Book Review: Doctor Who: Lucifer Rising (Andy Lane & Jim Mortimore)

In the mid-22^nd century, the Doctor, Ace and Bernice Summerfield travel to Project Eden, a human expedition to find valuable minerals on the planet Lucifer. There are also rumours of “Angels” on the planet, which some among the crew wish to make contact with. When crewmembers start being murdered one by one, the Doctor's investigations lead to a horrific plan for the planet, one which Ace may be mixed up in . . .

From that plot summary, Lucifer Rising may sound like a very traditional Doctor Who story, but it proves so much more than a murder mystery on another planet. This is a story that could never have existed on TV (and even as a film it might have suffered) and shows exactly what a Doctor Who book series can do.

The Seventh Doctor is captured very well here, especially in his darker, brooding moments. Unsurprisingly, he's already ahead of the game when he arrives. Lane and Mortimore succeed in keeping him and his motives a mystery from the reader, even when chunks of the story are told from his perspective. He also gets some comedic moments in there, which alleviate the story's dark tone without feeling forced. Other, broader aspects of the Doctor are also captured well here. We see curiosity at a new environment, a dim view of authoritarians, compassion for the misguided, and moral outrage at the destruction of a whole planet for personal gain.

There is one moment which might strike some people as quite out-of-character though, which is when the Doctor shoots the main villain at point blank range. It's a pretty bald defiance of the character's usual distaste for violence, but personally, I felt it was handled appropriately. In fact, I think it worked especially well for this Doctor. The Seventh Doctor had a habit of goading villains into destroying themselves while keeping up a facade of moral righteousness; here the Doctor's hypocrisy is challenged and he realises that if he's willing to manipulate Davros into blowing up Skaro, he may as well call a spade a spade and do the deed himself. All in all, the authors have done a fine job of capturing the Doctor here.

Then there's Ace, who's a bit trickier given how she's changed so much from her TV persona. There are a lot of references to her history with the Doctor, where she got fed up of being used by him for his moral crusades, but they add to the character and don't come off as fanwank. Anyone reading this who's never seen on Ace on TV shouldn't have much trouble getting a handle on her character.

Lane and Mortimore show how Ace has become more militant since leaving the Doctor; she's better able to give orders, keep a cool head in a bad situation, and switch sides to preserve her own life. I feared she would come off a bit angsty and too morose to be likeable and interesting, but I felt the balance was struck just right. We do get a bit of insight into how she's fared in the interim between Love and War and Deceit, with an especially effective anecdote about meeting the Daleks again. It's only a short scene, but it still says a lot about Ace's mindset, the universe of the story, and the relationship between her and Bernice.

And then there's Bernice Summerfield, who's in the unenviable position of getting stuck between the Doctor and Ace. Between the former's shadowiness and latter's bitterness, it is nice to have one character who just likes to travel for the sake of fun and discovery. There's a nice bit where Bernice explores the moon Moloch and notes its bizarre wildlife. The emphasis on discovery harkens back to Doctor Who's roots, when it was more about exploring an unknown universe than sustaining years of mythology. We also get some tense moments between Bernice and the Project Eden team, which also tie in with an old Doctor Who staple, showing how the companions deal with the people they meet. With the Doctor and Ace on one side, and Bernice on the other, two important aspects of the show are covered nicely here.

Then we come to the guest characters, and this I feel is where the momentum slows down a bit. I have several issues with the characters here, one of which there seem to be too many of them. The book is packed with them, and most don't seem to have any attributes aside from their names. There are glimpses of interesting stories here, but the competition for space means none of them feel quite as developed as they should have been.

One character, Alex Bannen, starts off as a smug scientist who cares more about material gain from Lucifer and not the deeper significance. We then find out about his tragic past, which gives him more depth and the promise of better development. And then . . . he kind of disappears from the book, only to reappear towards the end.

Then there's Adjudicator Bishop, who's introduced as a narrow-minded bureaucratic who's obsessed with paperwork and (of course!) suspicious of the Doctor. Then somewhere along the way, he morphs into a pulp action hero who gives speeches about truth and justice, which he administers with his gun. I'm sorry, but where the hell did this come from?

This technique of hinting at characters' motivations without showing them outright works for the TARDIS crew, since the series will be following them and the authors know they can take their time with them. But for the one-off characters, the ones whose stories are meant to be wrapped up in one book, it just feels like a waste. I'm not saying Lane and Mortimore can't create interesting characters – I would have loved to have seen Alex, Bishop and Christine all get their own stories. It's just a shame that they get so squashed against each other that we don't get to know them as much as we should have done.

Another annoying habit, which is especially clear in the early stages, is that the introductions are very clumsy. The introductory scene is one of the worst cases of telling and not showing I've seen in a long time. It crops up at other points as well – Bishop's past is unknown until we get a handy paragraph explained to us. Again, this feels more like a pitch for a fascinating character than a proper story for one.

And then there's the really confusing choice to skip over their introductions to the Doctor and his companions. For some reason, Lane and Mortimore skip this part – I actually forget if the crew's memories were modified to make them accept the time travellers or not, and the book is so dense I didn't feel like going back to check – and so, it made it hard for me to engage with the story early on. This kind of tricksiness when it comes to plotting makes me suspicious, or maybe I'm just sick of it being pulled by Steven Moffat so much. Either way, I couldn't quite understand the reason for it.

Now we come to the science fiction part, which is where I feel the book really excels. Legion is probably one of the weirdest beings ever created for the Doctor Who universe. You'd have to read the book to see why as I couldn't explain it here, but all I can say is that this could never have worked on TV at the time. It shows how far Lane and Mortimer have taken the print format and run with it. I also loved how Legion explains itself using a mundane analogy of a pond, as it reminded me of the Fourth Doctor explaining transdimensionalism to Leela using boxes.

We also get some pretty inventive death scenes towards the end, which I also won't bother trying to put into words here. All I'll say is this is certainly not a book for the squeamish. At this point, the story becomes pure Lovecraftian horror of a sort that some people will surely love, but might turn others off. I admit I enjoyed reading it at first, but I felt like this section dragged out for too long. Going back to the character issues, some are introduced just so they can get killed off, which struck me as a bit of a callous move. This is one part of the book that I'd say was gratuitous.

In keeping with the spirit of the Seventh Doctor's era, the book also contains some heavy-handed ecological and anti-capitalist themes. Lines like “the rape of Lucifer” will likely discourage some people by their sheer blatantness. Personally, I'd say it was warranted, given how these issues are even more relevant today. The depiction of a future world that's overpopulated and polluted certainly clashes with the upbeat philosophy we're used to seeing in Doctor Who. But Doctor Who at its best has never been one to shy away from harsh truths, and so I feel the metaphors work to the book's advantage.

Lucifer Rising is by no means a perfect book, as I've said. It's characterisation is often clumsy, the plot can drag a little and it could have been cut down a bit. Its tone is dark throughout with only a few spots of fun, which certainly won't be to everyone's taste. But if you want to see the Doctor Who formula taken to its full potential, I would highly recommend it.

Book Review - Moon Over Soho (Ben Aaronovitch)

Moon Over Soho is the second in Ben Aaronovitch's Rivers of London series, which follows Met DC Peter Grant as he investigates the supernatural underbelly of his native city. This installment opens with Peter looking into a strange pattern of deaths – jazz artists who keep dropping dead of seemingly natural causes, and all around the area of Soho. The trail only gets stranger and more disturbing from there, and Peter discovers that the truth lies in his own past, and the past of the city.

There's a lot to love about this book, but its narrator has to be number one. Peter is a wonderfully engaging lead, both an impulsive young maverick and a somewhat aged cynic. His sardonic view of the world and the force he works for brings a lot of levity to the story. His conversational tone gives him a chance to go off on tangents, but Aaronovitch never lets this slow the story down. Instead, it makes the reader more intimate with Peter as he shares his thoughts with them, as if talking to them in the pub.

Peter's somewhat flippant tone also provides a curious lense through which we see his personal life. The story opens with him going to see a friend and colleague, Lesley May, who was badly scarred due to events in the last book, to the point that she doesn't show her face and communicates with a keyboard. It's a pretty grim start to the book, but Peter never lets this get him down. Indeed, this could be seen as one of Peter's flaws; he hints several times that he's afraid of what he'll see when Lesley shows him her face. Being a young man, Peter's not one to go on and on about his feelings, but Aaronovitch gives us just enough of a glimpse to show Peter's vulnerability without wallowing in melodrama.

He uses a similar approach when writing about Peter's homelife. The reader gets an indication that Peter had a less than happy childhood, with a short-tempered mother and an aloof father who spent most of his time working on his music. Aaronovitch never spells this out for us, but there does seem to be some vague rift between Peter and his parents, which could explain why Peter has such an independent spirit.

For instance, jazz is a huge part of the story, and Peter knows so much about it because of how much his dad listened to it and played it, yet Peter admits that he doesn't even like jazz that much. He says this to the reader, but not his father, as if he doesn't confide in him that much. Peter may not be the type to wear his heart on his sleeve, but I get the feeling like Aaronovitch is dropping hints for a character arc that will explore this in greater detail.

Other characters are treated similarly, particularly DCI Thomas Nightingale, Peter's mentor in magic, and superior officer in the supernatural branch of the Met known as “The Folly”. We get a few hints about Nightingale's past, like his boarding school days with other wizards, and his time during the Second World War. I liked the contrast between the cool, composed figure that Peter knows and the more powerful younger soldier who blew up a Tiger Tank.

For all this, we get the sense of tragic quality to Nightingale's character. For instance, he and Peter visit his old school at one point, where Peter finds an enormous memorial his mentor carved by hand to commemorate the wizards who fell in the War. There's also the fact that, despite his powers and intelligence, Nightingale spends most of his time shut up at home with only his silent maid, Molly, for company. As he says at one point, “while I lived here with Molly, the world continued on without me” (P. 218)

The theme of life wrecked by the cataclysm of the War is returned to throughout the story. The wizarding community was rapidly depleted, leaving the survivors cut off and unaware of each other's existence. This allows a sinister black magician to go on operating for years without Nightingale being aware of it. This is an interesting contrast to other fantasy series like Harry Potter, where the magical communities, though in hiding, are extensive and interconnected. Here, they're cut off and scattered, reflecting the devastating effect the War had on people across the world. The London Blitz also becomes a major plot point, and is used to show how disaster can transform people into monsters, sometimes in unexpected ways.

If the wizarding community is fractured, the city of London is buzzing with life, and Aaronovitch never misses a chance to show off the depth of his knowledge of the place. Peter wryly observes the architecture and people of the city, and sometimes diverts into little anecdotes about its history. These parts of the book will obviously appeal more to people who know London well. I sometimes found it a bit hard to relate to, especially when it came to placenames and geography, but I appreciated the personal touch all the same. Aaronovitch once said he'd only be seperated from London when it was prized from his cold, dead fingers, and that devotion is as much a cornerstone of this book as its characters.

His characterisation of the Met is also interesting; while many urban fantasy books have the hero try to keep their supernatural dealings a secret, Peter works for an institution that knows all about his line of work. In a diplomatic “See no evil, hear no evil” arrangement, the powers-that-be tolerate the Folly's presence so long as it doesn't impinge on other areas of the Met or reveal itself to the public. However, it also means the Folly receives no funding so as to avoid a paper trail, meaning Peter and Nightingale are brought in to investigate the unusual cases while receiving little credit for it in return. It plays in well with the cynical tone of the books and also gives Peter another shaky relationship with authority.

In a similar vein is the testy relationship between the gods of the River Thames, with Peter stuck in the middle. The gods don't get as much focus as they did in the last book, but it's clear that this is an arrangement that could get Peter in serious trouble further down the line. The sinister and manipulative Lady Tyburn makes a few appearances, casting a shadow over proceedings and setting the stage for further clashes with the Folly.

Another character of interest is Simone Fitzwilliam, former lover of Peter's first victim. She's introduced as a typical dettached ice maiden, and her effect on Peter has the sort of effect you'd expect from their first meeting. While I found parts of this subplot a bit predictable (Spoiler: They end up fucking), there were other parts that I didn't see coming. Not only was I glad of that, I felt the way this plot progressed tied very well into some of the book's other themes, while also making Peter a more vulnerable and relatable protagonist as a result. It also sets up another arc, with another enigmatic villain.

While the tone of the book is often slow in keeping with the arduousness of a police investigation, the action is also well-handled when it occurs. Whether its to do with commandeering an ambulance or chasing a suspect, Aaronovitch does a good job of balancing tension with dry wit. There are also a few inclusions of gore which take the book down a much darker and more disturbing path.

In conclusion, I'd say Moon Over Soho leans heavier on the criminal side than the fantastical. Overall, it feels more like a gritty modern thriller with the supernatural sometimes dropping in, rather than an equal blending of the two genres. That's not to say that fans of the latter genre should be put off – even if crime isn't your usual cup of tea, I'd say this book is still fun and funny enough to win many people over.

Film Review - Brooklyn

Today I talk about Brooklyn, John Crowley's adaptation of Colm Tóibín's novel of a young Irishwoman who emigrates to New York in the 1950s. While this isn't the sort of film I would normally seek out, I still thoroughly enjoyed it for the sheer quality in just about every respect: acting, writing, cinematography, music, etc. I haven't read Tóibín's book, so I can't judge it as an adaptation, but as a film, Brooklyn is well worth the ticket price.

Unsurprisingly, a lot of this comes down to its lead. Saoirse Ronan is brilliant in the lead role, showing her versatility in playing a character who starts off as timid and nervous of starting a life in the New World, and by the end has become a confident woman who suddenly finds herself stifled in her hometown of Enniscorthy, Co. Wexford. Ronan's down-to-earth charm makes Eilis very easy to root for, and she shows her knack for conveying sadness, fear and joy with the subtlest of expressions.

The rest of the cast are equally impressive. Emory Cohen plays Tony Fiorello, an Italian-American plumber who falls for Eilis. His bashful “aw-shucks” demeanour makes it impossible not to sympathise with him as he tries to woo her. Julie Walters makes a considerable impression, despite her scant screentime, as the most unashamedly stereotypical Irish mammy this side of Mrs Brown. Her no-nonsense attitude towards her female tenants not only makes for great comic relief, but also makes her softer moments with Eilis all the more effective. The whole cast is superb, but these three performances were my favourites.

It isn't just casting that makes the film, though. Special mention has to go to the cinematography, which is practically a character in itself. Yves Bélanger contrasts the Enniscorthy and New York environments, by making the former grey and dreary while the other becomes a riot of colour. While this can come across as a little blatant in terms of highlighting Eilis's dilemma (the familiar yet stifling, versus the grand and unexpected) it still makes for a more dynamic viewing experience.

The scenes on the boat also play into this. When Eilis first boards, we focus on her ordeal below decks. She has to put up with cramped quarters, unfriendly neighbours and seasickness. The film doesn't hold back on the latter, as Eilis is forced to defecate in a mop bucket after being locked out of the toilet. These scenes are contrasted with those up on deck: Eilis's roommate (Eva Birthistle) starts off cold when they meet below deck, but on deck she becomes more compassionate and teaches Eilis how to act when she comes to customs. The cinematography reflects this with wide open shots of the sea, representing the endless possibilities of the New World.

There is one part of the film that didn't work so well for me, however. This is the hinted-at love triangle between Eilis, Tony and Jim Farrell (Domhnall Gleeson) a rugby student from Enniscorthy. Maybe it's just my ignorance of the source material, but I found myself a bit confused as to what the story was alluding to at this point. Was there meant to be a spark between Eilis and Jim? Or was that just the parochial townspeople trying to lure Eilis to come back and settle down?

It's not that Ronan and Gleeson's performances were lacking, but this part of the film felt a little rushed and so, underdeveloped. If they were trying to hint at a romance, more time should have been dedicated to it.

The ending also left me a little confused. The film seemed to be hinting that Eilis was planning to break up with Tony, but the film ends with her going back to him and supposedly, the two live happily ever after from this point. This clashes with what we see earlier in the film: Eilis takes a while to return Tony's “I love you”, she needs to be persuaded to marry him, and most crucially of all, she holds off on reading his letters. She finally does read them, but if she were in love with him, wouldn't she have done so instantly, instead of keeping them in a drawer?

The impression I got from the ending was that Eilis went back to Tony to spite the village gossip (Brid Brennan), not necessarily because she loved him. That's why the closing scene between Eilis and Tony felt hollow, which is a shame as the film before this had felt much more genuine. Again, perhaps the novel explains this better. Perhaps it was the pacing that made this feel artificial – the third act of the film certainly feels more rushed than the first two, what with Eilis's rapidly developing relationship with Jim, and her even quicker reconciliation with Tony.

These niggles aside, I would still highly recommend Brooklyn. It's not the sort of film that will set the world on fire; it's just a nice, simple story told very, very well.

Book Review - Demon Road (Derek Landy)

(This review contains spoilers)

Demon Road is the latest book from Derek Landy, author of the bestselling Skulduggery Pleasant series. It follows a teenager named Amber Lamont, who learns that she and her parents are demons, and that her parents want to kill her so they can gain more power from an agent of the Devil known as the Shining Demon. In a bid to escape them, Amber flees across the American landscape with a mysterious driver named Milo, and an irritating hitchhiker named Glen who has his own supernatural business to take care of.

The most striking thing about this book was its difference in tone to the Skulduggery Pleasant books. While that series was dark, the pacing was quick and punchy. Here, the pacing is slower and there was more of an emphasis on dread, with occasional bouts of action to break things up. This oppression makes itself known from the start when we see Amber's unhappy life; while her parents aren't outright abusive, their neglect and the effect this has on Amber's confidence leaves a lasting impression nonetheless.

The story opens with Amber being abused by two unpleasant customers at the diner where she works, and later getting attacked by them, which triggers her first demonic transformation. It's a nasty way to open the story, and sets the tone early on. Similarly, when Amber, Milo and Glen visit one town that's been traumatised by a serial killer, or another that's been infested by vampires, Landy spends some time describing the overall mood of the setting before he makes the actual cause of distress explicit.

However, these attempts at darkness are spoiled somewhat by Landy's injections of humour, which I don't think work as well here as they did in Skulduggery. Demon Road is clearly aiming to be more serious and adult, so to notice the same speech patterns and irreverant humour from before took me out of story. Glen Morrison, an Irish traveller, seems composed entirely of this sort of humour. Right from the beginning, his irritating of Amber and Milo is meant to make him funny and endearing, but only made him jar with the rest of the story. Glen could be compared to Vaurien Scapegrace from the previous series, another character who existed for comic relief. But whereas Scapegrace was a minor character, Glen is more prominent and his goofiness is more in-your-face as a result.

I didn't care too much for the other characters either, especially Milo. While I appreciate Landy paying homage to the Lone Gunman archeype, I didn't care too much for Milo's sullenness, as it seemed to be his only character trait. Amber felt a little more fleshed out, as we're given an insight into her thoughts throughout, but I still felt like more could have been done with her. She was a decent protagonist at best, but somehow she didn't stand out in my mind that much.

Amber's parents were also a disappointment. I find power for its own sake to be a weak motivation, unless the villain is dynamic and charismatic enough to carry the material. Neither Billy or Betty Lamont were strong enough to do so. Finally, there's a freelance journalist named Edgar Spurrier. I put a spoiler warning on this review just to be polite, but really, was anyone shocked when he turned out to be evil? I didn't find him sinister enough, nor funny enough to make any kind of impression on me. I hate to keep coming back to Skulduggery (but not really, because I love those books) but Landy has written some top-notch villains that you either loved or loved to hate – China Sorrows, Billy-Ray, the Torment, the Remnants, Kitana – and it's a crying shame that he couldn't do the same here.

The use of horror is the book's saving grace, but it's done very well, and there really seemed to be more creativity going on here than any other aspect. Dacre Shanks's dollhouse of terror was a fun moment (if a little derivative of Anathem Mire – I'm sorry, I'll stop), as was the fight in the Varga Hotel. Amber's fight with a hitman was a nice moment of gore, and the wood-witch reaches proper toe-curling levels of disturbing. The story does manage to save one of its characters from being a complete waste, although poor Glen ends up a little dead and forlorn as a result. Hopefully that will make him more interesting later, perhaps if he tries to fight his vampirism. I get the sense that Landy cared more for his horror set-pieces than fleshing out his characters. I hate to sound harsh, but that's how I truly felt reading this. I only say it because I care.

Can I recommend Demon Road? If you like horror, I say it's worth checking out. Its grim, slow-burning tone make for heavier going than Landy's previous works, but I'm sure some people will appreciate this more mature approach. I might check out the sequels in due course, though I won't be scrambling for them as much as I was for this. When I do, I hope to find more reason to love them than I did here.

Book Review - The Day of the Triffids (John Wyndham)

Today, I look at The Day of the Triffids, a science-fiction thriller from 1951. The story has many parallels with one of the great classics of British science-fiction, The War of the Worlds, so much so that it often feels like a homage to that work. The narrative form, the setting of the English countryside, the isolation of the protagonist, and even the form of the triffids themselves all seem to lend themselves to Wells's work.

The most striking resemblance is the use of an everyman character to convey a global disaster to the reader. Our narrator, Bill Masen, does not have much of a personality, and exists so the reader can imprint themselves upon him. This frees Wyndham to discuss greater issues, though he purposefully hampers this by limiting what Bill knows, and thus, what the reader knows.

Despite the name, the triffids do not feature that heavily in the story. The first half of the book deals more with a meteor shower that turns everyone who sees it blind. Bill escapes as he was having his eyes operated on at the time – ironically, after being stung in the eyes by a triffid. The triffids' role in this is obscured throughout the story. We never find out if they directly caused this meteor shower, or if it could've been a result of human error. Bill suggests the latter towards the end of the book, but we only have his word for it. His theories are rooted in recognisable issues, but Wyndham never explicitly says if he's right. In this way, Wyndham provokes the reader to think about these broad issues, while leaving the floor open to other possibilities.

Wyndham creates fear and dread through holding back and letting the reader's mind fill the gaps. The ambiguity makes the story stick out more and keeps the focus more on the consequences of these disasters, rather than the causes. Like many works of this time, The Day of the Triffids challenges humankind's assumption of supremacy by not only striking them with a deadly threat, but keeping them in the dark about its true nature. It reminds the reader that our role in the world is limited, and underlines this by showing how nature reclaims the cities and monuments that symbolize humanity's dominance.

These general moral lessons feed into more contemporary social issues. The book opens with a lengthy diatribe against Cold War tensions by suggesting that the triffids were created as a foodsource by the Soviets. When a defector steals triffid seeds to sell to a Western conglomerate, he inadvertantly scatters them over the Pacific, allowing the menacing plants to take root all over the world. The implications here are that the race for supremacy between East and West contribute to the spread of the triffids.

Bill suggests that this tension also caused the meteor shower; perhaps the “meteors” were a satellite-weapon meant to blind smaller communities, which then malfunctioned and radiated the whole world.

Throughout the story, several characters voice the hope that the Americans will come and save them all, a belief which slowly gives way to despair. Wyndham's attack on blind faith in Western imperialism may be on-the-nose, but is no less relevant today.

The story does not concern itself solely with international relations. When Bill meets his love interest, Josella, he learns that she once wrote a lurid book (Sex is my Adventure) which caused something of a scandal. At first, this felt like a pointless interlude and made me feel like Wyndham was making a clumsy attempt at character development. But later on, we see this prudery of an earlier age contrasted with the attitudes of the post-triffid world. An elderly scientist – Dr Vorless – calls for a breeding programme to create a new generation to survive in the new world – an arrangement Bill finds shocking, but hard to disagree with. These changing attitudes towards sex show how old beliefs must be swept aside in the face of disaster, if a people are to survive, reflecting the change in attitudes to gender following WWII.

One scene from the book spells this out for the reader in rather striking way. Bill meets an activist named Coker, who loves to find causes to get worked-up about. The two stumble on a community which sees the blindness epidemic as punishment from God and have reverted to a puritanical way of life. Coker argues with one of these women about feminism, explaining how women should fight for gender equality in such a condescending tone that she finally storms off. I wasn't sure if we were meant to sympathise more with Coker for his progressive stance, or with the woman for having to put up with his moralising. Coker is another character who doesn't have much of a personality (indeed, his ability to blend in with different demographics is highlighted more than any attempt to be his own person) and who spouts rhetoric at other people until they get sick of him. Perhaps the message of this scene is that either side of an argument becomes problematic if taken too far.

This also comes up in the portrayal of compassion versus utilitarianism which recurs throughout the book. When we first meet Coker, he's part of a group that kidnaps people who can see and forces them into aiding groups of blind people. The intentions are good, but the strategy ultimately proves impractical as it only keeps the blind in a state of dependency while preventing those who can see from trying to build a society that can endure for future generations. Furthermore, Coker and his gang fervently believe in the myth of America coming to the rescue, which further damages them in Bill's eyes.

Bill is reluctantly forced to accept the utilitarian stance and abandon the blind to their fate. This is where the focus on a human protagonist instead of an omniscient narrator becomes important to the text. The issues raised are obviously controversial and readers will disagree over what would be the best option in such a disaster. By limiting the narration to a mere man, Wyndham leaves the reader free to disagree if they wish.

The other extreme is personified in a red-haired looter named Torrence, who Bill first sees  executing several blind people. This is when the plague has hit London, and Torrence takes measures to stop the spread. The two meet again later, when Torrence has become the commander-in-chief of a militarised state based in Brighton. Torrence also tries to force Bill into an arrangement where he will oversee a group of blind people, who will function as a workforce on a farm. Torrence doesn't listen to Bill's protestations that his patch of land can't support that many people, especially one under constant attack from triffids, but instead tries to cajole him with offers of power and authority over his tenants. He also shows a disregard for the fact that the blind will have to live off pulpified remains of triffids, the only consistent supply of food.

Wyndham uses Torrence to criticize the Darwinist view that can arise during a crisis, one that sees disaster as an opportunity to exploit the weak. While at the opposite end of the spectrum from Coker's deluded optimism, it's shown to be equally detrimental to society.

The book comes to a not altogether satisfying conclusion (though that was probably Wyndham's point) where Bill and his new family retreat to an island community who hope, one day, to reclaim the land from the triffids. In a true rebuttal to the Americanised belief in clean endings, the story ends ambiguously with the hope of the future placed on the next generation. Due to the nature of a one-person narrative, we never find out if this campaign is successful, or if humanity is finally hounded to extinction. There's certainly nothing to suggest that another blinding meteor shower won't incapacitate them again.

While The Day of the Triffids's final note is not completely hopeless, it's still far from a happy one. It seems that the lesson Wyndham wanted to leave with readers is, while disaster can be survived, it can take a long time, and ultimately it is better to be prepared for it in the first place.

TV Review - The Walking Dead Season 1

Last week, I watched The Walking Dead for the first time. I'd heard a lot mixed things about it, and the negatives seemed to stick in my mind more. I've heard people say the characters were annoying or unpleasant, that the quality of the show fluctuates constantly, and the pacing slows down, sometimes to a stop. All this I'm sure I'll get to as I continue to watch.

To date, I've only seen the first season, and I've enjoyed what I've seen so far. The show opens with Georgia Deputy Rick Grimes (Andrew Lincoln), who's shot and coma-bound within the first ten minutes of the pilot. Rick awakens after some time to find the hospital and town disturbingly empty. Then Rick realises he's not alone, and soon learns the world has been overtaken by some unexplained phenomenon that reanimates the dead, turning them into ravenous zombies.

The balance between action and drama is always a fine one, but I feel like season 1 of The Walking Dead strikes it very well. My favourite parts of the season had to be the Atlanta segments. They give the programme a great sense of scale and underline the extent of the catastrophe by showing how a former metropolis can become a silent, claustrophobic hellhole.

Atlanta also gave the season its best set-pieces, such as Rick hiding out in a tank, Merle Dixon (Michael Rooker) trying to escape his handcuffs, and Glen (Steven Yeun) shooting down the motorway in a Challenger. The Atlanta segments were the most dynamic and memorable, giving every character something to do while showing the zombie hoarde at its most powerful.

This part of the show also excels on a technical level. I felt the erratic Georgian weather added a lot to the atmosphere. The sunny sky makes the city look bleached and rotting, instead of vibrant. The use of thunder also works in this respect; not only does it obviously make the show feel more apocalyptic, it jars with the sunshine and creates a dissonance, making it seem like this isn't happening on Earth, but in some sort of limbo. This nicely parallels the contradiction of the dead rising and walking.

Backing all this up is Bear McCready's eerie score. The highlight for me was the accompaniment to Rick and Glen lurching through a hoarde of zombies, covered in rotting corpse-matter, to reach a construction site and their getaway vehicle.

The Atlanta segments contrast with the scenes at the group's camp. Isolated from the rest of the world, it's almost easy to forget that civilization is falling apart. These scenes obviously serve to flesh out the characters more, which I felt worked as a whole. Rick clashes with Daryl Dixon (Norman Reedus), a hard-bitten redneck who feels the zombies should be killed indiscriminately, along with anyone else who might be infected. I felt the dynamic between these two characters was very well-handled and I'm keen to see how it progresses from here.

Rick is also at odds with his friend, Shane(Jon Bernthal), the designated “best-friend-turned-asshole”. As such, the show goes to some lengths to make Shane unlikeable, such as nearly shooting Rick, and drunkenly trying to rape his wife, Lori (Sarah Wayne Callies). I didn't warm too much to the three-way tension between Rick, Shane and Lori, but I didn't hate it. I just felt there were more interesting things going on.

Another pair I felt had a good relationship were Dale (Jeffrey DeMunn), the “heart” of the group, and Andrea (Laurie Holden), who sinks into a depression after her sister is killed. I felt theirs' was the most genuine relationship, and it was nice to have one based on something positive, rather than secrecy and lies.

Merle Dixon was another character I was fascinated by, even though the show makes him as repellent as possible. Despite his violence and racism, it was hard not to sympathise with him as he struggled to escape his cuffs on the roof. It's also hard not to admire his toughness when he not only saws off his arm, but kills a few zombies on the way before finally cauterizing his stump. Doubtless he'll catch up with the group in the future to mete out some vengeance.

A final character I want to mention is Dr Edwin Jenner (Noah Emmerich). Like Andrea, he's become a shell after months of isolation in a bunker. He finally loses all hope when a valuable tray of samples is incinerated, and lets the group in, not to save them, but so he doesn't have to die alone. Emmerich does a fine job of making his character both compassionate and chilling. His calm monotone when explaining the decontamination, and confusion at the group's horror, underscore how the apocalypse has truly broken his humanity.

The finale also works well on a technical level, providing a third environment to contrast with Atlanta or the woods. The cold clinicalness of the environment reflect Jenner's own temperament. It's an unexpected turn for a show which has until now focused on the filth and chaos of the apocalypse outside. The final shot of the CDC laboratory going up in flames symbolizes how the remnant's of humanity's control of the world are being destroyed one by one, just like how Atlanta is slowly falling apart.

So that was season 1 of The Walking Dead. It's a solidly made run of episodes with occasional sparks of genuine ingenuity. However the rest of the show pans out, this right here was a fine piece of television.

Short Story Review - Sandkings (George R. R. Martin)

Before his epic A Song of Ice and Fire series, George R. R. Martin was best known for writing short stories, either science-fiction, fantasy, horror or a blend of these genres. “Sandkings” is the first of these that I've read, and what a story it is to start with.

Simon Kress is a rich snob who lives in a fancy mansion in the desert of the planet Baldur. Kress has no real job to speak of, and his favourite hobby is buying obscure and ferocious pets to watch them tear each other apart. Bored one day, Kress discovers a quaint petshop which offers him a remarkable new attraction: sandkings. These ant-like creatures live in vast colonies overseen by an ever-ravenous maw, and maintained by an army of mobiles. Kress buys four colonies to put on elaborate war set-pieces for himself and his equally voyeuristic friends.

To the shock of absolutely no one, Kress's playtime comes to a halt when his minions start to act quite strangely ...

“Sandkings” is a wonderful blend of genres. It has all the trappings of a Gothic classic – the vain and sadistic aristocrat, the slave rebelling against its master, the corrupted mirror image of the protagonist (in this case, the hideous likenesses of Kress's face the sandkings carve on the walls of their domains). By situating it on another planet however, Martin gives the concept a twist that makes the story feel fresh.

Kress is a suitably vile character for this type of story, and it gives the story a satisfactory bite as his power fantasy is eaten away by his former pets. Another character of note is the mysterious Jala Wo, the shopowner who supplies Kress with the sandkings. While Kress's fate is clear from the outset, Martin keeps the reader guessing about Wo's own motivations right until the end. In this way, he hints at a universe with more depth than just a setting for his macabre story.

The story revels in the violence and destruction of the sandkings. Spiders, snakes, puppies and eventually people are all dispatched with little remorse. And, not content there, Martin ends on a chilling note that suggests the sandkings' march is not finished yet.

If you're burning with anticipation for the next ASOIAF entry, or just want a dalliance into the dark nether-regions of science-fiction, I cannot recommend “Sandkings” enough.

Book Review - Wolf Hall (Hilary Mantel)

This isn't really a review as such, due to both the book's complex style and my general ignorance of the period. The best I can do is sum up by experience reading it.

For three years, my copy of Wolf Hall sat on my shelf having only been opened once. The story of a lowborn man rising through the ranks through his own cunning was a fascinating one, but I was daunted by both the length of the book, and its present tense prose, of which I'm not a huge fan. I was also largely ignorant of Tudor England (and still am) so this was another factor that put me off reading for quite some time.

Having read the book, it's clear that you'd have to read it several times to really pick up on the nuances of the text and its characters. Unsurprisingly, you also need an indepth understanding of the period, not just the events, but the people and their personalities. I admit, it got quite frustrating trying to remember which Thomas or Mary was which, or who was related to whom. This obscurity made it hard at times to engage with the text and made reading it feel more like a chore than a pleasure.

That said, I can understand why Mantel wrote this way. The intricacies of the “plot” work to entice the reader, but she holds things back to entice the reader into studying the period more. While I didn't instantly start reading up on Tudor history after I'd finished reading, I can see myself returning to this book repeatedly to try and make sense of it. While not the easiest read, it certainly poses a fascinating challenge. Before returning though, I see I will have to study the period more to gain more from the text.

Mantel's ambiguous approach to history can be seen especially in her treatment of Cromwell himself. Although the whole book is from his perspective, he remains a shadowy figure throughout. There are hints of his ruthlessness (like when he imagines pushing George Cavendish into the Thames), his humanity (when he remembers his lost family) and his beliefs (when he raves against the idolatry of the Catholic Church). These moments of clarity struck me all the more because for the most part, Cromwell was hard for me to figure out.

Perhaps Mantel was trying to hook the reader as I described earlier. Or perhaps she wanted to pay homage to Cromwell's cunning by making him an enigma to the reader. One novel touch was that for the most part, Cromwell isn't referred to by name, but as “he”. This is just one more way to make him seem more like an element instead of a person. In this regard, I can't really say that this book humanizes Cromwell as such, but it still leaves a strong impression all the same.

I can't speak for Tudor experts, but if you're a fan of history or courtly intrigue, I would still say Wolf Hall is worth a look.

Film Review - Night of the Hunter

Night of the Hunter opens with Harry Powell (Robert Mitchum), a preacher from the Deep South who does the Lord's will by murdering women he finds promiscuous. When Harry ends up sharing a cell with a condemned man (Peter Graves) who's stolen and hidden a considerable sum of money, he hatches a plan to marry his widow (Shelley Winters) and take the money for himself. But his stepson John Harper (Billy Chapin) cottons on to him, and flees with his sister and the money.

Night of the Hunter feels more like two ok films instead of one great one. The second half focuses more on John than Harry, and feels more like a children's drama than a thriller. The movie has a clear angel/devil dichotomy, with Harry as the murderous parental figure contrasted with Miss Cooper (Lillian Gish), the stern but good-natured Christian woman who adopts the Harper orphans.

The strongest link between the two halves (more so than the plot) is the portrayal of Christianity. The first half not only focuses on the psychotic Harry, but also shows him corrupting Mrs Palmer, turning her into a bible-thumping zealot who fails to protect her children. Christianity is represented by Miss Cooper in the second half, showing it in its more idealistic form. Whereas Harry teaches that we are all sinners and must be punished, Miss Cooper teaches about Exodus and overcoming adversity. Both figures have a profound impact on John – at first he's frightened off by Christianity in the form of Harry, but eventually embraces it in the form of Miss Cooper.

The acting is on the whole very good. Mitchum has a ball playing the insincere preacher, and I felt it was a bit of a shame that we saw less of him in the film's second half. Gish gives Miss Cooper a good mix of authority and compassion. Chapin does a decent job as John, portraying a stubborn child without veering into sentimentality. One interesting character who I felt should have been expanded more was Icey Spoon, a shameless gossip who sings Harry's praises at the start, only to lead the mob when he's convicted of murder. I felt the movie could have better explored the hypocrisy and bigotry that can bring out the worst in people's religion, to parallel with Harry's own bigotry.

Harry's motivation is one of the film's weaker points. It opens strongly with Harry targeting women for the way their promiscuity, introducing him as a megalomaniac. This is also done very well when he admonishes Mrs Palmer for trying to get in bed with him on their wedding night, showing he's a predator of women, but not the type we usually think of. However, Harry's greed is his main drive for the rest of the film – if not for that, he wouldn't have an excuse to pursue the kids. I felt this was a much weaker motivation and cancelled out Harry's earlier characterisation. Harry's puritan crusade at him start made him seem like a more powerful threat, especially as it speaks to centuries of religious violence which is still around today. By the end of the film, this has been replaced by his greed, which makes him seem less of a monster and more of a pathetic sleazebag.

As I said before, the film changes so drastically in the middle that it feels like two shorter films. The Christian motif transcends the two halves well, but the tone and characterisation suffers. Night of the Hunter is worth seeing for its handling of the theme of faith, and the performances also make it worthwhile. But the film doesn't tie together as well as it should, and for that it's merely good but not great.

Film Review - Song of the Sea

Song of the Sea is the latest offering from Cartoon Saloon, the makers of The Secret of Kells. It tells the story of Ben (David Rawle) whose sister Saoirse begins acting strangely after she comes across an old shell. When the two are sent to live with their strict grandmother (Fionnuala Flanagan), Ben learns that his sister is in fact half-selkie (part-human, part-seal) and is needed to stop all the fairies of the world from being turned to stone.

 

The most striking thing about this film is of course the animation, which is simplistic and yet gives the story a wonderfully surreal touch. This especially comes into its own when we meet the supernatural characters such as the long-haired Seanchaí, the fairies and Macha, the film's villain. Although the flat Medieval look can be a little off-putting, especially whenever there's a landscape shot, the animation can still run wild when the story needs it to and gives the film a distinct charm that you wouldn't get from a 3D-animation.

 

The film boasts a vivid cast of characters that add to this. It's not afraid to show Ben in an unpleasant light when he traumatises his 6-year-old sister with their mother's stories, but manages to show his later redemption completely organically. Saoirse also has a distinct presence as the innocent child figure – as she's mute, the animation is once again called on to convey this to us, showing the animators are just as skilled at nuance as they are at spectacle.

 

There are some familiar voices in the supporting cast. Brendan Gleeson is excellent as their solemn father, while John Kenny and Pat Shortt provide a lively contrast with their mythical roles. Despite being a fairytale, I was glad that the film didn't have a simplistic morality and instead used a villain that was motivated through misunderstanding instead of evil. While the film isn't “scary” as such, the recurring concept of losing your emotions is a genuinely disturbing one, and is made more so through the metaphor of being turned to stone.

 

Finally as an Irish citizen, I was delighted to see the film incorporate some Irish into its soundtrack, especially through its haunting selkie leitmotif. Bruno Coulais and Kíla (who often perform through Irish) give the film a beautiful soundtrack that blends perfectly with its animation and performances.

 

Song of the Sea is, in short, a wonderful film for all ages.

Book Review - Inversions (Iain M Banks)

In Inversions, Iain M Banks explores the ambiguity of history through two parallel storylines taking place on a distant planet. The mysterious Dr Vosill tends to a king's health while struggling against the prejudice of his court. On the other side of the world, a bodyguard named DeWar also tries to keep his master safe from assassins and traitors.

The most fascinating thing about this story is its exploration of form. Like A Song of Stone, Banks tells a story through an unreliable narrator, causing the reader to question what they're being presented with. The narrator here is Vosill's assistant, Oelph, who's been sent to spy on her and becomes infatuated with her. His duplicitousness, his feelings for Vosill and his classism all compromise Oelph's account. One question that kept occurring to me was “Why would Oelph divulge his attraction to Vosill to his master?” Another confusing aspect of this narrative is that Oelph alternates between the second and third person when referring to his master, which makes the account seem contradictory and at times nonsensical.

While this at first came across as bad writing, I soon came to appreciate that that was what Banks was trying to convey: the narrative is being written by a person, not a dettached omniscient being. Therefore it's riddled with faults, as real historiographies often are. Oelph's prejudice and hypocrisies are so stark and make him seem so unpleasant at times, that it felt like Banks was actively trying to discourage the reader from taking Oelph at his word and instead try to imagine alternative scenarios. What makes this part of the novel feel so vivid is that its flaws and ambiguities reflect real human nature. This part of the novel thus feels almost alive and not static like a more conventional novel.

As well as Oelph, Vosill is also an intriguing character. Because we only see her through Oelph's eyes, it's left up to the reader to imagine her motivations and background. She gives Oelph a vague account of her life, and the story all but tells us who or what she really is by the end, but the reader is still ultimately left in the dark. Despite this vagueness, Banks still gives us a good estimate of her character, showing her to be more compassionate, perceptive and ultimately devious than those around her. Through Vosill, Banks shows that there can be an alternative to the violent, bigoted society on display here. I felt this was certainly needed given how intense the novel becomes.

Curiously, DeWar's segment is written in a conventional style. We have a third-person structure, no hints of the supernatural and DeWar himself is surprisingly transparent given the duplicitousness of everyone around him. It's probably for this reason that I didn't find this part of the book as gripping. DeWar spends a lot of time bonding with his Lord Protector's son and with Perrund, one of his harem. I found these parts of the novel a bit too sentimental for my liking. DeWar also spends a lot of time telling fables of two cousins, which suggests a link between the two narratives. However, I felt these segments dragged on for too long and that we really only needed one of them, whereas Banks has three.

This plotline does however end with an interesting twist which ties in with the theme of deceit. Characters' motivations are revealed and our perceptions of them are shown to have been wildly innaccurate, which corresponds well with the novel's ambiguity; the history (or backstory) we've been led to believe up until this point is shown to be false. The novel thus ends on a suitably unclear note and I was left wondering not only how certain characters ended up, but even if there were more skeletons in closets that had not been revealed. Banks however keeps his mouth shut on this issue, and I feel the novel was much stronger for it.

Film Review - Jurassic World

I never expected another Jurassic Park movie to get made, seeing as how it's been over a decade since the last one. Honestly, I was happy to let the series rest in peace when I heard that the next movie could contain gun-toting velociraptors. Despite this, I still had no reservations about seeing the movie when it came out. I regretted not seeing the original for its re-release and I wanted to see at least one Jurassic Park movie on the big screen in my lifetime.

What I finally saw was something that, while different in some ways from its predecessors, was ultimately very similar; it's a fun movie and in some ways even an interesting one, but it's still hampered by lapses of logic that I felt almost insulted to be asked to accept. Business as usual, then. I will never say that this movie (or any movie) requires you to “turn your brain off” to enjoy it, because why pay to put yourself in a coma? There are interesting things here beyond the dinosaur action, and even if you find nothing good to say about it, at least it will make you appreciate better movies.

Jurassic World takes place twenty years after the first incident on Isla Nublar, where John Hammond's dream has become a global reality (the movie takes place in a divergent continuity where “Site B” doesn't exist). The general public have, however, become bored with dinosaurs and the park is forced to come up with new, exciting attractions. (Judging from the size of the crowds, I'd say the park is doing just fine, but hey, those InGen executives have to eat as well). The park has started creating new dinosaurs, including an Indominus rex which they hope will scare both kids and parents alike. Unsurprisingly, the super-duper smart predator escapes its enclosure and goes on a rampage through the park. Now Claire Dearing (Bryce Dallas Howard), a senior member of staff, and an animal trainer named Owen Grady (Chris Pratt) have to track the creature down.

I'd say the best thing about this movie were the performances. Pratt and Howard made for an engaging lead duo and I liked watching their opposing personalities clash. I wasn't sold on the romance though, as I felt it was forced and not needed. The two worked fine when they were just playing off each other on how the park should be run, or how the Indominus should be tracked. I thought the two boys were a bit annoying at the start, as at this stage they were just cliches: the moody teenager and the wide-eyed youngster. I did like watching them try to survive the forest, though. Ultimately, they were alright. Aside from the two leads, Vincent D'Onofrio was a highlight as Hoskins, the opportunistic security chief. It was nothing we hadn't seen before, but he was still fun to watch in a hammy Nedry-ish sort of way.

While the performances were great overall, the characterisation was quite a letdown. Most of the character arcs felt unoriginal or else were recycled from the past films: a divorce backstory; an adult who can't relate to kids; a villain who wants to exploit the dinosaurs and suffers a grisly fate. I was disappointed that after over ten years of development, the movie would still trot out the same storylines and expect us to be satisfied.

One thing that did feel fresh though was Owen training the velociraptors. This was something I loved watching as it felt new and expanded on the first movie without feeling like a gimmick. We've known from the start that the raptors have been intelligent and here we see they're even intelligent enough to be trained and form relationships with the humans. The fact they even gave them names made them seem more like characters in their own right instead of monsters. I found this a much better attempt to humanise the raptors than Jurassic Park III.

That's not to say it was perfect though. The twist where the raptors join the Indominus was a huge misstep in my opinion. It just didn't make sense. I know they're both are intelligent, but since when do predators form alliances, especially when they're of different species? To me, it felt like the movie was afraid to go too long without the raptors trying to kill people. This was a shame because I felt this went against the movie's attempts to give the raptors more depth, and instead fell back on the old stereotype of them as cold-blooded killers.

In a similar vein was the scene where the pterosaurs attack the tourists. It was a well-shot scene and I was glad to see the movie take advantage of its huge cast, but it still made no sense. Unlike the Indominus, which was meant to be psychotic, I can't see the reason why these relatively small creatures would attack prey that was much bigger than them. At least in JPIII, the Pteranodon were big enough to take on people and were trying to feed their young. This movie doesn't give any explanation for the pterosaurs to attack a crowd of people other than to have an action scene.

Back to the raptors, things get even more confusing when they turn against the Indominus in the climax, again with little to no reasoning. If they were willing to fight to protect Owen, why did they betray him in the first place? And as for the T-Rex ... I'm sorry, but that “meaningful look” between Blue and the T-rex just felt like fanwank to me. Once again, predators don't form alliances. The previous attempts to humanise the raptors worked because they felt organic; this was the scriptwriters getting too enthusiastic playing with their action figures.

The Indominus was ok but nothing revolutionary. It was everything you'd expect from a huge predatory dinosaur, but in the best possible way. The tension and action was well-executed whenever it was onscreen. I liked how they gave it a personality as the Indominus tries to figure out its place in the world, bringing up the damaging effect captivity can have on animals.

This leads me to the Frankenstein theme where, once again, the movie lectures on humanity's arrogance when it comes to nature. I liked that it tied back with Michael Crichton's novel, where the dinosaurs' DNA was also tampered with to make them more sensational. They even brought back Dr Wu (B.D. Wong), except here he's defending the practice instead of criticising it. To see a neutral supporting character from the first movie go all mad scientist was ... interesting. I admit, his confrontation with the park's owner, Simon Masrani (Irrfan Khan) works because of Wu's connection with the first film. I can see Dr Wu developing a god complex when he's been playing God for twenty years. The scene just wouldn't have had the same potency if it was some completely new character. That said, this is still a stark contrast with Wu's character from the first film, and I feel like a little explanation from the script would have made that bit more believable. I certainly would want to know why Wu thought it was a good idea to create a giant super-raptor when he already knows what normal raptors are capable of.

And Wu's not the only person who's weirdly written here. Masrani is probably the worst-served by this script's characterisation. He's a walking contradiction. He gives his scientists free reign to create frightening new attractions, then acts horrified by what inevitably happens. He claims the park is meant to remind us of how small we really are, even though using genetic technology for the sake of the theme park says the exact opposite. He's a weird blend of the book and film versions of John Hammond. We're meant to see him as a kind philanthropist, but he's also happy to tinker with creation to boost sales.

This ultimately hurts the film's message about humanity's arrogance, because the very person who claims to abbhor those practices embodies them at the same time. A story can't seriously convey a message when its characters keep contradicting themselves. Like with the raptors, I give the film props for ambition, but the attempt still comes across as clumsy.

So that's Jurassic World for you. I wasn't expecting the movie to be perfect (none of them are), but this series means so much to me that there was no way I could not go see it, which I'm sure is the case for many people. For action and themes, it's a mixed bag. The performances are pretty strong though. See it if you're a completist, but otherwise you aren't missing that much.

Book Review - Doctor Who: The Left-Handed Hummingbird (Kate Orman)

The Left-Handed Hummingbird is part of a line of Doctor Who books that were released from 1991 to 1997. The Virgin New Adventures (named after the company that published them) were an unofficial continuation of the show, which had been cancelled in 1989. They're famous for being darker, more violent and more brooding than the classic series, and this installment is a prime example of that.

The plot follows the Seventh Doctor, Ace and Bernice Summerfield (a companion invented for the books) as they try to stop the malevolent Aztec god, Huitzilin (Weet-zill-in). In reality, Huitzilin is an early Aztec warrior who was corrupted by malfunctioning alien technology, making him more powerful and more sadistic, feeding off violence and anger. The Doctor and his friends follow Huitzilin from the Aztec Empire, to London in the 60s, and to the Titanic, to stop him before he takes over the Doctor's body.

I bought this book as Kate Orman is praised very highly in fan circles, and I wanted to see her work for myself. This book is often hailed as revolutionary in its portrayal of the Doctor and his companions, and I suppose it is. The NAs were known for being more introspective than the classic show, and often questioned the Doctor and his actions in a way that hadn't really been done before. However, this introspectiveness is so prominent in Doctor Who nowadays that it's easy to take for granted. The Doctor is always questioning his role in the universe, while his companions question his role in their lives, and whether travelling with the Doctor is healthy for them. The story arc of Series 8 is entirely built around this.

As someone who started with the new series before reading thse books, this book didn't shock or amaze me as I was expecting it to. That's not through any failing of the author, it's just that I've seen Doctor Who do this so many times before. At the very least, it's interesting to read and see how the DNA of the new series was seeded through these books a whole decade before it was released.

The plot and characterisation is very solid here. I love time-hopping stories like this because they provide a much bigger sense of scale and history. By showing how old a being Huitzilin is, and how he can appear in any environment, it parallels the theme of violence which recurs again and again in history. The various worlds were well-realised; Orman gives enough detail to bring them to life, but not too much that it bogs down the story.

Huitzilin himself isn't a complex villain (he's just another power-hungry sociopath) but this does free up the protagonists, who are given more depth. The Doctor spends a lot of time doubting himself, but again, Orman doesn't go overboard, so it doesn't feel preachy. Given the Seventh Doctor's godlike status in some of these stories, it's good to bring him down to Earth, so to speak, and show his more vulnerable side. There's a nice moment between him and Ace where he stops her from shooting a man who's attacking them. We see both sides of this argument, and the reader is left to make up their own minds about this. Ace is also well-realised here, and even though she's much angrier and more violent than her TV counterpart, her disillusionment with the world harkens back to the classic show's final seasons, and so it feels like a natural progression of the character. I've heard from sites like The Doctor Who Ratings Guide that Ace becomes more unlikeable as the books progress, but here, I thought she was portrayed very well.

Professor Summerfield is the brains to Ace's brawn. There's a slight feeling of dread as the tension between them mounts, as part of the ongoing arc between them. Between Ace's and the Doctor's angst, Bernice is the most grounded of the trio, providing a level head, especially towards the book's end where Ace is briefly possessed by Huitzilin, and the Doctor gets stabbed. Bernice's tempering effect is vital to the story, as it stops it from being dragged down by its own naval-gazing.

The incidental characters are fine, but nothing too memorable. Cristián Alvarez is the designated bystander who's dragged along for the ride as the time travellers keep appearing randomly throughout his life. There's also a Lieutenant Macbeth of UNIT, who doesn't know much of this mysterious Doctor but will go to any means to find out. I was disappointed that Macbeth didn't have a bigger role here, as I loved the way Orman tied back to the Barry Letts era, while expanding on it. Like Ace, the portrayal is markedly different from the show (UNIT is more sinister here, instead of the cozy ensemble it was in 70s), but still feels like a continuation and not a betrayal of what's come before.

One last connection with the new series is the story arc. As we've come to expect from the new series, a shady villain is working in the shadows to tamper with the Doctor's timestream, which is what causes the series of events in the story. Thankfully, it's not intrusive and the book can still be enjoyed as a standalone adventure. The framing device is so underused here, that it seems as if Orman originally wrote this to be its own story, and the editors made her add a few nods and winks just to tie it together with the other books.

If you're looking for an introduction to the New Adventure line, The Left-Handed Hummingbird is a good book to start with. Whether you're a longtime fan or a newbie, it's very much Doctor Who.

Book Review - The Invisible Man (H.G. Wells)

The Invisible Man is one of H.G. Wells's most iconic works. Like some of his other famous stories, it warns about the danger of science when combined with ruthless egoism. The story begins in the English village of Iping, where a strange man lodges at a local inn. He obsesses over his work and is hostile to any contact from the outside world. When the people discover his secret, the man goes on the run and becomes an almost mythic figure, as the authorities and inhabitants try to track him down.

I would say that the earliest part of this story is the best, where the Invisible Man (known as Griffin) tries to keep his secret at Iping. The story here isn't told from his perspective, but from the villagers, as they try to piece together the strange goings-on that surround him – his unfriendly manner, dogs barking at him, robberies and haunted furniture. Even with foreknowledge of the twist, I felt the build-up here was well executed. The story strikes a good balance between comedy and unease. It's the tone and atmosphere that makes this part of the story, rather than characterisation – the lodger is a cypher, and the villagers are one-dimensional.

The plot ratchets up when Griffin is forced to go on the run, and preys on a traveller named Thomas Marvel, using him to steal his books and scientific instruments from under the townspeople's noses. Marvel is also not very developed, but Wells conveys enough of the fear and confusion of his situation to make him sympathetic. The tension between Marvel and Griffin also added to my interest, as I had no idea how this dynamic would play out.

Halfway through the book, Griffin comes across an old acquaintance, a former fellow student named Kemp, and makes him his confidante. From this point on, I felt the story became much weaker. Griffin's explanation as to how he discovered invisibility and how he came to Iping is necessary, but I felt dragged on for too long. While it's interesting to see Griffin try and survive the London streets in his condition, I felt this monologue killed the plot by being too drawn out.

Griffin's characterisation is the story's weakest point. Whereas at the start he was cold and violent out of desperation, Wells eventually turns him into a full-blown psychopath. Griffin dreams of starting a reign of terror in the English countryside, with Kemp as his right-hand man. Despite his invisibility, I found this plan too ludicrous to find at all menacing. To stay completely hidden, Griffin has to stay naked, leaving him open to the elements. He's also completely outnumbered and his plan doesn't seem to amount to anything beyond killing random people. Griffin's bland and unexplained descent into villainy comes across as a clumsy attempt by Wells to pad out the final third of the novel by adding a villain. While the story was never about characterisation, the earlier parts worked strongly without such broad strokes.

This also scuppers the story's attempts to show invisibility in a realistic sense. Griffin's backstory, while lengthy, goes to great lengths to show the difficulties invisibility would bring. The megalomaniac he becomes feels like a completely different character.

I would recommend the first two thirds of The Invisible Man, as they're an interesting exploration of this “What if” scenario. The final third, though, doesn't really fit, and left me feeling dissatisfied with the story as a whole.

TV Review - Game of Thrones (S05E09 & S05E10) "The Dance of Dragons" & "Mother's Mercy"

(This review contains spoilers for episodes 9 and 10 of season 5 of Game of Thrones)

Game of Thrones reaches the end of its fifth season with some of its biggest changes yet, teasing towards a future that's just as uncertain for book-readers and show-watchers.

One of the most talked-about events is Stannis's sacrifice of his daughter to grant him victory against the Boltons. It's a profound turning-point for Stannis, showing just how far he's prepared to go for what he believes his right. It also dooms for his campaign, starting with the defection of huge swathes of his men, then his abandonment by Lady Melisandre, and the suicide of his wife. Shireen's sacrifice encapsulates the theme of belief which we've seen elsewhere with the Sparrows and the Sons of the Harpy. Once again, we're shown the brutal lengths these characters will go to for their beliefs. It's also caused a considerable stir in the fandom, with Stannis's real-life supporters also defecting in light of what they see as a betrayal of what Stannis should stand for.

People say that sacrificing his own child is a line that Book Stannis would never cross, and that this scene only exists for shock value. We still have a while to find out if that's true. Personally though, I would say this doesn't feel too inconsistent with what we've seen of Stannis so far. He knows the threat the White Walkers pose and genuinely believes that this will help defeat them. The show also establishes how desperate a position Stannis and his men are in, to do something like this. Retreating to Castle Black could mean giving up on Winterfell for years, as they wait for the snows to melt, by which time the Boltons could have dug themselves in so deep they could become unshakeable. And then there's Ramsay's guerilla attack, which only forces Stannis's hand even more. I would say the show has done a decent job of showing why Stannis would be pushed to such extremes.

I feel the scene also works because it conveys the morally grey nature of the show. On the one hand, sacrificing someone (especially an innocent child and in so gruesome a fashion) is a horrifying act for any reason. Shireen's screams certainly make this one of the hardest scenes in the whole show to watch. On the other, Stannis believes that this one death will save millions of lives later on. We've already seen that Melisandre's magic is real, so this is definitely not based on mere superstition. Finally, there's immediate crisis that Stannis and his men are starving and freezing, which serves as the final tipping point. Whether burning Shireen was justifiable, even in such extreme circumstances, is a difficult issue and fans will no doubt be debating this for decades. And seeing how moral complexity is so integral to the series, I feel this scene fits very well into its established framework.

I also felt Stannis's fate in “Mother's Mercy” was a fitting one. Rulers in A Song if Ice and Fire never seem to get noble deaths, so a wounded Stannis being executed in a lonely wood feels appropriate for the series. Yes, they don't show the deathblow, but I honestly can't see any reason why Brienne would change her mind at the last second. Besides, the scene works so well as a death scene that undoing it would cheapen it. The linking back with season 2 gives the scene a sense of closure. I loved the brief break from Stannis's usual stoicness when he realises why he's being killed, and I felt giving a glimpse of the man underneath his cold exterior was a good way to lead into his death. It highlights how vulnerable Stannis has become that even his psychological armour is cracking. On top of everything, it's obvious that Stannis is not Azor Ahai, so really I don't see what keeping him alive would bring to the show.

Another character shown in a drastically different light is Lady Melisandre. Her realisation that Stannis is not the one she's been waiting for all this time is the first time where we see her shaken and uncertain about the future. I thought more time could have been spent on this, not to mention Davos's shock at Shireen's execution. Hopefully, the fallout between them will be properly explored next season – especially Davos's realisation that Melisandre influenced Stannis's decision. Since these two have been at Stannis's side since the beginning, and now their faith in him has been irreperably damaged, I think this is the surest proof that Stannis's story is done. I doubt either of them will go to great lengths to resurrect him.

We also saw a huge power shift in Meereen when Daenerys was rescued from the Sons of the Harpy by Drogon, leaving her council to rule the city in her absence. I thought the riot in the arena was very well executed, and a good example of the show taking full advantage of its budget. There was also a potent contrast between Drogon incinerating the assassins, and Shireen's gruesome death moments before. I found this an interesting way to show the parallels between Daenerys and Stannis. Both have a much wider sense of duty to the realm other than consolidating their own power, and both have used fire as a weapon and symbol of authority. Shireen's death by fire is portrayed as a horrific act, while Drogon's use of it carries a certain level of catharsis, in light of the Sons' various crimes. I feel this contrast shows how fine the line can be between acts a viewer finds satisfying, and those a viewer finds repulsive.

Daenerys's departure leaves Meereen in the hands of Tyrion and Varys, and it seems as if their relationship will be a driving force behind next season's plot. It would be interested to see how the show handles Varys, although given how he's one of the most enigmatic characters in the whole series, I imagine this will cause yet more ruptures between the book purists and show-watchers. We also get teased for another road trip as Daario and Jorah leave to track down Daenerys. Given how weak the Dornish plot was this season, my hopes for this aren't exactly high.

That said, the Dornish plot does at least have an effective ending, where Myrcella dies of poison right after accepting Jaime as her father. After a whole season of empty hype, it was nice to see Ellaria and the Sand Snakes in a properly menacing light, though I still wish we didn't have to wait so long for this to happen. Plus, this can only lead to all-out war between the Lannisters and the Martells, which I suppose means that Dorne will feature next year as well. I just hope it's a bit more interesting this time around. I also wonder how this will affect Jaime's character development. His first proper moment with one of his children and she's then snatched away from him. Will Jaime start to become as paranoid as Cersei, or will he regress to the callous cynic he was at the start of the series?

Apart from Dorne, I would say the weakest plot this year was Arya's training in Braavos. This was another plot which I felt meandered somewhat with no real sense of momentum. Plus, all those portentious lines from Jaqen H'gar start to grate after a while. The last two episodes do, however, shake things up a bit. First we have the arrival of Lord Mace Tyrell, someone who's just been a background character for years, but finally gets a brief moment in the spotlight. Roger Ashton-Griffiths takes full advantage of his chance to ham things up, fleshing out this formerly forgettable character and giving the episode some much-needed levity. We also have a brief but welcome return from Mark Gatiss, who also gives it his all for this one small scene.

We also get Arya's satisying and gruesome dispatch of Ser Meryn Trant, which then leads to one of the strangest yet most hilarious scenes I've ever seen from this show. As well as the slow pacing and repetitiveness, what bothers me about the Faceless Men subplot is the sheer bizareness of it, with Jaqen's ability to teleport while giving dead bodies multiple faces. Even for a fantasy series, this feels out of place. Dragons are self-explanatory. The White Walkers are also not too hard to figure out (a race of Necromancers) even if we don't have all the details yet. But what we see in the House of Black and White just feels like weirdness for the sake of weirdness. Thematically it makes sense – Arya is being made to learn not to kill for pleasure – but the omnipotence of the Faceless Men just feels out of step with the rest of the series. Maybe the payoff will be good, but for the moment, I wouldn't mind if this subplot was completely discarded.

In King's Landing, Cersei is made to endure her walk of shame. I found this a very powerful scene, because while there's a definite sense of justice to Cersei being brought down to the level of the people she despises, it also shows the cruelty of mob mentality and almost made me feel sorry for Cersei. Lena Headey and David Nutter did a fantastic job of wringing some sympathy from this repellent character. But once Cersei returns to the Red Keep, we're reminded of her ties with Qyburn and his experiments, showing once again how Cersei will go to the most appalling lengths to stay in power.

In Winterfell, we get a small but brilliant scene where Sansa refuses to be intimidated by Ramsay's psychotic girlfriend, and Theon finally grows a backbone and offs her. It was a nice moment for both of them (though I wish Sansa could have been more proactive in her escape), before they're both literally dropped into an uncertain situation by fleeing the castle. I imagine they'll both be found by Brienne next season, as that seems the only chance they have of survival, beyond being found by Ramsay's troops. Unfortunately, Ramsay himself escapes his comeuppance yet again, but there's always next year.

And finally, Jon's strain with his men finally reaches breaking point with his assassination. While this has clearly been building for a long time, I was surprised by its depiction onscreen. Until now, all Game of Thrones seasons have ended on a huge, cinematic note: Dany's dragons; the White Walker army; Daenerys hailed as a liberator; Arya sailing for Braavos. This season defies that with an unceremonious shot of Jon lying in a pool of his own blood. We didn't even have Lady Melisandre coming across his body. At first I was disappointed by how lacklustre it felt, but like with Stannis, I eventually decided that it worked in showing how ignoble death is in this series. Of course, unlike Stannis, it's almost definite that Jon will return, but how or in what form is still unclear.

With that we come to the close of another season of Game of Thrones. I enjoyed it for the most part, though I feel the show has been pushed almost to breaking point in terms of subplots and characters. I know that producing and financing a show of this scale must be an absolute nightmare, so it's inevitable that some stuff would have to be skimmed over or else cut entirely. As stuff gets dropped, it leads to more deviations from the source material, which I don't feel is a bad thing in itself. I'd say the show has stayed true to the spirit of the books, even if it hasn't adhered to the plot. Besides, the show needs to have its own identity and not just slavishly follow the source; after all, if a person wants an exact copy of the books, they can just read the books.

We've now reached the point where nobody save GRRM and the showrunners know where the story is going. It'll be fascinating to see where the two media go from here, though it'll be a long wait yet. Until then, the long winter will carry on ...