This book was provided by the publisher.
I’m a little conflicted by this book, and I know I won’t write a review that does it, or that ambiguity, justice.
On the one hand this is a book of gorgeous prose. It’s lyrical (heh) and it’s evocative, setting up beautiful word-pictures. This is a world where although sight still exists, hearing has become far more important for many people – an inversion of today? There’s talk of whistling directions, of using tunes as advertisements and as aides memoire, and then there’s Chimes. Chimes is music that plays at Matins and Vespers, and no matter where you are (well, within the small geographic scope of the novel) you have to pay attention. It’s fairly fast-paced; Smaill does a good job of showing the dystopian nature of the world without a whole lot of detail; I found the conclusion satisfyingly dramatic.
On the other hand… there are enormous questions that are never answered about how ‘the world’ got like this (there’s hints but that’s all), whether the entire world is like this or just some area around London, and there are a few plot holes here and there that are glanced over. What I can’t figure out is whether these things matter or not. On balance, I think I can live with those problems, and it’s mostly because of the beauty of the language. If this were a more pedestrian novel I would have more problems with it. The one problem with the language is the use of musical terms. No one does anything quickly or slowly; it’s all piano, lento, tacet… and I don’t even know if some of the words were invented. I have zero musical training so there were times where I was confused about whether we were rushing or going stealthy. Still, I coped. I was a bit sad at about the halfway mark that the novel was so boy-heavy (I hadn’t read the blurb so I actually thought the narrator was a girl, at the start), but by the end I was a bit more content with the gender choices overall.
The novel is written in the first person and in present tense; I feel like I haven’t read a whole lot of present-tense stuff recently, so that was intriguing. Our protag is off to London with a mission from his dying mother, but he has to hurry because he’ll lose his memory of what he’s doing pretty soon. Because everyone does. This is a world where people are just about living Fifty First Dates. They keep ‘bodymemory’ – usually – so they remember how to eat, how to do the manual parts of their job, and so on; and maybe ‘objectmemory’ can help with some specific events… but unless relationships, for instance, are renewed every day, pretty soon those people are gone from your mind. Because of Chimes. The music you can’t not hear.
Simon, of course, is a bit special – he’s got a slightly better memory – and while the whole You’re Special thing might be a bit old, that’s because it’s such a good way of making change happen in a difficult world. Anyway, Simon starts finding out more about his world, thanks to a new friend, and things progress from there. I liked Simon, overall, as a voice for showing the world, but really we don’t find out that much about him – I think as a factor of the first-person narration. That’s not necessarily a problem; you’re enough in his head on a day-by-day basis that I, at least, certainly cared what happened.
The musical aspect is original, at least in my reading experience, and the prose is a delight. For a debut novel I’m even more impressed – and not surprised to discover that Smaill is both a classically trained violinist and a published poet. I hope she gets to publish more books, and I hope this features on the Sir Julius Vogel ballot next year (she’s a Kiwi). You can get it from Fishpond.
I got this to review but I haven’t read the first two books in the trilogy.
I quite like the style and the colour magic stuff is fascinating; I like some of the characters and there are clearly complex relationships happening. But it’s inaccessible to someone who doesn’t know the context and I’m not sure I have the time to read massive fantasy trilogy.
Is this one I should keep, and go seek out the other ones? I’m not completely averse to the idea, but I do have a lot of unread books…
Let me get the annoying thing out of the way first. This collection was collated by Reed himself, as far as I can tell, with a bit of additional material to bridge the stories (and adding to “the resident confusion” apparently), and some stories altered as well to better fit with the others. There are a lot of typos, and a number of problems that I would have expected proofreading to catch. This didn’t detract from my overall enjoyment of the stories, but I found it really quite frustrating. Also, rather than having headers that give the name of each story, the header is a number: so it might have “5 95″ at the top of the page, which tells you you’re on p95 overall and section 5 on whichever story is on that page. But it doesn’t tell me which story! Argh. Anyway.
There’s no point in talking about every story; that would be tiresome. I realised as I read the last story that the collection as a whole rather put me in mind of Christopher Priest’s The Islanders. They have nothing in common in terms of themes or characters or setting, but there is a certain way in which their methods of connecting disparate elements feels similar. In Priest’s work, the same character might turn up on several different islands and you learn about them a little more. Here, there are a couple of characters who recur in a big way (Quee Lee especially, and Perri), and several others who appear intermittently. Additionally, the Great Ship is so very big that each story is set in a different place – and sometimes not even on the Great Ship – so that, like the Dream Archipelago for Priest, it’s the same place but very different.
The Great Ship is just that: a spaceship that is at one time described as being the size of Uranus. And there’s very few who live on the surface – which would be big, but not that impressive: rather, the entire innards of the Ship is honeycombed with a vast array of habitats, meaning that the Ship can support countless billions. For whatever reason it was launched into the universe, travelling along, and then humanity managed to board and claim it. But it’s not just a human ship; any species, as long as they’ve got the cash to pay their way, can come along for the ride. And what a ride: they’re doing the ultimate Grand Tour, around the Milky Way.
All of the stories are entirely standalone. There is no reason to read this collection in the order it’s presented. Except that Reed claims to have it in some sort of chronological order (and certainly the two bookending stories feel like a beginning and an end), and there is something very satisfying about feeling like you’re progressing through the history of the Great Ship and its passengers. And everyone is a passenger, whether they’re paying or working their way. I like that there are stories about rich folks as well as people who work on the ship; it wasn’t quite balanced, but it’s better than simply seeing the idle wealthy. There are stories of action and adventure; stories about relationships, and solitude, and time; there is death and birth and just getting on with things.
One of the odd things about these stories is the issue of time. Pretty much everyone on the Ship is functionally immortal. No diseases, no ageing; you get hurt but as long as your brain is intact it doesn’t even matter if you die. So ideas like your husband being away for a year (or ten), or a journey taking thirty years, or having to hide for centuries… those words, those time-concepts, are basically irrelevant. I didn’t end up with much of a sense of grandeur or the epic sweep of time because the numbers are so big that my mind just rebelled and basically say those as weeks, perhaps months. Which doesn’t make the stories any less interesting but perhaps is not the response Reed is hoping for.
I do intend to read the Great Ship novels… but I might go read something on a slightly smaller scale first…
In which we’re back, baby, all cultured up from our summer holiday to tell you what’s good in books, shows, comics & more. You can get us from iTunes or over at Galactic Suburbia.
Thank our Patreons for the Alisa’s headphones which have greatly improved our sound quality!
Alisa is about to go to print on the Year’s Best YA.
Over the summer, as well as appearing on Galactic Suburbia’s sister-wife podcast Verity!, Tansy also guested on the Two Minute Time Lord talking about the Doctor Who Christmas special. Yes, Chip’s episodes are totally 2 minutes or less most of the time, but of course Tansy talked for longer than that, don’t be ridiculous! Tansy also wrote an article on Sex & Science Fiction over at Uncanny Magazine.
Alex has an exciting new announcement too, but you’ll have to listen to find out what it is. (cough, Tor.com, cough)
The Locus Recommended Reading List is out now, and features lots of Aussies.
What Culture Have we Consumed?
Alisa: Warehouse 13 Season 1; Twinmakers by Sean Williams; Crash by Sean Williams;
ODY-C #1 (Image); Federal Bureau of Physics Vol 1: The Paradigm Shift (Vertigo); Sex Criminals Vol 1 and Sex Criminals Issue 6 and 7; Julie Dillon’s Imagined Realms Book 1;Once Upon a Time Season 1 and 2; Serial
Tansy: The Fangirl Happy Hour podcast, Issue 1 reviews: Bitch Planet, The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl, SHIELD, Hawkeye, Black Canary & Zatanna: Bloodspell, by Paul Dini; Agent Carter, Kameron Hurley on not quitting her dayjob.
Alex: Three Temeraire books, Naomi Novik; Haven season 4; The Female Factory, Lisa Hannett and Angela Slatter; Lies of Locke Lamora, Scott Lynch; A Face Like Glass, Frances Hardinge; Clariel, Garth Nix; Tam Lin, Pamela Dean. Abandoned: Orphans of Chaos and Hidden Empire
ZEROES – New superhero YA book deal from Scott Westerfeld, Deborah Biancotti & Margo Lanagan – words do not describe how excited Galactic Suburbia is about this one!!! Coming out from Simon Pulse in northern autumn this year.
Please send feedback to us at firstname.lastname@example.org, follow us on Twitter at @galacticsuburbs, check out Galactic Suburbia Podcast on Facebook, support us at Patreon and don’t forget to leave a review on iTunes if you love us!
I was in my mid 30s when I finally watched The Breakfast Club. I rally enjoyed it but I’m glad I didn’t watch it when I was at high school; school was already something of a disappointment.
I read Tam Lin for the first time this year, 15 years after finishing my undergrad studies – yes, with a BA. I am really glad that I didn’t read this before or during my studies. I thoroughly enjoyed university, but there was very little spontaneous Shakespeare and Milton and Keats quoting going on.
I’ve heard about this on and off over the years; Tansy is a huge fan. I didn’t really have any idea of what to expect – I don’t know the ballad on which it is based, and although I knew there was some Fae element I think I was expecting a kind of Tom’s Midnight Garden experience, going in and out of fairyland? Or something. So it wasn’t what I expected, but mostly in a good way.
Spoilers ahead, if you’re like me and not up on your faery-tinged-undergrad-learning love story!
(That is, it’s a love story to undergrad learning. Although there are love stories in the novel as well.)
Like I said, I was expecting the fairy stuff a lot earlier than it actually turned up. To the point where I got to wondering that because the university experience was so exquisite, was that actually the fairy land? And Janet would eventually wake up? Or something? It was amusing to note the similarities in Janet’s experience of college and my own, as well as the differences, some of which are temporal (25 years different), many I suspect are geographical (US expectations of a ‘liberal arts degree’ are very different from Australian ones… doing physical education? As a compulsory unit??… plus I will never, ever understand the necessity of rooming at college – and I lived in residence for two years), and most of them are of course fiction v reality. With the hindsight of my mid-30s, I enjoyed this fantastical take on college, while acknowledging just how unreal it was. I really liked the discussions Janet and co had around poetry and theatre and what to major in – those discussions can be, and sometimes were, glorious – as well as the fact that Dean includes in-class stuff, with good lecturers and bad. It did make me a little sentimental for my own experience, which I am definitely seeing with a rosy tinge these days. I was also interested in the fact that, published in 1991, it was set 20 years prior. By the end this decision made sense – the stuff about pregnancy and being on the pill would presumably have been a much more raw and radical issue in the early 70s, socially speaking, than in the 90s. Plus I suspect that many people look back on the early 70s rather romantically, as a time of liberation and so on.
Obviously there are hints that things are A Bit Odd from quite early on: the stories about Classics majors (heh; I only have a minor in it), the odd temporal questions and connections, the intensity of some of the relationships…. I admit that I cracked about 2/3 of the way through and looked up some of the names… and yes, there were a couple of them, in the roll of Shakespeare’s company. So that gave me a bit of a clue of what was going on. Like a few reviewers on Goodreads I found the denouement a little bit rushed – in, what, the last 40 pages? it’s revealed what Medeous actually is, and is doing. But… ultimately, for me, the faery aspect isn’t what the book is actually about. But still, I liked the triumphal-tinged-with-doom ending – although a sequel would be extremely ill-advised. I hadn’t picked up the Thomas Lane/Tam Lin connection! Oops.
I liked Janet. Yes, she’s a bit spoiled, and she would almost certainly have driven me a bit mad if I’d met here at 18 – she’s so confident in her own knowledge. But I admired that, too, and the fact that she struggles and overcomes. I liked that her friendships weren’t always easy and that she acknowledged the necessity of working on them – even if she didn’t always do it well; I’m a nerd so I definitely liked her dedication (mostly) to learning!
I can imagine reading this again. I would love to recommend it to young friends, but I don’t think that in good conscience I can – not until they’ve finished at university.
I am not into bondage; I don’t especially like reading about it. I understand that other people do, and that’s cool; I really don’t care. Whether I will keep reading a book that has bondage stuff in it depends on whether the plot and the characters warrant it, and how uncomfortable those scenes make me.
Enough of a prelude?
This started out well enough. Five apparent orphans in a boarding school where they are the only students; odd goings-on, and at least one student convinced that they’re not actually on Earth (why? who knows). The student interactions were usually entertaining enough and the discomfort level wasn’t too high, for the first half or so. I was quite looking forward to finding out what odd thing was going on and whether the kids would have powers.
Then the governors etc of the school turned up and it was Lady Cyprian (although I was confused by her because I really thought they were saying her husband was the Unseen One, thus Hades, so I thought she was Persephone even though her attitude and name didn’t fit… nope, turns out I misunderstood and her husband was indeed Hephaestus). Some of the ways these characters were referred to was confusing, but then alternately transparent, so I got a bit impatient with the ‘are you trying to disguise their Greek god-ness or not’ – and then there were references to their Roman names but also that they were Greek gods – and I started to get doubtful.
Then the two girls dress up as very provocative maids in order to distract a cranky gardener called Grendel… which I can maybe come at because in theory they’re 16 but in reality there’s something weird about their ages… but THEN the three boys ‘vote’ on making them stay in those outfits, and the girls don’t get to ignore them.
So: yeh nah. I have no idea where I got this from; it’s been sitting on my iPad for ages, and I’ve never got around to reading it. Now I don’t have to finish it or worry about the sequels.
There is an exquisite agony in expectation.
A few years ago I read Gwyneth Jones’ Bold as Love sequence. I owned all of the books but I read them over almost a year… because it was kind of almost fun to wait, even though I had no need; and because I didn’t want the ride to be over.
Last year I did the same with Naomi Novik’s Temeraire series (which still isn’t finished because I haven’t got around to finding the last two), and Sarah Monette’s Mirador.
I had Frances Hardinge’s A Face Like Glass sitting on my desk for a full week, waiting to be read. It’s not exactly a year, but the principle is the same: knowing that I had it there waiting to read was incredibly exciting; knowing that as soon as I started reading it would soon be over was excruciating. Because oh my Hardinge is a glorious, glorious author.
And now I’ve read it and it was as I expected – which is to say even better than I expected – but now I am FINISHED and I am BEREFT.
A curmudgeonly cheesemonger is so antisocial he just lives in the tunnels with his cheeses (no ordinary cheese, it should be said, but cheese that can make you see visions and hear songs and maybe spit acid at you. TRUE Cheese). One day he finds a girl in a vat of whey… and her face: well, he makes her wear a mask.
Now, you might be thinking this guy is a bit odd. And he is. But the society he’s turned his back on is that of Caverna; they all live underground. And the other thing that’s different about them is that as babies, they don’t learn facial expressions. At all. Babies, toddlers, even adults if you’ve got the money, have to learn Faces: initially from family, and then from Facesmiths. Yes, this is as weird as it sounds… and it ends up being a really interesting reflection on class issues. Once you’re an adult, it costs a lot to learn new and interesting Faces; so of course, the poor don’t. And can’t. Does that mean they don’t have the emotions that require such a range of emotions?
Indeed, what does it mean to feel an emotion if you can’t express emotion via your features? Hardinge doesn’t pretend to have all the answers, but she makes a compelling, swoon-worthy novel from the issue.
It’s not all cheese and frowns, though. There’s also intrigue, friendship, losing your way, kleptomancy (my new favouritest way of telling the future), True Wine and Cartographers whose words can make you go crazy. There’s recognising your own emotions as well as others’, figuring out who to trust and how to trust yourself, and the willingness to Go With The Crazy.
And then there’s the glory that is Hardinge’s prose. Her words don’t just flow; sometimes they trickle and sometimes they gush but they always worm into your brain and create stunning pictures and magnificent juxtapositions. I’m pretty sure I could read Hardinge’s shopping list and it would be a work of lyrical beauty.
Get it from Fishpond. If you have never read a single Hardinge, read this one… and then read the rest….
It took me a while to read this one. I read “Vox” and “Baggage” and then had to have a metaphorical lie down for a week, to catch my breath, then read the last two stories.
Seriously. These two ladies. THEY DO THINGS TO MY BRAIN.
The no-spoilers version is: this collection is about being a woman, and children, and social expectations, and identity.
Now go read it. No, seriously.
“Vox” is incredibly chilling, probably the most of the four stories, and on two laters. Kate’s obsession with the voices of inanimate objects is kooky but not that strange; her despair at not being able to have children is a familiar one. The further despair at having to choose just one child cuts deep… but the fact of what happens to the children she doesn’t choose? I had to reread the sections about the electronics’ voices a couple of time to check whether HannSlatt really had gone there. And yes, they really really had. Plus, Kate’s attitude towards her existing child… says some hard things about maternity. Confronting, in fact.
“Baggage” is a nasty little piece of baggage, with a central character lacking pretty much any redeeming personality features and a quite unpleasant world for her to feature in. Her particular ‘gift’ is never clearly explained, which I liked, given how supremely weird it is. There are definite overtones of The Handmaid’s Tale, although obviously it’s very different, and also perhaps Children of Men? Once again with maternity, although I imagine Kate would be horrified by Robyn’s attitude towards her own fertility, and the cubs she produces.
I loved “All the Other Revivals.” Well, I… hmm. Maybe I didn’t love all of them, but it’s not to say I didn’t love the others…. Oh anyway, it was interesting to come across a male voice, after the first two strong female voices. Not that Baron would see himself as a particularly strong <i>male</i> voice, I suspect. Once again the central conceit – the car in the billabong – isn’t explained at all; it just does what it does. And Baron is who he is, whoever that is – and will be. Once again the nature of motherhood is really strong here, although in a very different way from the first two stories; this time it’s a matter of absence, and one that’s never explained. I guess the billabong can be seen as a sort of mother, too, now that I think about it.
Finally, the titular “Female Factory” – named for a real place, I discover, in Tasmania OH MY BRAIN again. Again with the absence of motherhood (so it was a wise thing to do, to read the first two together and then the second two) – this time the story is from the perspective of young children – orphans no less – influenced by daring medical science in the early nineteenth century and their proximity to two cadaver-obsessed adults. Somehow this story, while creepy, felt perhaps the most comfortable of the lot; perhaps because its ideas are a bit familiar? Which isn’t to say it’s not an excellent story, which it is.
Overall this is an excellent #11 for the Twelve Planets, and once again Lisa Hannett and Angela Slatter have well broken me. You can get it from Twelfth Planet Press.
Soooo this anthology came out in 2013 aaaand I’ve only just got around to reading it. Um. Oops. I have no excuse for this. It just didn’t happen.
The subtitle is “An Anthology of Discoveries” and what’s really interesting is that this is such a broad anthology but yes, the theme of discovery – of place, or self, or strangers – is the unifying factor. Sometimes it’s obvious and sometimes it’s subtle; sometimes there are world-shattering consequences and sometimes not so much.
The other superbly interesting thing about this anthology is that it’s all women. From memory of Tehani discussing the process, pretty much accidentally so. And it’s not all just dresses and kissing! (Sorry; /sarcasm.) It’s basically a who’s who of established and emerging Australian writers, too, which is a total delight.
Some of these stories really, really worked for me. Michelle Marquardt’s “Always Greener” is a lovely SF story that ended up being simultaneously darker and more hopeful thanI expected (yes that’s a contradiction, too bad). And then to have it contrasted with the fantasy of Lisa Hannett and Angela Slatter’s “By Blood and Incantation” – which is not my favourite HannSlatt but is still quite good – neatly skewered expectations that it was going to be an SF anthology, pointing out that ‘discovery’ is a mighty broad concept. And then “Indigo Gold” by Deborah Biancotti! Detective Palmer!!! and !!! The Cat Sparks story is awesome (it feels like ages since I read a Cat Sparks story), Penelope Love is quietly sinister in “Original,” Faith Mudge does fairy tale things beautifully in “Winter’s Heart.” And the final story, “Morning Star” by DK Mok, is a magnificent SF bookend to match Marquardt but on a much grander, more extravagant scale.
This is a really fun anthology and I’m sorry it took me more than a year to read it. You can get it right here.
We bought the Lethal Weapon set. Oh yes. So far we’ve watched the first three.
The third film’s opening credits are to Sting’s “It’s Probably Me,” which smooshy adolescent me thought was incredibly romantic and older cynical me realises is frighteningly stalker-ish. But when I watched the music video, as an extra on the disc (which showed yes, that is Eric Clapton on the guitar), almost all of the scenes it showed were… Riggs and Murtaugh. Fighting, making up, Riggs saving Murtaugh from a bomb, recovering from a fight or an explosion. There’s one bit with Rene Russo (the awesome ‘my scars are better than yours’ scene) but that’s the only time a lady gets in. Other than that, the song (based on its visuals) is actually about non-sexual friendship. Which makes it way more palatable. Although still a little creepy.
Murtaugh is a pretty straightforward family guy, a career cop, does things properly. Riggs, though… well, he might have been that guy, but his wife is killed in a car crash and when we first meet him he’s suicidal and quite unhinged. In the first film, the whole narrative is around Murtaugh being a stable point for Riggs, bringing him back from the ledge (there’s also a drug ring blah blah). It’s a surprisingly sober film as a consequence, and the humour is often a bit uncomfortable because it often stems from Riggs doing something dangerous – and we know full well that it’s because he doesn’t really value his life any more. The second film is not the same. While there’s still mention of the dead wife – we finally find out a bit more about the car crash – Riggs’ craziness has become zaniness. There’s less reason for it; now it’s mostly just comic relief, without actually being revealing of Riggs’ psychology. There’s no reason for taking crazystupid risks; they’re just stunts for stunts’ sakes, at least until another woman is killed and he goes a bit revenge-nuts. The third has a bit less of the crazystupid, and basically no Riggs psychology. In the first film, Riggs bares his soul when Murtaugh makes some crack about not being as willing as Riggs to kill someone, and Riggs replies that it’s the only thing he’s ever been good at. He’s a veteran of the war in Vietnam, he was involved in black ops… so he was a bit screwed up even before Victoria was killed, is the message, and this film gives some hint about exploring how being good at killing might conceivably possibly be used towards the greater good, in a cop. But the rest of the franchise backs the hell away from that idea and moves towards Beverley Hills Cop instead. This is disappointing.
Also, a significant part of Riggs is his hair. Oh those long flowing locks… they’re so very cringeworthy.
Meanwhile, I do not like Leo Getz. He is abrasive and annoying and pointless except for finding occasionally useful information. I presume he’s meant to be some sort of comic relief but it’s no relief to me.
Now, as a white Australian I feel slightly uncomfortable and obviously unqualified to talk about black American issues in reality, but it is interesting to me to consider how they are portrayed in these films. First and foremost, it’s positive (at least it certainly feels that way to me, and if anyone can point to me the ways in which it is problematic I’d really, really like to know!). Please note I do not say ‘equal’ or ‘completely fine’, but still… . In the first film, a black man – Murtaugh – gets instructions from another black man (whose name I admit I did not catch), and there are other black men on the police force. I don’t recall a single instance of racism towards a black person (which is clearly therefore unrealistic; and there is an unpleasant instance of Riggs being racist towards a Chinese-American character). Interestingly, there’s a fleeting but prominent look at the Murtaugh family refrigerator, and it features an anti-Apartheid sticker that was obvious enough that both my darling and I noticed. This was particularly interesting when watching the second film, where the villains are apparently Evil because they’re running drugs and using their diplomatic immunity to get away with their nefarious deeds, but actually they’re the villains because they’re South African. It felt like there was far more emphasis on their attitudes towards black people than there was on drug running. Early on, there’s a scene where the head honcho is talking about the police involved in investigating them – and he describes Murtaugh as a ‘kaffir’. There’s a scene where the same man is explaining in a condescending tone to his secretary just why the police are harassing him – it’s because they don’t like South African policies – and another time when the fact that black men ‘have guns and badges’ is said in such a tone as to suggest ‘… and this will be the end of civilisation as we know it.’ And Riggs is allowed to sleep with the South African woman only after she has disavowed the policies of her country. It’s not a nuanced political film, but it is undoubtedly a political film. The third film has a more problematised view of black Americans, with young black kids getting access to guns and indeed one of them – a friend of Murtaugh’s son – being shot by Murtaugh. But the black kids aren’t shown to be evil villains; if anything they’re more victims of the evil white bent cop, Travis – and the black boss criminal is helpless, just like all the various white criminals and indeed many police, to resist (I’m not saying that this is entirely a good thing, since victimhood isn’t helpful to anyone, but at least they’re not simply coded as Gangsta.) Finally, while there is no interracial sexual relationship, there’s Rianne Murtaugh’s infatuation with Riggs… which Murtagh is aghast at not because of the racial thing, but because it’s his baby daughter and Riggs (and hopefully for the age thing too).
There are a few women in these films. Trish Murtaugh is a sensible woman, supportive of her husband but clearly doing her own thing as well. There are a few female cops – including Jenette Goldstein, who was also in Aliens AND Terminator 2: Judgement Day! You rock lady! Rika is a brief love interest in 2, but the real passion is sparked with Rene Russo. Of course it’s a convention that they initially fight on the job and then fall madly into bed, but I kinda didn’t mind it too much here and I think it’s because of Cole’s professionalism. She is a good cop. She knows her job, she’s passionate about justice, and boy can she kick villains around when she has to. The scene where she and Riggs compare scars? Priceless. The scene where she deals with five baddies and Riggs holds Murtaugh back partly because he knows Cole can deal with it, but mostly because he wants to admire her fighting style? Even better. Her professionalism doesn’t detract from her femininity, for whatever that’s worth, and Riggs is as protective of Murtaugh as he is of Cole. It’s a delight to watch.
Now that we’ve talked about the fun: these films are actually about police brutality. We know that, right? Kinda makes it uncomfortable to think about, doesn’t it?