unfairly treated throughout the story, his only real role being to show how not everyone is a complete bastard while simultaniously having the literal and metaphorical crap kicked out of him. He also seems to be setting up a plot hook for a sequel, which would explain a lot more, but it's been over 20 years and we've not seen much more since, so who knows.
Worse are the two sex scenes which... well, Barker came out as being gay some years after this book was published, and in retrospect, it's not entirely surprising. You ever seen that episode of South Park where Mr. Garrison tries to write a book, and everything ends up having a fixation with wangs? It's like that. Each scene basically boils down to "Penis penis penis, penis is awesome, penis penis, did I put enough detail into describing the penis? Alsonakedgirlmasturbatingonabed, okay, back to the freaks!" Without that knowledge, it seems a little suspect, and with, comes across as outright hilarious. More so especially if that South Park episode happens to pop in your head at the time.
If you're looking to get into some Clive Barker, this, along with the Books of Blood collections, is a great place to start. Yes, as I said, it's somewhat formulaic, but it covers everything you'd probably want to know about the man's work, and it's easier to get into than something like, say, Weaveworld or Imajica. It's short, reasonably to the point and filled wth some nice moments of action and horror, with some occasional moments and lines that shine wonderfully. Consider it the literary equivilent of a 'Best Of' album and be done with it.
The story of the Nightbreed was continued in a series of comics, published in the early 90s by Marvel's Epic Comics imprint, alongside a Hellraiser anthology. The comics primarily take the canon of the film with elements of the book added to fill out the gaps. The Hellraiser comics have been reprinted recently, so there's every chance the Breed will rise again. For now, we, like the characters at the end of the tale, will need to wait and see.
Monday, June 22
Simon Clark - Blood Crazy
397 pages
I've always had a fascination for the end of the world. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to see the world destroyed - it's where I keep all my stuff - but the images, the iconography, all of it captivates me in a way nothing else does. I first read Blood Crazy at exactly the right time. The hero, Nick Aten ("Rhymes with Satan" as he likes to inform us) is 17, the exact same age I was at the time. He awakens one Sunday morning to find that the whole world has gone mad. Well, half of it at least: the adult half. Overnight, the adult population has somehow managed to convince itself that everyone 18 and under needs to die, painfully if at all possible. Nick swiftly finds himself in a community that, at its heart, has good intentions, but when things start to go wrong, they go wrong badly, and he finds himself having to cross the country to try and save everyone there from the oncoming horde of adults, and each other.
When I first read Blood Crazy, it was the best book in the world ever. I wouldn't credit it with kickstarting my interest in armageddon (which would be the best publishing blurb ever if it were true) but it was, most likely, one of the first. The problem is, my horizons have expanded since then. I've seen and read and even played more and more, raising the bar appropriately, and going back to revisit the book feels like just that - a step backwards. Right at the beginning, we find out that the book is being written by the main character, who promises right there and then that there will be no flowery language or purple prose. Then mentions casually how it's snowing like someone's torn a hole in the sky. Hmm. The book falls into the usual trap of Teenagers-Don't-Talk-Like-Thatism, but that's nothing unusual. The dialogue that never quite gels and prose that hits the wrong side of purple, on the other hand, could've been done a hell of a lot better.
The single worst fault in the book, however, is the exposition/explanation moment. Throughout the book, everyone has their own theories on why all the adults went mad, from EM radiation, to a biological attack from an enemy state to aliens to God smiting the wicked. In fairness, no theory is ever truly discounted as being completely lunatic, and some of the wilder ones are actually given a degree of credence, leaving you to come to your own conclusions. Then, towards the end, we're given something like a 50-60 page infodump that, despite an lack of actual, 100% honest-to-God explanations as to what happened, immediately becomes the most authoritative conclusion on how it all happened. Nothing wrong with that, though I preferred the idea of leaving it all up to you to decide the truth, it's how it's presented. For one thing, it takes too damn long to actually play out, for another, it's literally two people sitting in a room talking to each other over the course of a couple of days. Not the most thrilling of setups, by any standards. As for the big revelation itself? Go crack open a couple of books giving you in introduction to Carl Jung. That's pretty much got you covered. 'Underwhelming' is not the word, though considering what happens after 'deus ex machina' certainly applies.
Don't get me wrong, there's some excellent moments and scenes in the book - the causeway made of people, the attack on the convoy, motorway full of the crucified - but the book is damned by nostalgia. Revisiting it, I'm sad to say it's really not as good as I remembered - not a bad book, not by any stretch, just that, in the years since, I've read and seen so much better, a revisit would never have stood a chance.
397 pages
I've always had a fascination for the end of the world. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to see the world destroyed - it's where I keep all my stuff - but the images, the iconography, all of it captivates me in a way nothing else does. I first read Blood Crazy at exactly the right time. The hero, Nick Aten ("Rhymes with Satan" as he likes to inform us) is 17, the exact same age I was at the time. He awakens one Sunday morning to find that the whole world has gone mad. Well, half of it at least: the adult half. Overnight, the adult population has somehow managed to convince itself that everyone 18 and under needs to die, painfully if at all possible. Nick swiftly finds himself in a community that, at its heart, has good intentions, but when things start to go wrong, they go wrong badly, and he finds himself having to cross the country to try and save everyone there from the oncoming horde of adults, and each other.
When I first read Blood Crazy, it was the best book in the world ever. I wouldn't credit it with kickstarting my interest in armageddon (which would be the best publishing blurb ever if it were true) but it was, most likely, one of the first. The problem is, my horizons have expanded since then. I've seen and read and even played more and more, raising the bar appropriately, and going back to revisit the book feels like just that - a step backwards. Right at the beginning, we find out that the book is being written by the main character, who promises right there and then that there will be no flowery language or purple prose. Then mentions casually how it's snowing like someone's torn a hole in the sky. Hmm. The book falls into the usual trap of Teenagers-Don't-Talk-Like-Thatism, but that's nothing unusual. The dialogue that never quite gels and prose that hits the wrong side of purple, on the other hand, could've been done a hell of a lot better.
The single worst fault in the book, however, is the exposition/explanation moment. Throughout the book, everyone has their own theories on why all the adults went mad, from EM radiation, to a biological attack from an enemy state to aliens to God smiting the wicked. In fairness, no theory is ever truly discounted as being completely lunatic, and some of the wilder ones are actually given a degree of credence, leaving you to come to your own conclusions. Then, towards the end, we're given something like a 50-60 page infodump that, despite an lack of actual, 100% honest-to-God explanations as to what happened, immediately becomes the most authoritative conclusion on how it all happened. Nothing wrong with that, though I preferred the idea of leaving it all up to you to decide the truth, it's how it's presented. For one thing, it takes too damn long to actually play out, for another, it's literally two people sitting in a room talking to each other over the course of a couple of days. Not the most thrilling of setups, by any standards. As for the big revelation itself? Go crack open a couple of books giving you in introduction to Carl Jung. That's pretty much got you covered. 'Underwhelming' is not the word, though considering what happens after 'deus ex machina' certainly applies.
Don't get me wrong, there's some excellent moments and scenes in the book - the causeway made of people, the attack on the convoy, motorway full of the crucified - but the book is damned by nostalgia. Revisiting it, I'm sad to say it's really not as good as I remembered - not a bad book, not by any stretch, just that, in the years since, I've read and seen so much better, a revisit would never have stood a chance.
Sunday, May 31
Al Ewing - Pax Britannia: El Sombra
291 pages
Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages, I can sell you this book on the strength of two words and two words alone. Two words that will make anything and everything you're currently reading seem like mind-numbingly boring trash. Two words that, in my utterly humble opinion, should be in every book known to man.
Steampunk Zorro
What's that you say? Not enough for you? Really? Okay then, time to break out the big guns - three more words that, quite frankly, can't fail to make anything awesome, and when added to something that's already that goddamn awesome, threaten to collapse the book into a singularity of condensed magnificence:
Fights Nazi Robots
If none of that moves you, then I'm sorry, I'm pretty sure there's no hope left for you. I'm afraid the diagnosis is terminal wasting of the awesome gland, you have no chance to escape, make your time.
El Sombra is set in an alternate reality where Britain came out of the Second World War stronger than ever. This is a world where Britain is a land of dirigibles, steam-powered robots in every house. This is a world where They Saved Hitler's Brain, and put it in the body of a three-story-high brass and copper monstrosity, a steam-powered behemoth with a voice made of broken glass and nightmares. Of course, most of this is only vaguely alluded to (with the exception of the Hitlerbot 9000), as the book takes place in the Mexican town of Pasito. The Reich, weakened, but still very much alive, invades the sleepy town on the eve of a wedding. Most of the wedding party is massacred, the Nazis setting up shop in the town for some unknown, yet nefarious purpose. Only one man manages to escape, running off into the desert, driven insane by the carnage. Nine years later, and the subjugation of the town is almost complete, the townspeople firmly under the thumb of Generaloberst Eisenberg and his son Alexis. A critical mission is nearing completion. Just the perfect time for a masked man with the remarkable ability to ruin everyone's plans to walk out of the desert...
Let's be honest. When it comes to bad guys, it's hard to top the Nazis. They're probably the last major force in the world that you can point to and say 'yeah, those guys are dicks' without any unfortunate implications. And they're so easy to write when it comes to horror and steampunk. When you consider the desperately batshit plans they considered and very nearly initiated on more than one occasion, it doesn't require too much of a suspension of disbelief to consider them rolling out gigantic transforming coal-powered tanks, or signing infernal pacts with the underworld for just a little extra power - science and mysticism were two of the main pillars of their organisation, after all. So we have literal airmen of the Luftwaffe, taking to the skies on wingpacks made of the wonder metal cavorite, gigantic sandcrawlers winding their way across the desert bringing supplies and troops, and the pre-requisite steam-powered automaton, a huge combat robot with a blazing furnace at its heart, which it always has to keep stoked (wood, paper, people, it's not entirely fussy).
The Nazis themselves are an interesting bunch. Cannon fodder are, as to be expected, dropped with the regularity you'd expect. Except the writer has taken it upon himself to give almost each and every one their own little story. And these aren't a couple of lines talking about how their last thoughts were of their mother, or how they never saw it coming, oh no, it's a couple of paragraphs, easy, sometimes a page or two, detailing their life story, their career in the Ultimate Reich. Two soldiers early on, we're told, share a dreadful secret, something so very despicable. Yet the story makes it a point never to tell us what the secret was, despite making a point of mentioning that, in their dying moments, they so desperately wanted to tell someone, anyone, their dark tale, thus utterly negating the whole point. It's interesting, but it doesn't exactly do much to humanise El Sombra's enemies, since the majority of them are painted as being a sadistic bunch of cutthroats and bastards to a man. It does add a nice aspect to the story (even if we're shown almost nothing about the civilians by comparison), but considering how little we're actually told about this world - for the bigger picture, you have to read the other books in the series: bad form considering this was one of the first books released in this line - I couldn't help but think it's prose that would've been better spent world-building. Hell, I didn't even know it was set in more modern times til a throwaway line about 3/4 of the way through about Andy Warhol!
Then we come to the man himself, El Sombra, a hero right out of a pulp novel from the 1950s. Barefoot and bare-chested, dressed in only a pair of ragged trousers and a bloodstained sash for a mask, armed with only a sword, his wits, an uncanny aim and a lunatic laugh as he runs headlong into danger. The man pulls off stunts that in any other book would have me frowning in disbelief. Yet in this one, it's only fitting that he should be so insanely over the top. As mentioned earlier, he's plainly modelled after Zorro, and as such, it's only right that he should be able to kill a dozen men armed with only a handful of stones. Some things just need to be so. The author seems to have something of a fetish for blisters, however, as we're constantly told about him accruing them on his hands and feet. Unsurprising when you consider he walks around virtually (and literally at one point) naked, but it seems to happen every time he goes anywhere anything the wrong side of 'warm'. Yes, Mr. Ewing, we know, hot things burn, can you stop reminding us of this now please?
El Sombra, despite the lack of broad detail, is still a fantastic book, a modern-day slice of pulp with a devil-may-care hero. There's some great moments and references - Nick Fuhrer, Agent of S.T.U.R.M. being a particular favourite - many delivered with a knowing wink in the audience's direction. The book ends with the promise of a follow-up: El Sombra Punches Mecha-Hitler In The Face. I pray it never arrives, because if this book is any indication, the world may not survive the fallout of a punch so almighty, it'd make Captain Falcon look like the tired meme he really is.
291 pages
Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages, I can sell you this book on the strength of two words and two words alone. Two words that will make anything and everything you're currently reading seem like mind-numbingly boring trash. Two words that, in my utterly humble opinion, should be in every book known to man.
Steampunk Zorro
What's that you say? Not enough for you? Really? Okay then, time to break out the big guns - three more words that, quite frankly, can't fail to make anything awesome, and when added to something that's already that goddamn awesome, threaten to collapse the book into a singularity of condensed magnificence:
Fights Nazi Robots
If none of that moves you, then I'm sorry, I'm pretty sure there's no hope left for you. I'm afraid the diagnosis is terminal wasting of the awesome gland, you have no chance to escape, make your time.
El Sombra is set in an alternate reality where Britain came out of the Second World War stronger than ever. This is a world where Britain is a land of dirigibles, steam-powered robots in every house. This is a world where They Saved Hitler's Brain, and put it in the body of a three-story-high brass and copper monstrosity, a steam-powered behemoth with a voice made of broken glass and nightmares. Of course, most of this is only vaguely alluded to (with the exception of the Hitlerbot 9000), as the book takes place in the Mexican town of Pasito. The Reich, weakened, but still very much alive, invades the sleepy town on the eve of a wedding. Most of the wedding party is massacred, the Nazis setting up shop in the town for some unknown, yet nefarious purpose. Only one man manages to escape, running off into the desert, driven insane by the carnage. Nine years later, and the subjugation of the town is almost complete, the townspeople firmly under the thumb of Generaloberst Eisenberg and his son Alexis. A critical mission is nearing completion. Just the perfect time for a masked man with the remarkable ability to ruin everyone's plans to walk out of the desert...
Let's be honest. When it comes to bad guys, it's hard to top the Nazis. They're probably the last major force in the world that you can point to and say 'yeah, those guys are dicks' without any unfortunate implications. And they're so easy to write when it comes to horror and steampunk. When you consider the desperately batshit plans they considered and very nearly initiated on more than one occasion, it doesn't require too much of a suspension of disbelief to consider them rolling out gigantic transforming coal-powered tanks, or signing infernal pacts with the underworld for just a little extra power - science and mysticism were two of the main pillars of their organisation, after all. So we have literal airmen of the Luftwaffe, taking to the skies on wingpacks made of the wonder metal cavorite, gigantic sandcrawlers winding their way across the desert bringing supplies and troops, and the pre-requisite steam-powered automaton, a huge combat robot with a blazing furnace at its heart, which it always has to keep stoked (wood, paper, people, it's not entirely fussy).
The Nazis themselves are an interesting bunch. Cannon fodder are, as to be expected, dropped with the regularity you'd expect. Except the writer has taken it upon himself to give almost each and every one their own little story. And these aren't a couple of lines talking about how their last thoughts were of their mother, or how they never saw it coming, oh no, it's a couple of paragraphs, easy, sometimes a page or two, detailing their life story, their career in the Ultimate Reich. Two soldiers early on, we're told, share a dreadful secret, something so very despicable. Yet the story makes it a point never to tell us what the secret was, despite making a point of mentioning that, in their dying moments, they so desperately wanted to tell someone, anyone, their dark tale, thus utterly negating the whole point. It's interesting, but it doesn't exactly do much to humanise El Sombra's enemies, since the majority of them are painted as being a sadistic bunch of cutthroats and bastards to a man. It does add a nice aspect to the story (even if we're shown almost nothing about the civilians by comparison), but considering how little we're actually told about this world - for the bigger picture, you have to read the other books in the series: bad form considering this was one of the first books released in this line - I couldn't help but think it's prose that would've been better spent world-building. Hell, I didn't even know it was set in more modern times til a throwaway line about 3/4 of the way through about Andy Warhol!
Then we come to the man himself, El Sombra, a hero right out of a pulp novel from the 1950s. Barefoot and bare-chested, dressed in only a pair of ragged trousers and a bloodstained sash for a mask, armed with only a sword, his wits, an uncanny aim and a lunatic laugh as he runs headlong into danger. The man pulls off stunts that in any other book would have me frowning in disbelief. Yet in this one, it's only fitting that he should be so insanely over the top. As mentioned earlier, he's plainly modelled after Zorro, and as such, it's only right that he should be able to kill a dozen men armed with only a handful of stones. Some things just need to be so. The author seems to have something of a fetish for blisters, however, as we're constantly told about him accruing them on his hands and feet. Unsurprising when you consider he walks around virtually (and literally at one point) naked, but it seems to happen every time he goes anywhere anything the wrong side of 'warm'. Yes, Mr. Ewing, we know, hot things burn, can you stop reminding us of this now please?
El Sombra, despite the lack of broad detail, is still a fantastic book, a modern-day slice of pulp with a devil-may-care hero. There's some great moments and references - Nick Fuhrer, Agent of S.T.U.R.M. being a particular favourite - many delivered with a knowing wink in the audience's direction. The book ends with the promise of a follow-up: El Sombra Punches Mecha-Hitler In The Face. I pray it never arrives, because if this book is any indication, the world may not survive the fallout of a punch so almighty, it'd make Captain Falcon look like the tired meme he really is.
Tuesday, April 28
Neil Gaiman - The Graveyard Book
312 pages
The temptation to just write 'It's Gaiman, so you know it's going to be good' is a strong one, but I did that already with American Gods, and I don't think I can get away with using it more than once. Damn you, conscience!
The Graveyard Book is, by Gaiman's own admission, a loose attempt at a modern day reinterpretation of The Jungle Book (the original Rudyard Kipling version, as opposed to the Disney version which people are more than likely more familiar with). The story opens, as all the best children's stories do, with a murder, a family killed by the man Jack. Only the youngest of the family, a toddler, manages to escape, wandering down to the local graveyard, where he is taken in and cared for by the local residents - in this case, the ghosts of the dead interred in the graveyard. He is named Nobody - Bod for short - given the Freedom of the Graveyard and, as he grows, learns how to haunt, fade from sight, and about the night that took his family from him.
For a children's book, Gaiman spares none of the punches, as expected. Gaiman's always been a fan of the G.K. Chesterton quote about how all children know about the monsters that wait in the dark, biding their time, and how it is the duty of the writer to tell them that while they do exist, they can also always be beaten. There are dark things out there. Evil things. But never doubt for a second that with a little cunning and bravery (always the most important characteristics in the fairy tales of old) anything can be overcome. Even a night-gaunt can be a friend in times of trouble if you know the right words. Never once though, does he talk down to the audience. The text is simplified just enough to let younger readers follow along, but still retains the typical wit and sophistication we've grown to expect from Neil.
The book is laid out in episodic, almost self-contained fashion, each chapter building on the last. The fact that each chapter's also the perfect length for bedtime reading probably isn't entirely unintentional. As the story grows, we follow Bod, from a toddler, to a teenager. As with every Gaiman story, it's the details and touches that make the book a pleasure to read; learning how to deal with 400 years worth of changing customs and manners through the various dead people buried in the graveyard; werewolves calling themselves the Hounds of God, believing that they are charged with destroying evil wherever it is found; ghouls, having lost their memories, naming themselves after the titles of famous rulers and leaders (not the names - the titles) making their home in a city of wrong angles... it all adds detail upon detail to an already engaging storyline that, at its heart, deals with the rewards and tragedies of growing up
Everything comes together neatly at the end, as you realise everything has been relevant and leading up to the finale. Every weapon in Chekhov's Arsenal is fired, and evil receives its just rewards. There are still mysteries left unresolved, but they're the best kind, the ones that make you wonder about the greater world and what else might be out there. It ends, once again, in classic Gaiman fashion, on a bittersweet note. Friends are lost and the world moves on, but it's never the end for the people left behind. Bod, like Mowgli before him, leaves the comfort of his home to rejoin the rest of the world, scared, but stronger for it. This, along with the lesson about defeating the monster above, is something every child - and more than a few adults - should learn to remember more often. Gaiman is the kind of storyteller we all wish we could've had as a child. If you know any, do them a favour: introduce them to this book. They'll thank you for it someday.
312 pages
The temptation to just write 'It's Gaiman, so you know it's going to be good' is a strong one, but I did that already with American Gods, and I don't think I can get away with using it more than once. Damn you, conscience!
The Graveyard Book is, by Gaiman's own admission, a loose attempt at a modern day reinterpretation of The Jungle Book (the original Rudyard Kipling version, as opposed to the Disney version which people are more than likely more familiar with). The story opens, as all the best children's stories do, with a murder, a family killed by the man Jack. Only the youngest of the family, a toddler, manages to escape, wandering down to the local graveyard, where he is taken in and cared for by the local residents - in this case, the ghosts of the dead interred in the graveyard. He is named Nobody - Bod for short - given the Freedom of the Graveyard and, as he grows, learns how to haunt, fade from sight, and about the night that took his family from him.
For a children's book, Gaiman spares none of the punches, as expected. Gaiman's always been a fan of the G.K. Chesterton quote about how all children know about the monsters that wait in the dark, biding their time, and how it is the duty of the writer to tell them that while they do exist, they can also always be beaten. There are dark things out there. Evil things. But never doubt for a second that with a little cunning and bravery (always the most important characteristics in the fairy tales of old) anything can be overcome. Even a night-gaunt can be a friend in times of trouble if you know the right words. Never once though, does he talk down to the audience. The text is simplified just enough to let younger readers follow along, but still retains the typical wit and sophistication we've grown to expect from Neil.
The book is laid out in episodic, almost self-contained fashion, each chapter building on the last. The fact that each chapter's also the perfect length for bedtime reading probably isn't entirely unintentional. As the story grows, we follow Bod, from a toddler, to a teenager. As with every Gaiman story, it's the details and touches that make the book a pleasure to read; learning how to deal with 400 years worth of changing customs and manners through the various dead people buried in the graveyard; werewolves calling themselves the Hounds of God, believing that they are charged with destroying evil wherever it is found; ghouls, having lost their memories, naming themselves after the titles of famous rulers and leaders (not the names - the titles) making their home in a city of wrong angles... it all adds detail upon detail to an already engaging storyline that, at its heart, deals with the rewards and tragedies of growing up
Everything comes together neatly at the end, as you realise everything has been relevant and leading up to the finale. Every weapon in Chekhov's Arsenal is fired, and evil receives its just rewards. There are still mysteries left unresolved, but they're the best kind, the ones that make you wonder about the greater world and what else might be out there. It ends, once again, in classic Gaiman fashion, on a bittersweet note. Friends are lost and the world moves on, but it's never the end for the people left behind. Bod, like Mowgli before him, leaves the comfort of his home to rejoin the rest of the world, scared, but stronger for it. This, along with the lesson about defeating the monster above, is something every child - and more than a few adults - should learn to remember more often. Gaiman is the kind of storyteller we all wish we could've had as a child. If you know any, do them a favour: introduce them to this book. They'll thank you for it someday.
Tuesday, February 24
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