--Alisa Krasnostein's Wait, what did you say? takes on Realms of Fantasy's recent call for "girl writers," as well as a comment made to Graham Sleight's Omnivoracious interview of Farah Mendlesohn (marveling, "What a piece of work is man!") and a discussion about one-off all-female special issues of magazines.
--At Belletrista, Tania Hershman writes about short fiction by women writers in Stopping to Smell the Roses, and reveals, when discussing the pleasures of Kelley Eskridge's short fiction, that Dangerous Space was her gateway into science fiction.
The accompanying press release said this was "feminist science fiction" and I am embarrassed now at what went through my mind when I read that (female starship commanders, maternal aliens!). What I discovered were, as I said in my review, poignant, sensual and often poetic stories, of musicians, actors, theatre directors, journalists, most of whom inhabit worlds much like my own but with slight twists, shifts of fundamental rules and expectations....I now read as much "science fiction" as I can, because it is here that writers seem to truly allow their imaginations free rein, and if that isn't the point of fiction, then what is?
--Nancy Jane Moore's Exactly What I Wanted: Gems from the Small Press offers a few suggestions for how to spend any holiday gift cards you might have received, focusing on books from Tachyon Publications, PS Publishing, and Aqueduct Press.
Michael Swanwick blogs about Helen Merrick's The Secret Feminist Cabal-- and why he won't be reviewing it in a post entitled A Worthy Book I Won't Be Reviewing. He explains:
The thing is, I vividly remember the feminist upsurge in the 1970s, characterized by some extremely important works of science fiction and a number of passionate essays explaining the thinking behind the fictions. I also remember the male response to them. Even at the time, the worst of those responses made me cringe. Today, looking back, even the best of them makes me . . . is there a comparative verb form of cringe? Or a superlative? Cringier? Cringiest?
And then he cites a few of the more cringe-worthy moments Helen's book revisits. And so, no review, but this remark:
If you're the sort of person who needs to read this book, however -- and by now you should know whether you are or not -- this is a book you really do need to read.
A mixed year, this 2009, the last of the naughty-noughties. I have already written two different best-ofs for the year, in the capacity of my day-job as reviewer. What follows is a selection, with the bias towards women and the antipodes. The standout literary novels were Ursula K. Le Guin’s Lavinia (which I recommended in that section for the newspaper), and The Virtuoso by Sonia Orchard (4th Estate). Much has been written about the former, but less about the latter, so here goes: not many debut novels are truly outstanding. The Virtuoso is the rare exception, and has already won one prize. It draws on a real life: Noël Mewton-Wood was an Australian pianist, now forgotten, but in the 1940s–50s a major European performer. He was also gay, belonging to Benjamin Britten’s circle. Mewton-Wood would not be an Oscar Wilde but his end was tragic. His story is told by a narrator first fan, briefly lover, and then friend. For him, Noël is the love of a lifetime. Noël never loves him back, and so he fashions a portrait of the pianist as sexual butterfly. Finally he realizes the man’s passions did extend beyond music, but to a lover who is a clod in his comparison. The novel is structured and subtle, compelling in its reconstruction of a lost time.
Also worth ordering from afar is As the earth turns silver Alison Wong (Picador). The author’s great-grandfather was brutally murdered in New Zealand in 1914. He was likely a victim of anti-Chinese racism, and the case was never solved. But it has sparked this striking novel. The setting is Katherine Mansfield’s Wellington, but seen here from a very different perspective. Wong depicts inter-racial hate, but also love. Katherine is newly widowed, free from an oppressive husband; Yung a local greengrocer. They become friends, then secret lovers against a background of anti-Chinese agitation. An insane racist murders a Chinese man, but enjoys popularity even from the asylum. The novel also reminds us that New Zealand was a forerunner in women’s rights, as Katherine and her daughter gradually escape from domestic drudgery. Not least it is a damning portrait of sick Victorian values, the father fixated on his son, women only fit in his view for helpmeets.
I had not had much time for Lynne Truss, even though I too am a grammar pedant. However, Get Her off the Pitch (4th Estate) was one of those review books read carefully to the end, and not out of duty, either. It comprises is a memoir of being a fish out of water, a woman in a then male-dominated world. She was an unlikely choice as sports writer for The Times, being no fan of any sport. Her strength was that she could research, see the point, and write entertainingly about boxing, golf, etc. In every chapter of this book she dives in at the deep end, and arises with the subject neatly speared, if not filleted. The assignment of sport she took seriously, and also saw the funny side. Outsider status became a strength: she minced no words about preening personalities and dire work conditions. Four years of machismo and steep learning curves did burn her out, as did a family crisis in the middle of the 2000 Olympics. Yet it gave her this whip-smart, sassy book.
A bad year for travel books, said the bookshop staff, with the preference being to stay home and cook. Under the Huang Jiao Tree by Jane Carswell (Transit Lounge) should have not intrigued me, being about travel+spirituality. But the focus was less about the travel experience than about how it subtly changes us. Jane Carswell was settled into middle age as a New Zealand music teacher. She undertook the challenge of English teaching in China, and found herself walking a very different path. The experience of hard work, less comfort and immersion in a different culture resulted in a spiritual sea-change. She turned away from individualism and the material, ending up as a contemplative religious, a Benedictine oblate. Interesting even to atheists.
Biography, ooh a good year here. The Ghost at the Wedding by Shirley Walker (Viking) is a study of post-traumatic shock, and the effect on a family over decades. It succeeds in something very difficult: the fictionalizing of actual events. Walker writes a memoir of her in-laws which expresses both the political and personal. It presents a male and female perspective on Australia’s involvement in two world wars. The men fight, and return damaged; their women deal with the consequences. Two generations of young men are sacrificed to other people’s wars, and the effect on the young nation is appalling. A heartfelt, even savage evocation of an era. And the author is the mother of a rock star…
Equally skilled was The Lost Mother by former Ms editor Anne Summers (MUP), a detective story in art history, and also how very different lives can intersect. In 1933 Summers’ mother was painted by a young artist, Constance Stokes. The portrait was bought by a Russian émigré, the wealthy Lydia Mortill. Summers would eventually inherit it, sparking a search into the stories of Stokes and Mortill. One fought a now familiar battle between art and motherhood; the other could survive everything until the loss of her family to the Gulag. A beautiful book.
And from the archives, Catherine Crowe’s 1854 Linny Lockwood, a novel from the Victorian era by a noted Spiritualist and crime writer. This book was originally published the year of her spectacular nervous breakdown, where she streaked in the wintry street of Edinburgh after a séance. [I am not making this up!] Not perhaps as interesting as her ground-breaking crime novels of the 1840s, but it does have remarkably daring subject matter – two women are deserted by the same man, and the wife ends up nursing her husband’s mistress through her pregnancy. The novel features Crowe’s interests in women and the dignity of work.
And for 2010, I have something for you, dear Aqueduct readers: Women Writers and Detectives in Nineteenth-Century Crime Fiction: the Mothers of the Mystery Genre is finally emerging from Palgrave-Macmillan, cross-fingers. And before I am hit with editing, I have returned to a novel ms, with quantum physics, women detectives, and er, werewolves.
Graham Sleight for Amazon.com: How did it come about that you decided to compile a book on Joanna Russ's work?
Farah Mendlesohn:I was sharing an elevator at Readercon with Samuel R. Delany and he asked me what I thought of Russ's work. By the time we'd drifted to breakfast, eaten breakfast, and embarked on coffee, I appeared to be editing a collection on Russ.
The Carl Brandon Society is pleased to announce the winners of our 2006 and 2007 awards.
The winner of the 2006 Carl Brandon Parallax Award is Mindscape by Andrea Hairston. [Note: No work will receive the 2006 Carl Brandon Kindred Award.]
The 2007 Carl Brandon Parallax Award winner is The Shadow Speaker by Nnedi Okorafor. The 2007 Carl Brandon Kindred Award winner is From the Notebooks of Doctor Brain by Minister Faust.
A presentation ceremony for the 2006 and 2007 awards will take place at Arisia, an annual science fiction convention held in Boston, Massachusetts. Award recipients Andrea Hairston and Nnedi Okorafor will be in attendance, and the honors lists for the 2006 and 2007 Parallax and Kindred Awards will be announced there.
Nominations for the 2008 Parallax and Kindred Awards are now closed. We will announce our winners later this year. Nominations for the 2009 Parallax and Kindred Awards will be accepted through June 1, 2010. Visit the awards page for more information.
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Here on the Aqueduct, we'remighty pleased about the announcement, since Mindscape is an Aqueduct Press book. Congratulations, Andrea!
I saw Avatar yesterday. It is visually stunning. I think Cameron's visual imagination is sublime. The narrative, however, is beyond cliché—the boy colonialist who goes native, loves the native princess, and in the end is more native than the natives! And along the way, boy colonialist saves the day (or the world) in the epic fantasy/ blockbuster SF tried and true way! Dude gets them to blow shit up! AVATAR is One Billion Dollars good and counting. Some people take issue with critiques of the film’s colonialist racism—pointing to the benign intentions of the filmmaker. (MAKE BIG BUCKS!) The lead character, some insist just happens to be a white man. There is no racist conspiracy to malign people of color. This film (like DISTRICT 9) is about our common humanity! The lead character just happens to be a white boy colonialist. Hollywood has been making variations on the colonialist/Indian Princess story since its inception with SQUAW MAN by Cecil B. DeMille. SQUAW MAN, a western play by Edwin Milton Royle, debuted on Broadway in 1905, spawned a novel, and in 1914 was the first film shot in Hollywood. Cecile B. De Mille’s SQUAW MAN was also a big box office hit! It started the Hollywood Film Industry. SQUAWMAN featured a squaw princess who commits suicide so that the white man she loves and their mixed race son can go off to Europe and claim all the benefits of upper class white privilege. Cecil B. DeMille made this movie again in 1918 and again in 1931. This was part of a long tradition. Go further back to: THE INDIAN PRINCESS or, LA BELLE SAUVAGE, an 1808 operatic melodrama by James Nelson Barker and the first stage version of the Pocahontas/John Smith romp. In the 1990’s we get the New Western. Audiences and filmmaker reconsider the mythic tales we’ve been telling on our American nation. Maybe those old cowboy and Indian stories didn’t do justice to the Native POV. The Blockbuster film with integrity of that age: DANCES WITH WOLVES—Kevin goes native, marries the white girl whose gone native, and has to get rescued from nasty colonialist soldiers by his Lakota warrior buddies. At least they're just as good at being Indian as he is. Can't say the same for AVATAR. Kevin and his wife leave his Lakota buddies and ride off into the snow. A caption on screen tells us the Lakota way of life will be destroyed—but wasn’t it beautiful and wonderful while it lasted. In all these narratives, the focus is the suffering, growth, perspective of the colonialists. AVATAR is from the colonialists’ point of view and we don’t really get to know the natives. They are sights. With the exception of the Princess, they are not full characters. Ideology doesn't need a conspiracy to continue operations as usual. Nobody has to sit around and plan. It's how we already think. It's in the water unless we work it out!
Cameron’s New Wrinkle on this tradition is that the colonialists are defeated by the natural world they are trying to rape and then sent packing by the Blue People. The natural world is called to war by the colonialist gone native who just happens to be a white boy. The colonialist learns Blue People culture in three months. That’s really fast. Either, he is a genius, or the culture is so basic…Well, the natives didn’t seem to know how to solve their problems with nasty human colonialists themselves. Diplomacy fails—war is the answer. Great action sequences ensue. Filming diplomacy might require a more subtle script and more acting. Unfortunately, Cameron has not figured out how to make narrative complexity as much fun as his complex eco-system with its dazzling flora and fauna—the flying dragons(?) were breath taking.
AVATAR is the blockbuster mix of liberal/conservative that is the hallmark of successful mass media since well...THE OCTOROON capitalized on hot button topic without challenging underlying ideology. The Natives are blue but—the chief native just happens to be played by Wes Studi—a Cherokee actor. The Native Princess just happens to be played by Zoe Saldana- an African American actor, etc. So Cameron can do a feel good movie (hug the trees and blow up the baddies, liberal eco-culture meets militaristic conservative culture) about one of the most difficult, complicated, bloody, dangerous, guilt-inducing issues that face us as human beings—how do we live with and through our differences? Blowing shit up and sending the bad colonists packing is the “melodrama fantasy” solution. There's got to be something else we can think of! Can I get a witness?
Trigger Warning: The following paragraphs contain mention of, and links to vivid accounts of, fatal homophobic violence and ugly defenses thereof.
I. The Death. Don Belton was found dead in his house just under a week ago. Within a couple of days, Bloomington police had arrested a neighbor of his, twenty-five-year-old Michael Griffin. Griffin waived his Miranda rights and said that Belton had come to his house as a guest on Christmas day and twice sexually assaulted him in front of his girlfriend [ETA: Her presence is not mentioned in the police report, only by the local Fox affiliate's anonymous source]. Griffin then, by his account, had gone to Belton's house that weekend seeking an apology; when Belton denied having done anything wrong, Griffin took the ten-inch military knife he'd been carrying with him and "stabbed him until he stopped moving," then discarded his bloody clothes and put on the change of clothes he'd brought along. Police were led to the suspect by finding Griffin's address and phone number in Belton's rolodex, a recent journal entry in which Belton said "I am so happy to have Michael in my life," and a call from Griffin's girlfriend, who said she suspected him of the killing and worried about the safety of her baby. Griffin has plead not guilty and is being held without bail; his girlfriend seems to have fled. More about the killing here, with largely warm comments, including a couple of reminiscences of Don.
II. Possible Outcomes. I think there's plenty of reason to be hopeful that Griffin will be incarcerated for first-degree murder. A "gay panic" defense would be difficult to mount, as it's not a crime passionel if you wait two days. But. There's enough homophobia around to have made it possible for Joseph Biedermann's gay panic argument to have gotten him acquitted earlier this year of having stabbed Terrance Hauser sixty-one times in self-defense; and there's the possibility that playing the Decorated Marine card could help the defendant. Five years for aggravated manslaughter is not an impossibility here.
III. Bad Reactions. Although I see very little sympathy for Griffin's actions being expressed in the news media and the blogosphere, there are some nasty remarks being made about Don. The initial flurry of comments at Andy Towle's blog took the Fox affiliate's use of the term "rape," saw a picture of Don, and said more or less, "Of course he raped the young man: he's a Negro! Bastard got what he deserved." A single commenter at Rod McCollom's blog and a single commenter at The Advocate said that for a middle-aged man to have pursued a man of twenty-five is, like, being a child-molester; both commenters were roundly denounced, but the one at The Advocate was very persistent. It's really sad to see gay guys make moral condemnations of someone's sexual object-choice. The Advocate commentary also includes, believe it or not, someone who says "This guy couldn't have been such hot shit: he'd written for Newsweek and The Advocate, and he didn't have tenure." I thought it was impressive that a guy who'd written for those venues had also signed the petition condemning the New York Times' treatment of Jacques Derrida: Belton was at home in a lot of worlds.
Unexpected disappointments, to me, showed up at Pam Spaulding's blog and Melissa McEwen's. Pam's commentariat were just a little too full of "Don't let this happen to you" advice, which can start from the straightforward "Looks like a lonely guy made a bad decision" and slide into victim-blaming, specifically victim-blaming of the sort that feminists have been decrying for forty years. Melissa, thanks perhaps to her own experiences, is all "I can't make any judgments without more information"; but however much you try to be anti-narrative, narratives do creep in. I was quite troubled by one commentor's
But...if this had been a young female student who had allegedly been assaulted by her older male professor, would we be as quick to say RIP Dr. Belton? Would we be going, "Look at all these books he wrote and his wonderful contribution to the world?"
The comment pretends that gender and sexual orientation make no difference in such narratives; but, taking it at its word, let's imagine: if Henry Louis Gates Jr. were single, and a white female Marine of twenty-five had killed him and offered the same account of events, would "we" still celebrate his contribution to the world and want to see his killer prosecuted? I hope "we" would. But when the killer's story is so self-incriminating, I just feel that saying "We don't know what happened, and he might have been provoked" is too much like saying "We don't really know what Emmett Till did to Caroline Bryant."
I'm really not moved one way or the other by the blog comments that say "OMG Michael Griffin is HAWT," but maybe they're a good corrective to the "Belton should never have come close to that man" posthumous finger-shaking.
IV. Generous Reactions. Many great counter-narratives to the "Bad Reactions" have sprung up. Most of the online comments, even at mainstream news sources, infer (and argue persuasively) that Griffin suffered "buyer's remorse" after a consensusal encounter and committed premeditated murder out of self-hatred and shame. Not enough, to my taste, blame Rumsfeld and acknowledge that this seems to be a guy who was very fucked up by the war and needs treatment for that; but I guess some people worry that such an argument could be used to mitigate a prison sentence for a guy who really needs to be taken out of circulation. Only a few note that what Griffin perceived as "sexual assault" could be anything, down to an arm around the shoulder or a request to see his penis. But most suggest, credibly, that an itty-bitty professor who could not lift heavy objects probably did not assault the young veteran, and that if the guy believed at the time that he had been assaulted, he would have called the police or, if shame and pride prevented that, done violence to Don right then and there. Friends' reports of the fact that Don hated being around boozers also help to challenge the rumor that the assault occurred when Griffin was incapacitated by heavy drink.
There's often bigotry in discussions at Pharyngula, but PZ Myers offers some nice ridicule of the idea that Griffin was forced to use his knife when threatened by Don's "horrifically gay shoulder blades"; and his commenters are pretty compassionate on this one. Indeed, PZ's own expression of anxiety about "brain-damaged" Indiana juries is the worst bigotry I see -- remember that Tina Brandon's killers were put away by a rural Midwestern jury, while Biedermann, IIRC, was acquitted in sophisticated Chicago. We should not forget that for the police (Hoosiers themselves) to take the case seriously and make an arrest so efficiently would have been inconceivable not too long ago, but they did all that.
The nicest Generous Reactions are all the reminiscences that are showing up around the web. This heartbreaking one's from a Rod 2.0 commenter:
I am a straight 67 year old female friend of Don's from Central Pa. I am a bookseller and sold books to Don from my store when he taught at Shippensburg. It is very sad for my family and I right now because he spent Christmas with us 2 years ago. This is the man that loved and collected etiquette books and gardening books, the man that always brought flowers when coming to dinner, that insisted that if my dog had a favorite author it would be Ayn Rand; a man who had gone to a Friends School as a youth in Philadelphia, a man who insisted on reviewing the people I was meeting on line before I dated them (so I would be safe-in fact he helped me pick the man I am going to marry) I feel Gentle Don was suckered in by this guy, and it saddens me.
Many of the reminiscences are showing up in comments threads at Justice for Don Belton. Here's an example:
[Don's office at Indiana contained] a big old sofa, mostly covered in books. I asked him why he didn’t clear it off, and he said “I want people to feel comfortable here, but don’t want them settling in to nap while I’m trying to write!” I begged him to clear it off so I could do exactly that, and he said “don’t you have work to do?” One day he brought an alligator skull in to his office. He had it placed up high on a bookshelf. I said it belonged on the couch to scare people away. He said “man, you’re mean.” From the first time I met him I was struck by his humor, his warmth, and the depth of his gentleness and sweetness. I will sorely miss the sight of him coming down the hall in one of his great jackets and ties, looking dapper and unique and like someone you want to get to know. I will miss his smile.
Justice for Don Belton also contains some very good refutations of media distortions that we've seen in the past week, notably some of the more sensational headlines.
[ETA: My friend "Derrick from Philly" offers a comment on Rod 2.0 that's just amazing:]
I knew Don when he taught here at Temple University. He was gentle and kind.
Temple is located in the heart of North Philadelphia--right near a housing project (the neighborhood that both Don and I grew up in--we didn't know each other back then).
One summer Sunday afternoon Don came into to his campus office. Obviously, the campus was deserted--it was summer and it was a Sunday. Don witnessed some young guys trying to rob another guy. He stopped them with the most unusual tactic I've ever heard tell of: He told the would be robbers, "why are you doing this? You'll only end up going to jail...I care about you...I don't want to see you go to jail." The young robbers must have been stunned by Don's plea--they let their victim go.
Being a cynical b_tch, I just sat and stared at Don when he told me about that incident. He said that he was trembling as he walked away, and that the words just came out of his mouth automatically. Don was never cynical, he was sincere.
Don Belton was brave, but he couldn't get aggressive with a kitten--let alone some 25 year old piece of trade.
I enjoyed every conversation we had, and every moment we spent together.
In addition to the candlelight vigil in Bloomington, plans are afoot for a memorial gathering in Philadelphia; and I'm looking to determine whether anyone's up for organizing memorial panels and journal issues in the academic sphere. Here's the best (albeit still incomplete) account I've seen yet of Don's artistic and intellectual achievements; it omits, I believe, some of his great personal essays and one or two short stories.
Highlights of Reading and Viewing in 2009 By L. Timmel Duchamp
Since starting Aqueduct Press, my reading has tended to get short shrift—except for ms reading, of course (some of which is reflected in Aqueduct’s list). This year I’ve determinedly made more time for reading.
The novels that really stood out for me were Ursula K. Le Guin’s Lavinia, a faithful, loving homage to Virgil;The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing by M.T. Anderson, which bodies forth in powerful prose much of what scholars have been learning in the last twenty-five years about the paradoxes of Enlightenment science and notions of personal autonomy and civil liberty; Three Women by Isabelle de Charrière, an extraordinary novel written after the French Revolution, offering a feminist re-evaluation of sexual morality and its intersections with class relations among women; and Total Oblivion, More or Less by Alan DeNiro, a novel that illumines the ongoing apocalypse that these days passes for normal (about which I've written here).
I won’t mention the novels I found dull or mediocre or poorly written (as usual, I read more than enough of them), but only those I found beautiful, interesting, or entertaining. Compulsively I read the last four books of Gwyneth Jones’s Bold As Love series (Castles Made of Sand, Midnight Lamp, Band of Gypsies, and Rainbow Bridge), riveted to the page even as I wished the last two books had received at least some editing; the series is a tour de force with such a distinct, concentrated sensibility of its own that I never once balked at its wildly imaginative blending of science fiction and fantasy tropes. I read The Real Life of Sebastian Knight by Vladimir Nabokov slowly, slowly, savoring the clarity yet allusiveness of its prose style. I whipped through Ken MacLeod’s entertaining The Execution Channel at top speed, trying not to notice the silliness of its premise as I shot through the slick, slippery convolutions and contortions of its plot, agog to know which if any characters were on the same side. I reread C.J. Cherryh’s Cyteen in preparation for its long-awaited sequel, Regenesis; the latter’s pacing didn’t equal the former’s, and although its story picks up smoothly from where Cyteen’s left off, the two books read as though they were written in different eras—which of course they were. I finally read Illicit Passage by Alice Nunn and The Steerswoman by Rosemary Kirstein, two books of feminist sf that have been on my to-read list for some time, and enjoyed each just as much as I expected to. The Summer Isles by Ian R. MacLeod, One for Sorrow by Christopher Barzak, and Gifts by Ursula K. Le Guin offered me quietly intense reads that made their fine writing look simple and easy. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao dazzled even as it saddened me (though I think I prefer his short fiction collection, Drown). I found Salt by Adam Roberts a provocative (in a positive sense) though occasionally aggravating read. And I loved Muriel Barbery’s The Elegance of the Hedgehog, which bristles with edgy insights while risking sentimentality.
The last two novels I want to mention, both published in late 2009, make an interesting pair. In Great Waters by Kit Whitfield, much of which is set in the sea, moved and impressed me, even if it set my inner historian grumbling about the author’s failure to extrapolate how church institutions, doctrine, and theology would have explained and accommodated (or not) the existence of humanoid sea creatures set on the thrones of Europe. Questions about species, hybridity, and identity permeate In Great Waters, just as they permeate the novel I’m extremely happy I managed to snatch up a copy of at World Fantasy Con: Sylvie Bérard’s Of Wind and Sand (translated by Sheryl Curtis, from the Canadian publisher Edge). Of Wind and Sand is a colonization story that turns that subgenre not on its head, precisely, but rather inside-out. Though the styles and narratives of these two novels are completely different, and one is set in the desert and the other in the sea or near the sea, both novels take on many of the same questions about difference, otherness, identity, and the body. I highly recommend that you read them in tandem.
I’ll just list the short fiction collections I enjoyed most this year: The Signorina and Other Stories by Anna Banti (see my post here for more); The Woman Who Thought She Was a Planet by Vandana Singh (see my post here for more); Love in Infant Monkeys by Lydia Millet; and What We Were Doing and Where We Were Going by Damion Searls. The Banti collection includes a work of science fiction; Vandana Singh’s excellent collection is mostly science fiction and fantasy.
As for other short ficton: I loved Rachel Swirsky’s “The Memory of Wind” (at Tor.com). I enjoyed a lot of the short fiction inEclipse 3 (ed Jonathan Strahan)—particularly Maureen McHugh’s “Useless Things,” Karen Joy Fowler’s harrowing “The Pelican Bar,” and Nicola Griffith’s “It Takes Two.” And though I always try not to mention work that Aqueduct Press has published in my recommended lists, I feel I must mention Claire Light’s “Vacation” (published this year in a CP volume titled Slightly Behind and to the Left), because its unsettling images and conceits continue to linger long after reading, as though permanently unsettled in my own mind.
Though I do more new reading than rereading of fiction, the reverse is (sadly) true for poetry. I think this may be because some time ago I unaccountably stopped automatically browsing in the poetry the sections of the bookstores I patronize, and perhaps also because I usually know exactly which book of poems to take off the shelf when I’m in the mood to read poetry. Still, I continue to love to venture into new poetry. A book of poetry I bought this year that really worked its way under my skin was Disobedience by Alice Notley. I know I'll be going back to it again soon.
My escapist reading was, as usual, mystery novels. The most unusual of these I read was Miyuke Miyabe’s Shadow Family. But mostly I read a lot of the Dalziel & Pascoe novels of Reginald Hill.
I always find wonderful nonfiction to read, and this year was no exception. The standouts were:
Dr. Johnson’s Women by Norma Clarke (See my comments here.) Women Writing Opera: Creativity and Controversy in the Age of the French Revolution by Jacqueline Letzer and Robert Adelson Women, Writing and the Public Sphere: 1700-1830 ed. Elizabeth Eger, Charlotte Grant, Cliona O’Gallchoir, Penny Warburton On Joanna Russ, ed. Farah Mendlesohn (See my review here.) Queer Universes, ed. Wendy Gaye Pearson, Joan Gordon, and Veronica Hollinger (I have a review forthcoming in Science Fiction Film and Television) Slaves on Screen by Natalie Zemon Davis (See my blogpost here.) Neuropolitics: Thinking, Culture, Speed by William E. Connolly Conversations with Samuel R. Delany ed. Carl Freedman Austen’s Unbecoming Conjunctions: Subversive Laughter, Embodied History by Jillian Heydt-Stevenson
About the last book on the list I must remark: Heydt-Stevenson’s revelations of the multitude of sexual double-entendres and smutty allusions in Jane Austen’s novels (intelligible to her contemporaries but not so much to us) are stunning. That’s not all she does in her book by any means, but it pretty much makes the point that very few of Austen’s twenty-first-century fans have any notion of how Austen’s contemporaries read and understood her novels. For about a decade now—ever since I read Eve Sedgwick’s essay on Sense and Sensibility—I’ve suspected that significant aspects of Austen’s work was sailing clear over most of our heads. Given the socially contingent nature of language, it really doesn't take long for certain (often important) aspects of texts to become either invisible or unintelligible.
Best Re-read: The Language of Inquiry by Lyn Hejinian
As for the category of "viewing," this year, excepting my viewing of plays and art installations and exhibits, it was all done at home, on the small screen, via DVDs. The best movie I watched was The New World, Dir. Terence Malick. The best television series I watched was The Wire. And I have to admit, my favorite short video was of an octopus, here. (Note: I'd be really grateful If someone could point me to a good one of a jellyfish...)
L. Timmel Duchamp is the author of the five-novel Marq’ssan Cycle and Love’s Body, Dancing in Time, a collection of short fiction, as well as the short novel The Red Rose Rages (Bleeding) and other works of short fiction. She is also the founder of Aqueduct Press and the editor of Talking Back: Epistolary Fantasies and The WisCon Chronicles, Vol.1 , and co-editor, with Eileen Gunn, of The WisCon Chronicles, Vol.2. In March 2010 Aqueduct Press will be releasing a new book that she's edited, titled Narrative Power: Encounters, Celebrations, Struggles, containing essays by Samuel R. Delany, Nicola Griffith, Eleanor Arnason, Rachel Swirsky, Andrea Hairston, and others.
For a couple of years, my official bio (in, for example, the Daughters of Earth anthology) read, "As of this writing, Dr. Lukin teaches in the English Department of Temple University, where he and novelist Don Belton occasionally bemuse the staff with their renditions of classic show tunes." I was friendly with Don in Philadelphia from 2003 to 2006 and then lost touch with him: I think hearing of my brother's abrupt death in mid-2006 really unnerved him because his own brother had killed himself in the mid-nineties, within fourteen months of both his parents' deaths, leaving him very isolated. "I can go to gatherings of my remaining extended family," he said, "but they'll scowl at me and remind me repeatedly that I'm destined to burn in Hell." He had a sister too, but she'd disappeared into the slums of Newark many years earlier, and no one had been able to find her.
Notwithstanding these catastrophes, Don managed to remain an extremely open and generous personality, full of wit and enthusiasm. He was a big fan of my wife, disability studies maven Ann Keefer, whom he affectionately called "Reefer." He had an amazing baritone voice that he used to sing "We Shall Overcome"; he also did an awesome Randy Newman impression ("How about that," he said of himself one day as we walked across the quad, "a black guy imitating a Jewish guy who imitates black guys!"). His critiques of Terry Gross and Tavis Smiley were hilarious and on-target. I learned from conversations with him about Toni Morrison, Bertolt Brecht, and several other great artists. I helped him edit his job application letters; he advised me on strategies for teaching Morrison's Song of Solomon. Walking through West Philadelphia with him, I was introduced to a great Ethiopian restaurant; when I tried to take him for dessert to a branch of the coffeehouse chain Cosi, he demurred: "What is this? Looks like some white girl's birthday party!" Which is now the phrase that Ann and I use for that franchise.
A very sensitive guy who wore his vulnerability on his sleeve, he predictably became something of a bully-magnet: seven out of eight students loved him, but the eighth who hated him were very aggressive about it, being disruptive in class, asking hostile questions ("Are you going to give us more guidelines for our paper's argument, or is this assignment just more liberal Creative crap?"), grieving their grades to the Dean ("How dare a man like that give me a C?"), and, on one occasion, taking the time during which he'd left the class so they could fill out their course evaluations, drawing a little gallows on the blackboard under the word "lynch." And, I'm sad to say, I and a few other colleagues were sometimes more unsettled than compassionate in our response to the tears he shed on such occasions.
Don worked extremely hard at his courses and his one-on-one interactions with students. Throughout his career, outsiders sought him out for sympathy ("When I was at Macalester, the Jewish students came to my office for support, because I was the only non-WASP they could find to sympathize with the problems of minorities."). He won a plaque from Temple's Queer Student Union for being the professor most supportive of LGBTQ students. As an adjunct and a lecturer, he brought a level of expertise to his classes in World Cinema, Creative Writing, African-American Literature, Modernism, and other fields that outdid that of some tenured professors. He could improvise an on-the-spot explanation to a casual interlocutor of how Brecht helps us understand Nina Simone (and vice versa) or how the theories of Julia Kristeva might illuminate The Bluest Eye.
Don had worked as a science journalist in Philly and been a folklorist in D.C. (where he'd been called on the carpet at the Smithsonian for "Asking an insubordinate question of Bernice Johnson Reagon"). He'd studied under Bernard Malamud in college, been friends with James Baldwin (and had a big cache of Baldwin's papers), and worked with queer theorist Eve Sedgwick and playwright August Wilson -- all of them now gone. He was as serious as anybody about a meticulous writing style --the chief frustration for me in reading his black masculinity anthology, Speak My Name, was that few of the contributors could live up to the prose style of his introduction. Writing ethically was also an obsession -- he once or twice read passages of fiction to me to make sure the depiction of Jewish characters was not offensive.
I only just learned that, a couple of years after we'd fallen out of regular contact, Don had gotten a job as an Assistant Professor at Indiana University. The fact that he was hired by a public ivy like Indiana with only a master's degree (an M.A. -- he'd received a few letters from Creative Writing programs in the past saying, "Don't waste our time by applying to us without even an MFA.") is a testament to the breadth of his knowledge and his abilities as a great educator. And also gratifying just because he was so eager, when teaching four courses a semester in Philly, to find a tenure-track job that would allow him time to return to his first love, writing fiction. I received an email from Chip Delany Tuesday evening reporting that Don Belton had been murdered by a homophobic veteran in Bloomington. I hope to write more about that, and the public response to it, in my next post.
ETA: It seems that I was too hasty in implying that he had no sympathy in his extended family: a Philadelphia cousin of his, one Leigh Harold, is showing up in the blogosphere to praise Don and to decry the claims made by Don's alleged killer.
My top book of the year has to be A. S. Byatt’s magnificent The Children’s Book, which does so many fascinating things, and is just so plain compelling a read (why was it not on more people’s Best of the Year lists? I’m baffled). I’m going to be extremely picky about someone writing about people in vaguely progressive, life-style experimental, circles in Britain at the end of the Victorian era and up to the aftermath of the Great War, but Byatt got this dead right. The world-building is superb. She also (for me) got right the thing of writing something that’s clearly inspired by actual historical figures, but genuinely transmuting them through imagination into separate characters and situations, rather than just doing search/replace on names. The Wellwood ménage clearly owes its origins to the marital complexities of Edith Nesbit, but Olive Wellwood is not a lightly fictionalised Nesbit. The novel also does very well the playing out of themes in different variations among the characters and contexts.
There’s a lot in there, about art of different kinds, the life of art and artists, stories and fantasy, families, social change. While there’s a good deal about traditional stories and motifs, we see in the specific stories of the various characters the new narratives that are being made with their lives – the women in particular, with Dorothy striving to become a doctor and the not entirely chosen but beginning to be possible ‘free motherhood’ of several of the other characters, but also chances to escape the paths set by class backgrounds. Byatt - quite bravely, I think – while including the militant suffrage movement and the Great War, doesn’t give either of them disproportionate amounts of space within the narrative.
A number of historically real individuals feature throughout the novel, one of them Edward Carpenter, the socialist, early ‘green’ simple-life advocate, anti-imperialist, suffrage supporter and homosexual rights campaigner. Another of my top reads this year was Sheila Rowbotham’s long-awaited biography of Carpenter, which was well worth waiting for. He was perhaps a very British figure of a reformer, and I’m not sure whether he had much following in North America (though he himself was profoundly influenced by Walt Whitman). After being somewhat forgotten and neglected following his death in 1929 he was rediscovered during the 1970s, but this is the first full (very full) biography. The best biography I read in 2009.
A book I was sent by the kind friend who was one of the co-editors and also a contributor, Olga Gershenson and Barbara Penner (eds) Ladies and Gents: Public Toilets and Gender (2009), though a bit of the mixed bag interdisciplinary edited volumes tend to be, is nonetheless an extremely good introduction to this neglected but vitally important area of study and I recommend it.
Exhibitions: I was thrilled to bits that there was a (relatively small, and only on for a brief time) exhibition of Louise Nevelson’s work at a rather obscure (and frankly, not easy to find) space in West London this summer. I have been mad about Nevelson’s work since the epiphany of first gazing upon her Waterfall in the National Museum of Women in the Arts in Washington DC in the mid-nineties (I think it might have been on loan rather than part of the permanent collection). This was not anything like as extensive as the major exhibition I managed to see at the De Young in San Francisco during a brief visit there in 2007, but there were some large pieces that I had not seen before. Nevelson, of course, is a lovely example of the artist as forager and repurposer, picking up junk and cast-offs and turning them into breathtaking constructs.
The installations of the Walking in My Mind exhibit at the Hayward Gallery on the South Bank were a mixed bunch, but I was very taken with Yayoi Kusama’s space full of inflatables.
Given my interest in the Bluestocking circle, I am very much looking forward to the arrival in London of the exhibition currently at the Yale Centre of British Art, Mrs. Delany and her Circle, while feeling very thwarted that it seems highly unlikely that I shall manage to get to Manchester to see the highly-praised Angels of Anarchy: Women Artists and Surrealism, but may give myself the book as a New Year present.
Lesley A. Hall is an archivist and historian resident in London (UK), who has been a feminist since before she discovered the word. She has published several books and numerous articles, chapters, and reviews on gender and sexuality in the UK during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Her biography of British feminist socialist sex radical, Stella Browne, should appear in 2010. An annual attendee at WisCon since 2005, she also reads and writes speculative fiction. Her reviews have appeared in Strange Horizons and Vector and her biographical and critical study of Naomi Mitchison was published by Aqueduct in 2007. Her essay, “Beyond Madame Curie? The Invisibility of Women’s Narratives in Science” will be published in Narrative Power: Encounters, Celebrations, Struggles, forthcoming from Aqueduct Press in March 2010.
For me 2009 was a year of much-hoped-for change, particularly in the area of climate politics. Although the Copenhagen summit was a dismal failure, the rise of youth and citizen climate movements around the world, and their catalytic meetings in Copenhagen, have given birth to a new hope for this beleaguered planet. Jim Hansen of NASA has pretty much come out and said it: the only hope we have left is global civil resistance. Kim Stanley Robinson puts it bluntly in an interview: the war is now between science and capitalism. We live in tumultuous times where new paradigms must be born --- or old, discarded ones find new relevance.
In my reading and viewing this year (necessarily curtailed by the demands of a full-time job and various personal responsibilities), I found much that reflected the current critical state of the world. Some of what I read only obliquely echoed these concerns, but I found insight in them nevertheless.
For intellectual highs I needed to go no further than Anathem, Neal Stephenson’s magnum opus. Although this is a flawed work (with one particular science flaw that stood out to this once-particle-physicist) it is a GREAT flawed work. I’d rather read something ambitious that doesn’t quite reach its goal than something competently mediocre. Well, Anathem was mindblowingly ambitious. What I liked best about it (and what made me weep with envy) was the conceptualization of an intellectual community where philosophy and gardening and physics and sociology were happily combined, minus the artificial barriers we raise in our educational system between subjects of study. Among the failures of the book are the poorly imagined romantic and familial relationships that felt trite and false to me. The plot was really quite interesting, especially the integration of philosophy and physics with action, but the other thing that stood out to me was the sense of place, and the lovingly lyrical and precise descriptions of different locations on the planet Arbre. It came as no surprise to me to learn later that Stephenson’s college degree is in geography. I also loved all the expositions, whether philosophical or mathematical, that littered and enriched the book. If I lived on a world like Arbre you’d know where to find me.
Another intellectual treat was the Steerswoman series by Rosemary Kirstein. The opening reads like some kind of traditional fantasy, as we follow the protagonist, Steerswoman Rowan, in her search for a mysterious jewel, fragments of which have been found in disparate locations on the planet. The Steerswomen are truth-tellers and knowledge seekers, and theirs is also a community of intellectuals, with the difference that the steerswomen are wanderers who go into the world seeking knowledge. So as we follow Rowan we discover how, through careful observation and reasoning she finds the truth about the jewel fragments. A lovely fictional elucidation of the scientific process! My favorite in the series was The Lost Steersman, in which I came across the most interesting invention of an alien species and civilization that I’ve read recently, or ever. This is great science fiction indeed.
Both books, however, either ignore or only glancingly address what to me is a major concern: the issue of science and ethics. For instance, in the Steerswoman series the need to know, to learn and to understand, is elevated as a virtue --- it is in fact a criterion for being selected as a Steerswoman or Steersman. In Anathem also the yearning to know and understand distinguishes the mathic world from the Saecular one. But in neither book is the question raised as to the possible costs of wanting to know. The Nazi scientists who experimented on Jews during Hitler’s reign were presumably doing science, wanting to know and discover truths. Yet nobody in their senses would excuse them on those (or any) grounds. So why is it that when we teach science or write science fiction we don’t talk about the ethical limits that we must impose on the search for knowledge? When is it appropriate to say: my wish to know must come second to the well-being of another? Perhaps we do not ask this question because we still experiment on lab animals, even knowing from modern science that many of them are sentient, aware, intelligent beings. In fact in a terrible scene in one of the Steerswoman books, Rowan has to become a party to torture in order to extract information --- something that made me stop reading the series for many months. Later Rowan appears to redeem herself in her interaction with the alien species that I mentioned, but again there is no explicit discussion of the ethics/cost/philosophy of knowledge-gathering. And I write this as one who is as susceptible as the next person to the gosh-wow charms of scientific discovery.
Perhaps it is this divorce of science from ethical constraints that has contributed to the crisis in which we find ourselves. There is much in science fiction that warns about the dangers of technology, from nuclear war to climate collapse. Apocalyptic scenarios are very common and presumably intended as warnings that if we continue on our current course we cannot avert disaster. Yet however lofty the aims of these works their ubiquity points ultimately to a failure of imagination and of courage among us science fiction writers. If science fiction is about re-imagining the world, toppling tired old ways of being, then we have failed hopelessly. It is easy to write apocalyptic scenarios --- much harder to imagine a way of life, a movement, a historical path that would avert the apocalypse. The latter takes research, exploration, personal life changes, the guts to make mistakes, to go out on a limb, to reject consensus reality, to examine one’s most beloved assumptions. Hard work. And yet it must be done.
A book that I read this year that comes closest to such a re-imagining is Kim Stanley Robinson’s Pacific Edge, part of his Three Californias trilogy. We are introduced to a utopic community and its struggles and human entanglements mainly through the eyes of Kevin, a fascinating, innocent and determined young man. The central plot point in the book has to do with control over water, and arguments in the town council about whether the last untouched hill in the area should be built-over. This sounds mundane and boring in the extreme, but it isn’t. It is a realistic and unpretentious evocation of relationships --- among people, and between people and the land --- in an imperfect utopia. It is also one of the most moving books I have ever read.
A counterpoint to Pacific Edge is The Gold Coast, Robinson’s imagining of a California (specifically Orange County) where runaway capitalism/consumerism has taken hold. It is a story of the struggles of a young, rich son of an arms engineer who tries to rebel against the system. Set in a backdrop of giant malls and freeways and designer drugs, the book asks the question as to whether it is possible to rebel against such a system while one’s survival depends on it. A deep and uncomfortable question.
Imagining a utopic community is one thing --- getting there is another. This is where L. Timmel Duchamp’s novel Renegade comes in. An unflinching look at the politics of power, where conventional assumptions and loyalties are overturned by the coming of the mysterious alien Marq’ssan, this second in the series continues the story of Kay Zeldin and her confrontation with the US Security forces. What power can and will do to destroy the will of the renegade is realistically and horrifically portrayed --- in fact it took me a long time to recover from the conclusion of the book, even as I had to admit (and admire) its rightness in the context of this long and rich saga. There is a lot more to this book that cannot be captured in a paragraph --- read it!
The role of power on the global scale is revealed just as unflinchingly in a remarkable play by Delhi-based writer Manjula Padmanabhan: Harvest. I’ve been wanting to read it for a long time and finally got the chance this summer, since it was one of the readings at the IIT Science Fiction Workshop in Kanpur, India. A clever, moving, devastating drama about organ transplants, featuring a lower middle class Delhi family and the affluent Americans they serve, it is a remarkable work by one of India’s best SF writers in English. I also had the chance to read Padmanabhan’s first novel (she has mostly written short stories before): Escape. The journey of a young girl through a land where women have become rare, if not extinct, where she must travel disguised in the company of a relative to the boundaries of another country, it is a great and frightening portrayal of a destroyed civilization and its wounded inhabitants. The coming-to-awareness of the protagonist, who hardly knows what it means to be female when she starts on her journey, is one of the most beautiful things about the book.
Anil Menon’s YA novel The Beast with Nine Billion Feet made its debut this year also. A complex, scary, phantasmagorical ride through a futuristic Pune (in the year 2040), a city caught in the grip of new technologies co-existing with poverty and exploitation, it is a story of a friendship between the protagonist, Tara, and two very strange children, Ria and Francis. It is full of uncomfortable things, such as the loss of love, the alienation of brother and sister, father and son, the persistence of poverty, the promise of a new age with terrifying possibilities. And yet these are the issues that young people must face in the world we are creating for them, and therefore this is a brave and necessary book. It is not perfect, having some flaws that come with first novels even from seasoned writers (Anil is an exquisite short-story writer), but its steadfast refusal of despair and its celebration of friendship are worth noting.
Science fiction writers have re-imagined our world in various ways, creating or uncovering paradigms that overturn our assumptions about how we exist in the real world. Going into a possible future is one such approach; I’m thinking of Ursula K. Le Guin’s stunning work, The Dispossessed, and its sophisticated sociological world-building (which makes similar attempts in Anathem seem quite naïve). I’ve read The Dispossessed many times, and to me it is one of the seminal works of science fiction. More recently Le Guin has done it again with her novel, Lavinia. This time she has gone into the deep past, into an imagined history. I found Lavinia to be a spare, beautiful evocation of a time long past, where humans, animals, and landscape were not separate from each other. The voice of Lavinia, given only a mention in Vergil’s Aeneid, is very moving and believable in this novel. A rare celebration of the notion of duty (in a form I recognized to be quite similar to the Hindu notion of dharma) in the context of a civilization deeply connected with the non-human world, it is a unique work, subversive in a subtle way because it tells us without actually telling us that there are other ways to be in this world. Better than my ramblings is to read the actual book and to listen to this videotape of the author reading a section aloud.
I’ll mention only two non-fiction books I read, mostly in the interests of conserving space: one is a small and elegant book by MIT atmospheric scientist Kerry Emanuel: What We Know About Climate Change. Written for the Boston Press as part of a series of works explaining important ideas to the public, this tiny book is very readable and communicates with enviable clarity the science of climate change. The other book is ethologist Marc Bekoff’s The Emotional Lives of Animals, which brings the reader up to date on what science and experience have taught us about animals and their emotions. Which is, that we share with them (and mammals, certainly) quite a wide range of emotions. This is a delightful work and a necessary one in a society where animals have been considered little more than commodities. To what extent this attitude has contributed to the crisis of global warming is left as an exercise to the reader.
I don’t get to see many movies but this year was different. I saw quite a few. Two of them were Hindi movies, the first being Delhi 6. While deemed by many to be a flop, this movie from Mumbai’s great film industry is really quite enjoyable. The music is awesome and wildly eclectic (a signature of the genius of A.R. Rahman) the story --- of a young man settled in America who goes back with his dying grandmother to the ancestral home in Old Delhi and finds not only love but himself --- oscillates between realistic and surreal, and it has enough of the good old Bollywood masala while dipping into serious issues like religious conflict. The other movie I saw was the classic 1951 Bollywood movie Awara. I grew up with its songs and its story but had somehow not managed to see it, even though it is iconic, and wildly popular in and outside India (at least among earlier generations in China and Russia). It is the story of a wastrel, a wanderer whose mother was thrown out by his rich judge father after she was kidnapped and released by a man wrongly accused and imprisoned by said judge. The songs are wonderful and the movie is surprisingly daring for its time, not only in terms of clothing worn by the actors but in its characterization of Rita, a passionate, brilliant young female lawyer, wonderfully rendered by the inimitable Nargis.
The movies Up, The Battle of Terra, and Avatar all have a common theme of exploitation of natural resources by greedy humans. Of these Up is enjoyable but lightweight, The Battle for Terra has more substance and good animation, set on another world whose inhabitants have given up war and high tech for peace, but are then invaded by humans. As for Avatar, it is a stunning gem. I saw Avatar in 3-d, which enhanced the immersion into a truly other world, but the technical oomph was not the only thing to rave about. Although the story of Avatar is not uncommon in the genre, the medium and the world-building, with its astounding biological and geographical detail and complexity, made the story real. It is, to me, the story of the American Indians the way it should have happened. I am curious to find out how people of the various American Indian nations have reacted to this sad, tragic, familiar story that had the ending Black Elk and others dreamed of. Since I read Black Elk Speaks last year, I couldn’t but help think of it as I watched the movie. So while it descends to cliché at times, it is not simply a white-man-to-the-rescue kind of movie and it avoids some of the problems of the much older movie Dances with Wolves. It is a story of going native, of the unambiguous embracing of a way of life that we’ve lost with the genocide of the Indians and the homogenization of the world. I remember reading that in the old days when the Americas were being settled by Europeans, settlers kidnapped by Native Americans did not wish to return to their original white families, whereas Native Americans captured by whites tried to escape at every opportunity. This is not to romanticize or trivialize the dangers of living in the wilderness (nor am I unaware that different Native American cultures were different in their interactions with the environment, or that various indigenous peoples haven’t done great environmental harm --- the Sahara being a case in point, perhaps), but to point out that perhaps in giving in to our fear of nature we’ve lost something really important. When I think about such ideas and movements as transhumanism and so on, I see in them that alienation from the environment, and the fear of natural, biological processes, such as death. People who live more connected lives on this Earth must fear death too (who doesn’t?), but perhaps they don’t give in to this fear as readily as we, the so-called civilized, do. Perhaps being connected to something larger takes the edge off this fear. And in fact one of the great pleasures of Avatar is the invention of a humanoid people who are such an integral part of their environment --- an environment rendered in stunning and luminous detail, rich with stupendously imagined flora and fauna. (Incidentally the written work that came to mind when I watched Avatar was Ursula Le Guin’s The Word for World is Forest).
A couple of other stand-out movies included 9 (the animated post-apocalyptic movie, not the more recent movie of the same name) and Steamboy. Both deal with scientists whose work unleashes the potential of evil, although the ending of Steamboy is rather ambiguous on the subject. Another movie that deserves wider distribution and reviews and publicity is the remarkable work Ink. A low-budget art film about a girl who is taken away by a mysterious, damaged soul in her dream, it is a great genre movie that transcends genre. It is about the transformation of a man’s soul, the lure of money (again, the evils of capitalism make an appearance) and the attempts by various storytellers (people who bring humans dreams) to rescue the girl. It is moody, atmospheric, rich with metaphor and general weirdness. I loved it.
We find ourselves, at the end of 2009, faced with a dying biosphere, insensate greed on the part of nations and corporations, and a growing human population content to sit in front of their giant TV screens like the mindless consumers of Fahrenheit 451 while the world burns. But we also have a growing civic movement for a sustainable world, and writers and film-makers imagining alternate endings for our great, shared story. Although I don’t believe Art has a purpose apart from the pleasure of creation (at least, on the few occasions when I’ve attempted to create something with an explicit message, my Muse has run away screaming) --- I do believe great works of art have the happy side-effect that they make us think. And thinking differently might change us enough to change our world.
Vandana Singh is the author of The Woman Who Thought She Was a Planet (Zubaan, 2009), some very fine short stories, and two novellas published by Aqueduct Press in the Conversation Pieces series: Of Love and Other Monsters and Distances. She lives in Boston with her family, where she teaches physics.
