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.