Book Review - Knots & Crosses (Ian Rankin)

This is a review of Ian Rankin's 1987 novel, Knots and Crosses, the first in the John Rebus series.

The story takes place in Edinburgh, where a serial killer is targeting pre-teen girls and strangling them. The police are baffled by both the seemingly random nature of the crimes and the lack of a sexual element. Meanwhile, DS John Rebus is being hounded by anonymous letters as well as a journalist who suspects he's involved in a drug-dealing operation.

This is quite an unusual crime novel. In the introduction to the 1999 omnibus, Ian Rankin says that he didn't set out to write a crime novel and was surprised when the book was categorised as such. It certainly shows as Knots and Crosses is far less preoccupied with the mechanics of the investigation than with the analysis of Rebus himself.

From the get-go, Rankin establishes Rebus as a deeply damaged individual. He has a disastrous relationship with his brother, ex-wife and daughter, still suffers PTSD from a period in the SAS, and has a poisonously cynical attitude to the city around him. Rankin avoids wallowing in his protagonists' misery however, and keeps the plot moving at a brisk pace to ensure the reader is never bored. Rebus' little bouts of depression (and there are more than a few) are enough to establish the character to the reader, but never feel drag on to the point that they feel self-indulgent.

The actual investigation is left to the supporting characters, mostly Rebus' fellow DS Jack Morton. Rebus spends most of his energy struggling to connect with his remaining family, while puzzling over the sinister but oddly vague letters he keeps receiving.

In a darkly comic twist, Rebus is also unknowingly being followed by journalist Jim Stevens, who suspects he's involved in a drug ring. Stevens has a similarly unfulfilling life situation, but expends his energy on his work. This manifests itself in an obsession with a drug story he's not even attached to, as well as pining for a female DI that Rebus is involved with. In a way, Stevens is a slightly more interesting character than Rebus as he's more proactive and drives the plot more, as opposed to Rebus who mopes around waiting for the plot to happen. That may sound like criticism but it's really not, as Rebus' self-paralysing depression becomes a mjor plot point (and again, Rankin knows not to push this trait too far to make him insufferable).

As with many crime authors, Rankin gives as much personality to the setting as his characters. Rebus projects his misery on to Edinburgh itself, seeing the whole city as an enabler for appalling crime. It says a lot for Rebus' state of mind that he begins to see his own trauma reflected on the environment. I was glad however, that Rankin didn't stuff the book full of geographical pointers and map references (as say, Ben Aaronovitch does for London). While I'm sure this can be a lot of fun for readers familiar with the setting, it can be quite alienating to those with no knowledge of it.

Knots and Crosses is certainly not a happy book, but I still found it to be great reading. Rankin knows how to balance plot with introspection without making things self-indulgent, and also creates a very evocative setting. Highly recommended.

Book Review - Doctor Who; Cat's Cradle: Time's Crucible (Marc Platt)

Today I review the 1992 Doctor Who novel, Cat's Cradle: Time's Crucible by Marc Platt.

A mishap in the time vortex causes the Doctor's TARDIS to collide with another ship, but not just any ship: a primitive Gallifreyan time machine (a Time Scaphe) from before the age of the Time Lords. The incident catapults both crews into a nightmarish world where Time has broken down. Abandoned by the Doctor, Ace must team up with the suspicious other crew to discover what's happened.

Marc Platt is best known in Doctor Who circles for writing the 1989 TV story Ghost Light, a Victorian adventure notorious for its balls-out surreality and sketchy, seemingly random plotting. For some, it's a tribute to just how successful the Andrew Cartmel template could be in the right hands. For others, it demonstrates just how dismal Doctor Who had become in its final televised years, as straight-forward storytelling is sacrificed for pretentious faux-intellectualism.

I'd count myself firmly in the former camp. I think Ghost Light is a classic, but I understand why a lot of people hate it and its style. Unsurprisingly, Time's Crucible has a similarly controversial relationship with fans, especially on the Doctor Who Ratings Guide. Unbound by the constraints of shooting a TV series, Platt lets his imagination run riot on the page. It's a fantastic read if you're in the mood, but only if you're in the mood. Otherwise it can leave the reader surly with themselves for bothering to read it.

This review comes after my second reading of Time's Crucible. The first time, I was impressed by Platt's imagination and the shameless manner he exploits the print format to create a story that could never have been realised on TV. However, I found his characterisation rather poor except for Ace. I was also lukewarm towards the Gallifreyan backstory; while I understand the temptation to want to explore the mysteries of the Times Lords, I felt this was something that was best left to the imagination. Like the Doctor's own backstory, there are some things about the Doctor Who mythos that are just better left in the dark.

I came away from the second reading enjoying the story far more. For one thing, knowing the basic plotline meant I wasn't as overwhelmed by the surreality of Platt's concept and could better appreciate it. I also enjoyed the Gallifreyan parts of the book, to my pleasant surprise. I still won't insist that Platt's vision of Time Scaphes, ancient fortunetellers and inferitility curses should be the “canon” version of Gallifrey (Doctor Who tends to be more enjoyable when its mythology is open to debate), but I thought the execution was intriguing and made the backstory worthwhile.

The plot is actually fairly simple when all the surreal aspects are stripped away. The 7^th Doctor is for once in a fairly vulnerable position for much of the book; he fails to protect the TARDIS in the beginning, and is genuinely at a loss for much of the story as to what is going on. This almost feels like an attempt to counterbalance the usual super-powered 7^th Doctor we usually see. Platt captures the character beautifully. One of my favourite moments occurs early on when the Doctor and Ace are sitting in a diner in Perivale, and the Doctor can clearly sense something amiss, but can't put his finger on it. The contrast between a mundane setting and the cryptic Doctor is a striking way to open the story.

Granted, the characterisation goes a little askew midway through the book when the Doctor loses his memory, and has to spend a good chunk of the book catching up with himself. The problem with memory loss in fiction – especially if involves character we already know – is that the reader doesn't learn anything new about the character in the process, because so much of the character's “arc” feels more like a character “loop” because ultimately, the character is only coming back to where they were at the start of the story.

This was my impression of the Doctor here the first time I read this book. On a second reading, I found that the Doctor does change a little throughout the story (in that he realises the full significance of the Time Scaphe and its crew, and the implications this has for him as a Gallifreyan). However, this could have worked just as well without the memory loss. It comes across like an extreme attempt to counter the 7^th Doctor's usual all-powerfullness. While I appreciate the intention, I don't think Platt had to go quite as far as wiping his memory completely.

Thankfully, Ace remains a fairly straightforward protagonist. This is still very much TV Ace before her development takes a sudden swerve in Love & War. Platt does a great job of getting across her brashness as well as her uncertainty. Platt shows his grasp of the two characters' relationship, with Ace torn between her distrust of the Doctor's manipulative ways, and her genuine affection for him.

Another benefit of a second read was that I came to appreciate the secondary characters more. We're not given much backstory on the Time Scaphe crew or their personalities, but their grappling with their horrifying future did make for an engaging plotline. The breaking down of Time brings the crew face-to-face with their own futures, allowing the story to explore themes of fate and predestination. To be honest, I can't say how well the book covers these themes (what with the general insanity of the concept), but I was at least more involved with the Time Scaphe crew the second time around. I can't stress enough that this is a book that needs to be read repeatedly to try to appreciate it.

Our villains are a bit of a mixed-bag. The most prominent is Vael, the sixth member of the Time Scaphe crew. We first see him on Gallifrey as a student with pyrotechnic powers (that are never really explained), and ambitions of breaking out of Gallifreyan society and attaining some grand destiny for himself.

Vael is an example of one of my least favourite villainous archetypes: the power-hungry schemer. He's so obsessed with his own perceived specialness that he becomes insufferable. There aren't any layers to his morality or character; he's just a straight-up bastard who screws everyone over just because. Even worse, the Doctor seems to agree that Vael is a greater threat than anyone he's ever faced (Worse than Sutekh the Destroyer? Don't make me laugh!) when really he's just another weedy collaborator we've seen a hundred times. On a second reading, I wonder if Platt was trying to tease the reader that Vael could be the origin of the Master (another villain who I'm not too fond of).

Our next villain is the Process, who is certainly more interesting than Vael, if only because of the sheer weirdness of its concept: an enormous sentient leech with two mouths on each end of its body, who also has an older and younger self (who co-exist due to the Time breaking down) vying for power. The Process is fun to read just for the fact that you know Doctor Who could never have done this on TV with the budget they had.

There are a few issues here as well, however. Where does the Process get its name? Where did it actually come from? Was it a Chronovore in the Time Vortex? That seems to be implied but Platt could have done us the courtesy of making that clear.

Also, its dialogue is pretty cliched villainous affair. The Process spends much of its time boasting of its impending victory, or else demanding the Doctor's destruction. The time paradoxes also mean it speaks in mangled present tenses, which can get a little tiresome. As a character the Process is weak, but conceptually, its one of the most inventive creations I've ever seen from Doctor Who.

Our final villain is the Pythia, and this takes us into one of the more controversial aspects of the book. Time's Crucible delves into Gallifreyan history and the Time Lords' origins to an extent Doctor Who hadn't done since The Deadly Assassin. Like that story, this has caused quite a rift in the fandom. Some people find Platt's vision of Gallifrey's past uninteresting, whereas others argue that the very act of exploring Gallfrey's past is a mistake, as it demystifies the Time Lords.

I can sympathise with the latter viewpoint having felt the same way after my first reading. On a second reading, I came to appreciate Platt's intention more. The Pythia symbolizes the old guard of superstition, whereas Rassilon and his followers represent progress and iconoclasm. The Pythia's curse shows that even progress can have a terrible price.

Rassilon himself also gets an interesting depiction here. Here we see Rassilon before he became the ruler of the High Council, when he was an idealistic and inexperienced student. Platt wisely doesn't delve too much into Rassilon's own lifestory, but we see enough of him to get a sense of who he is as a character.

I can understand completely why so many people dislike Time's Crucible , especially since this business of ancient curses and cults of prophets is too much like high fantasy to be recognisable as Doctor Who. I personally don't mind when the series does fantasy as long as the story is good, which I felt was the case here, but I can see why the book has such a controversial reputation.

Whether you'll like Cat's Cradle: Time's Crucible depends on what you want out of Doctor Who. If you want fun, irreverant stories or in-depth character studies, you're bound to be disappointed. If you prefer general mindscrewiness, time paradoxes and obsessions with the show's mythos, I'd say you'll like this book or at least be fascinated by it.

Oh, and it even has a moon that turns out to be a giant egg.

Book Review - After Doomsday (Poul Anderson)

Today's review is Poul Anderson's 1963 novel, After Doomsday.

In the distant future, planet Earth is suddenly hit by a catastrophe that annihilates all life and leaves the planet utterly barren. A scattering of crews travelling through space are all that remains of the human race, and instantly set out to rebuild their civilization and discover the cause of the disaster.

After Doomsday is an interesting book in the way it revolves around a colossal concept, yet manages to tell a fast-paced and engaging story. It also shows a well-developed universe, populated with all manner of civilizations with complex and dynamic relations. The human survivors have to navigate between imperialists, capitalists and feudalists to carve out a niche for themselves in a vast and uncertain universe.

The book is fairly scant on characterisation. Our protagonists are resourceful and have moments of introspection as they remember their former lives on Earth, but developing deep personalities does not appear to be Anderson's main objective. Not that this takes away from the story, but if you like your science-fiction to be heavily character-based, you're likely to be disappointed here.

Anderson does have a slightly annoying habit of delivering exposition through character's thoughts, rather than try to work it into dialogue or behaviour in a way that feels natural. These attempts to establish character backstory comes across as a bit lazy. Again, this doesn't detract from the book's strong points, but some readers might be a bit put off by it.

Apart from the main thread of the the mystery of the Earth's destruction, the plot is largely episodic. Characters move from one planet to another, gradually giving the reader a better understanding of this universe and how it functions. I enjoyed this method of revealing the book's universe, with Anderson gradually teasing details out to stoke the reader's curiosity.

There's a curious segment where an immense space battle is described to the reader through a combination of epic poetry and a fictional historical account. I liked both these little details as they further fleshed out Anderson's created world, giving an insight into the cultures of these alien societies.

One major issue I have with the book is the ending. It ends with a cliffhanger, which I thought was a great idea, but the whole thing feels a little rushed. I didn't feel the extent of emotional impact that Anderson clearly wanted to get across. This spoiled the ending for me a bit.

That said, I still think After Doomsday has more good than bad in it. It's a nifty read and a great example of how you can develop a dynamic fictional world without going all George RR Martin and becoming swamped in your own detail (sorry George).

Highly recommended.

TV Review - Doctor Who, "The Aztecs"

Today I review the Doctor Who serial from 1964, "The Aztecs" written by John Lucarotti.

The TARDIS arrives in Mexico at the height of the Aztec Empire. Barbara is mistaken for a reincarnation of the god Yetaxa, giving her great influence over Aztec society. However, Barbara learns to her horror that she is to preside over human sacrifices, a practice she tries to stamp out by declaring it illegal. Meanwhile, Ian runs afoul of an arrogant warrior while the Doctor's attempts to reclaim the TARDIS draw the affections of a local noblewoman.

"The Aztecs" is remembered as one of Doctor Who's early classics and rightly so. It's a tightly plotted serial that explores two fascinating time travel concepts: adapting to a completely different society and, a recurring theme in Doctor Who, the implications of trying to change history.

These themes revolve around Barbara's 'ascension' to godhood. While Barbara's attempts to change the Aztecs' thoughts on sacrifice is well-intentioned, there's an unmistakeable note of moral superiority about it. Barbara doesn't consider the implications of trying to radically alter a society's conception of death overnight. Her attempts also ring somewhat hollow given she argues her case on her presumed divinity – something she knows to be false but still tries to use to manipulate the Aztecs.

Barbara's efforts lead her to clash with Tlotoxl, the High Priest of Sacrifice. John Ringham adds a lot of flavour to this villain, walking with a stoop to match his plotting nature, and sneering every line with undisguised glee. Once-off villains in Doctor Who can sometimes feel a bit one-dimensional and unremarkable; Lucarotti tackles this by showing that Tlotoxl is not some abhorrence to Acztec society, rather he represents a cornerstone of the Aztecs' belief system. It's Barbara who comes across a threat by trying to impose a completely alien belief upon to the Aztecs, and expecting them to accept it because of her alleged godhood. Tlotoxl may be an unsavoury individual, but to the Aztecs themselves he can't possibly be a “villain” because he represents order.

The serial further shows how different the Aztecs' society is with its inclusion of the Perfect Sacrifice, a man who is to be honoured by being sacrificed and is thus treated like royalty. This isn't some police state that deprives its citizens of their rights (making the Doctor and his friends into heroes for fighting the regime), but a society where people understand and accept the reality of death. These moral complexities make “The Aztecs” one of the most compelling of the early Doctor Who serials.

Then there is of course the famous argument between Barbara and the Doctor, leading to one of the show's most famous quotes: “You can't rewrite history, not one line! Believe me I know, I know.”

I feel this is a scene that's even more important when you look at it in the context of the series. The Doctor was characterised very early on as a prickly, stubborn, and sometimes stupidly selfish person. This was demonstrated in earlier serials like The Daleks, where the Doctor sabotages the TARDIS on Skaro to give him an excuse to explore the planet's surface.

This however is the first time we hear the Doctor discuss the implications of time travel, along with the suggestion that he's tried to change history himself and failed. These days, we're used to the Doctor being the authority on time travel and warning his companions of its dangers. This though is the first time we hear the Doctor struggle to educate his companion in such a manner, using dispassionate logic against Barbara's strong sense of morality. It's one of those little character establishing moments that sees the Doctor slowly change from an irritable meddler into the wise and authoritative figure we know him as today.

A more controversial element (controversial in the fannish sense) is the Doctor's budding romance with Cameca. I'm not normally a fan of the Doctor being written as a romantic as I feel it undermines the aloofness and alienness that's crucial to his character. I will however cut this story a bit of slack largely because the Doctor hadn't yet been confirmed as an alien – the pilot confirms he's from another world, but he could've been a future human colonist for all the information the show gave us.

Besides, the dynamic is so well executed (especially with some lovely understated performances from Hartnell and Margot van der Burgh) that it's hard not to find endearing, even if it does 'violate' your normal fan preferences. At the end of the day, being a Doctor Who fan generally involves a bit of doublethink, as the show's longevity and parade of writers and creative teams mean certain contradictions of canon are bound to appear.

To use another example, I quite enjoy a number of stories from the Cartmel era of the show, even though I generally don't like the Doctor being written as some cosmic, godlike figure. I appreciate the Cartmel interpretation of the character even if it doesn't fit in with my ideal version of what the character should be, and the same is easy to do here as well.

In conclusion, “The Aztecs” is definitely one of the highlights of Doctor Who's early years. It's a story that takes the concept of time travel and runs with it, and is also a great example of how to write a protagonist (in this case Barbara) who's sympathetic but still heavily flawed.

Book Review - Perdido Street Station (China Miéiville)

Hello people, today I review a 2000 novel from China Miéiville, Perdido Street Station.

Perdido Street Station takes place in the city of New Crobuzon in the fictional continent of Bas-Lag. Here, a renegade physicist named Isaac dan Grimnebulin is approached one day by a strange refugee: a garuda (a humanoid bird-of-prey) named Yagharek who's been stripped of his wings as punishment. Yagharek seeks Isaac out to help him regain the power of flight, an offer that appeals to Isaac's curiosity and antipathy towards authority. However, Isaac's experiments inadvertently unleash a terrifying threat on the city that could leave all its inhabitants worse than dead . . .

Perdido Street Station is an incredibly rich and inventive novel. Miéiville has clearly had a lot of fun designing this bizarre alternate society, full of strange creatures and cultures. The garuda are just one distinct group in this city. New Crobuzon is also comprised of humanoid beetles, cacti, frogs, and other even more bizarre and terrifying entities.

Our protagonist Isaac starts off as a jovial if slightly selfish antihero. He's appalled by his former University's ties with the brutal city regime, yet uses his own underworld connections to acquire apparatus discretely. He gladly helps Yagharek to learn how to fly again, mostly so he can make a name for himself by making a breakthrough in physics.

Isaac also shows a level of foolishness and pomposity, such as when he blithely wanders into a garuda settlement with no consideration for their customs, resulting in him being forcefully ejected. This can also be seen in his interactions with Yagharek, where Isaac's overly-friendly demeanour comes off as a bit forced and insincere.

However, this drastically changes halfway through the story when events take a disturbing turn. Isaac becomes a darker and more desperate character in the light of his own personal tragedy, and the impact his experiments have on the city. Like King Rat, we see Miéiville start off with a relatively light tone only to completely beat down his protagonists. Towards the end, Isaac has become so embittered he's barely recognisable as the same person at the start of the book. This should not be taken as criticism however, but rather an indication of Miéiville's mercilessness towards his characters.

Another important character is Lin, a khepri (half-human, half-beetle) and Isaac's artistic girlfriend. Lin's embrace of a career in individual expression has alienated her from her home community, while her race makes her an outsider in the human community as well. Miéiville introduces the reader to khepri history and society by using Lin's experiences with it. Through Lin's defiance of their ways, Miéiville gives a sense of the tension between human and khepri.

Another exiled figure is Yagharaek, a disgraced garuda who was stripped of his wings for some past transgression. He embodies the “noble” warrior trope, remaining a solitary, silent figure for much of the book, and rarely even interacts with Isaac. Miéiville instead uses inner monologue to convey Yagharek's thoughts and motivations to us. Personally, I'm not a big fan of this device, especially when they diverge into lengthy poetic descriptions (as happens here), and wish Yagharek's character had been conveyed to us more through his actions.

Yagharek's stolidness makes for an interesting contrast with the growing insanity of the plot. He's not so much a figure of sanity, but due to his silence and deliberate removal from events, Yagharek conveys a sense of being “outside” the chaos – even if his request to Isaac indirectly causes the horror in the first place.

However, Miéiville viciously subverts this depiction in the latter stages of the book. I won't spoil it here, but it's a development which paints Yagharek in a very different light and left me having to reconsider a lot of my impressions of him. His eventual fate also left me full of questions and a very mixed emotional response, but in a way that the author clearly intended.

Miéiville provides a window into the violent struggle between New Crobuzon's secret police and the underground press through the character of Derkhan Blueday. Derkhan, a former activist and hard-left journalist, gets caught up in the madness caused by Isaac's experiments and, like him, becomes a much harder person by the story's end.

The secret press aspect doesn't relate directly to the plot, but it does flesh out the world of New Crobuzon more. It also adds to the themes of governmental oppression and its consequences, which is important as the government's shady practices are as much a cause of the story's main catastrophe as Isaac's carelessness.

Like with King Rat, Miéiville writes with a strong sense of place and a feel for atmosphere. He works hard to convey the mood and atmosphere of the city, focusing as much on the psyhcological impact the crisis has on the city's population as he does on the direct victims. While the story isn't short on action, the apocalypse that befalls New Crobuzon is of a rather insidious variety. The “nightmare epidemic” and the use of body horror adds to the surreality of the story's crisis.

There are a host of other weird entities in this book that I won't say too much about here; you really need to read this book to get a sense of some of these oddities. The Weaver is perhaps the most distinctive, with its terrifying yet dreamlike presence. While it plays an important role, the Weaver's origins and motivations are largely left opaque; its truly alien form of thought and reasoning is a major plot point. The Weaver's inclusion demonstrates how New Crobuzon, for all its depth and variety, is merely one part of a vast and weird universe.

In short, this is a weird, compelling, sometimes frightening and other times heartbreaking book.

The one issue I have (which some readers may also have) is its length, coming in at just under 870 pages. The book unsurprisingly drags in parts where the plot slows, and Miéiville can become a little too caught up in describing the place or scene.

All that said, Perdido Street Station is still an extremely rich and multi-layered book. It's the type of story that's so vast it's easy to miss things on the first go, making for rewarding rereads. Highly recommended.