Stargate SG1 s1, e1-4
So I’ve finally caved. It’s been on the cards for a long time, but now seems to be the moment.
I’ve started a rewatch. How long will I last before I give up? How often will I watch? These are not questions I can answer – although I do have a big knitting project to complete…
The things I remembered from ep1: the tissue box; Sam making the comment about reproductive organs. I knew Charlie got a Goa’uld early on, but I forgot it was in the pilot.
So, things we already get in the first three episodes:
- The entirety of the early cast, including the dude in charge of the iris. I don’t remember whether the medic is the same one for a while or not. (But Janet appears in ep4 already, which I’m watching as I type.)
- Sam is already faced with the challenges of travelling while female, and the team are completely fine with her going along with the sartorial expectations. They do at least immediately interfere when they learn she’s going to get raped that evening.
- I won’t deny that I’m 100% here for the sexual tension between Jack and Sam (and yo, Primitive Sam trying to jump Jack’s bones in e4 is hilarious and I’d forgotten it already started at that point) (and I’ve changed this to be e4 not just e3). However, my delight in the Daniel/ Jack dynamic knows no bounds, and we already have that in spades.
- There’s a MacGyver reference in the very first episode. I giggled.
- There’s interesting questions about racism and misogyny in the show. On the one hand: out of four of the SG1 team, one is a black man and one is a woman. That’s good! There are a few black marines/ other SG personnel, and a few folks of Asian descent on base as well early on. There’s Dr Janet, and some of the nurses are women. But there’s no other women on SG teams – in fact I don’t think there ever is. Of the planets the team visits, there’s the excuse that the Goa’uld nabbed people from different regions on Earth, and that explains their general ethnic homogeneity. I don’t have a clear enough memory of the series to recall whether there’s something to be said for the planets they visit over all… but the Mongol-based planet is pretty primitive, with regressive patriarchal attitudes as well as simplistic clothing and ways of living; and then the Minoan planet is a lot prettier – amusing, and unsurprisingly, a distinct lack of bare boobs.
- Speaking of misogyny and boobs: when Apophis is choosing a new bride, he brings first the white, blonde woman – and we see her bare back, and that’s it. Sha’re, though – a brown woman – we see naked, full frontal, for a moment, and her boobs several times. It’s an interesting choice.
- The Jack / Teal’c dynamic is also delightful. Honestly most everything about Teal’c is a delight at this point.
- Episode 4: the first time the team brings back a disease and they Do Unexpected Things. I think this might be my favourite trope of all – definitely more than the “let’s visit a planet and fundamentally challenge their way of life.”
I’m not regretting having started this rewatch. Some of the stories, at least, definitely hold up. Can’t say the same for some of the prosthetics….
The Old Drift
I believe I bought this when it won the Clarke Award, so late 2020. I didn’t read it then – I think I assumed it would be too heavy for that particular year, and then that assumption has coloured my way of thinking about it ever since. I finally picked it up this week: partly gesturing to my endeavour to at least read the oldest books in my TBR pile.
This is not the book I expected it to be, given the Clarke Award. It definitely has SF elements towards the end, when it’s projecting into the future – and goodness it’s weird, in 2026, reading a book that was published in 2019, therefore written the few years before that, and/but has significant things happening in 2020 that are not Covid.
Rather than feeling like “a science fiction novel,” the connections I more strongly made for The Old Drift are the works of Edward Rutherford – his place-based historical novels that followed a few of families through many, many generations. Serpell does that here, following three main families as they interact across four generations. The central location is (what is today known as) Zambia, and in particular Lusaka. As befits modern Zambia, some characters are descended from pre-colonial inhabitants of the area; some are descended from British migrants, some Italian, and some Indian. Some of the actions happens in England, some in Italy, and some in India, as well as a couple of other sites in Zambia.
Across the novel – around 550 pages – Serpell traces the fortunes and misfortunes of the families. Marriages and births, infidelities, education, employment, tragedy – and only rarely triumph; illness (the last third or so revolves significantly around “The Virus”) and cleverness and revolution. Some of what Serpell portrays is based in truth: Edward Nkoloso plays a role – a real figure in Zambian independence, who proclaimed the country would send “Afronauts” to the moon and Mars; and one of the characters is Matha Mwamba, one of those Afronauts. Percy Clark, one of the progenitors and an early British colonialist, was real; and the fictional characters interact with some other historical figures. I don’t know much about modern Zambian history, but I know that a lot of the moments that appear in the background – like the issues around Northern Rhodesia becoming part of the Federation and then eventually getting independence; “Rhodes Must Fall,” the fight to remove the statue of Cecil Rhodes at Cape Town University – are real.
What Serpell does in this novel is show both how individuals can be deeply affected by larger historical moments, and how sometimes personal issues are far, far more important. And neither of those experiences de-legitimises the other.
It’s fair to say that this isn’t an easy read. None of the characters do not spend their lives in comfort and ease, with no problems beyond what to have for dinner. They experience heartbreak and personal tragedy; families are difficult, opportunities are lost, life simply doesn’t go the way they hoped. Racism and misogyny play enormous roles – unsurprisingly. While there are moments of triumph, and doggedly continuing despite setbacks, Serpell has not set out to write inspiration porn. It’s much more real than that.
A connecting thread across the generations is a plural first-person narrator: mosquitos. Which, of course, have an important role to play in disease transmission; I’m fairly sure characters comment on their pesky existence in every section of the novel. Precisely why mosquitos are used as an almost Greek chorus isn’t entirely obvious, except for the fact that they’re ubiquitous – which I guess is enough.
The Old Drift is by turns bawdy, clinical, grim, lighthearted (occasionally), earnest, and reflective. It’s also beautifully written – while I wouldn’t say easy to read, it doesn’t require a quiet room and intense concentration to follow. I’m glad I bought it and have finally read it.
Sugar, season 1
I was spoiled for The Big Reveal before I started watching Sugar. I’m a bit mad about it, I’ll admit – it would have been tantalising; it was still tantalising enough; but it did also make me move watching the show further up the list. So there’s that.
ALL THE SPOILERS FOR SEASON 1, stop reading now.
Seriously.
Continue reading →As You Wake, Break the Shell
I read this courtesy of the publisher and NetGalley. It’s out in October (sorry).
A more complete review of this will appear in Locus eventually, but: it’s brilliant.
I read Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet when it first came out, I think, and I bounced off it hard. Why? I do not remember. Not a jot. Probably I was in the wrong frame of mind – at least, I can only assume so; after reading this I wonder if actually I was too much in a ‘big space adventures’ mode.
Chambers does some clever narrative things across this novel. Firstly, the chapter sequencing: it starts with Chapter 1… but then all of a sudden you’re in Chapter 764, and no you didn’t skip a lot of pages. So there’s two parallel timeframes. Which means one of the big character questions is resolved very quickly, which means that you can get on with looking at the other questions: how do the characters get from here to there? What changed?
It would be easy to read this mostly as an almost domestic novel, focused on two people and their experiences; there are even recipes! But the reality is that Chambers is doing some really cool political stuff here. The reality of the initial planet’s colonisation, the way the two societies structure themselves, how difference is viewed… yeh, there’s a lot going on.
It’s really good.
The Book of Bots
I received an ARC from the author. It’s out in August – but preorders are love!
I often love a robot story; I also enjoy a well-thought-out AI story. And thus, James Patrick Kelly’s The Book of Bots: completely in my wheelhouse.
Covering around 25 years of his career – which is impressive in itself – the range of stories in this collection is fascinating. Some of the robots are actively meant to be caring for humans, in very different ways; stories like “Itsy Bitsy Spider” could come across as cutesy but it is deeply, deeply creepy, from my perspective anyway. Indeed, several of the stories end up crossing into the Creepy realm, because of the way they imagine bots interacting with humans – and, more to the point, humans interacting with bots. “Bernando’s House” is, if anything even more creepy than “Itsy Bitsy Spider;” a house has a personality, and a human figure to represent it, aaaaaand then things go weird. “Yukui!” confronts the idea of humans owning bots, and questions of sentience/slavery. “Your Boyfriend Experience” likewise asks questions about humans creating bots to their own specifications, and how that plays out with and around other humans. And “Je ne regrette rien” is kind of the culmination of the stories about human-like bots, and a quest to be more than they have been created to be.
On slightly different notes, “Undone” brings in a sentient spaceship – the concept itself not unique, but the playing-out and ramifications are what make it worth reading. “What it means to be a car” consists of dialogue between a car and a passenger – the only story that has a particularly different narrative structure, and one I enjoyed for that reason.
The collection also has two essays, one about the modern use of bots and one doing a short history of robots/ AI in literature. Both are entirely appropriate in the context of the collection, and add to the overall story of “what do we mean when we talk about bots.”
This is a great collection. Highly recommended.
The Hunger of Those Who Built It
Read courtesy of the publisher, Stelliform Press. It’s out in September; you can preorder it now.
Wendy Waring does an intriguing narrative thing in this novel. The first 60 or so pages alternate between Lou, who has managed to infiltrate The Oxbow – an exclusive and exclusionary colony, basically, set up in the middle of a crumbling Paris – and Diane, Lou’s aunt, Green architect/designer and largely responsible for The Oxbow.
Then all of a sudden we get a timeshift: back 16 years, before The Oxbow exists. Diane is offered a job in Paris, creating vertical farms and helping to green part of the city, at the same time growing food for the inhabitants. It’s a world where in theory, at least, technology is greening, and so some aspects of early-21st-century urban life can change – massive highways, for instance. But, as Diane slowly learns, there are still privileged groups seeking to keep all the good stuff to themselves.
Basically, the majority of the novel is following Diane as she learns how her dream gets turned into the gated community of The Oxbow.
So on one level, it’s a story of a woman watching her dreams get manipulated and changed away from her vision. And it’s powerful for that: how hopeful intentions can be subverted, how good plans can be made to go astray, and so on. How corporations can destroy individual hopes. And, as well, there are some intriguing ideas for how cities might indeed change – for good; this is being advertised as solarpunk, after all.
The novel is not only about ambition and technology and urban infrastructure, and the big picture, though. It’s also focused squarely on the smaller picture: Diane wants to go to Paris because she is seeking reconnection with her sister, from whom she has been estranged for many years. There are many reasons for their separation; some familial, others political and philosophical. None of them have easy solutions, and Diane is frequently conflicted about her own as well as her sister’s attitudes. What I liked about Waring’s story is how very real it feels. Siblings are exactly those people who know how best to get under your skin, and who are also (often, not always) the people you want to be drawn back to.
I have one quibble with the story: an event in Diane’s history turns out to be very different from how she understood it, which has serious ramifications, many of which are part of the point of the story. But one consequence, about the dating of other events, doesn’t seem ever to be addressed, which is unfortunately something I really struggled to reconcile.
However! All up, I very much enjoyed this novel. It’s well written – I devoured it – and Waring balances the macro, urban issues with the micro, personal issues beautifully. They each feel as important as the other.
As a debut, I am deeply impressed, and hope that we can expect more of the same in future from Waring.
Department of the Vanishing
This is another book I read because of Ian Mond. If you’re interested, here’s the publisher, Transit Lounge.
Poetry is very much not my vibe. I have always worried that I just don’t get it and so almost feel I shouldn’t be allowed to read it, and certainly not comment on it. Is this ridiculous? Of course it is. Well, mostly. Am I actually afraid of some beret-wearing, cigarillo-smoking, pretentious white man tut-tutting me?
Well. A little bit. Yes.
Anyway, I’m going to comment on this book despite my fears. And it is poetry – almost all of the text is set out as couplets, with almost no punctuation. Sometimes the story is hard to follow as a result, when it’s not clear how the clauses fit together. Which is, I presume, part of the point. A lot of the time, it’s completely clear, and a delight to read.
This is not, though, just a poetic novel. It’s also playing with the idea of found footage.
Almost every poetic page has a library stamp on it: RESTRICTED, or an accession stamp, or the link. In between poetry pages, there are collages of newspaper headlines; excerpts from the narrator’s police interviews; photographs and stills from video; pages where birds sounds are turned into text; transcriptions of the narrator’s mother’s maybe-dementia ramblings; and many lists.
Some of the found footage includes excerpts from other books, and friends, I dogeared a page because I didn’t have a bookmark handy when I got to the bit about Shifting Baseline Syndrome: “a gradual change in the accepted norms for the condition of the natural environment due to a lack of experience, memory, and/or knowledge of its past condition. (Soga & Gaston, 2018).
Ava lives in a too-near-future Australia, in 2029. She works for the Department of the Vanishing, archiving references to birds that are, or are nearly, extinct. (There’s a moment where she’s allocated the pelican: where to start? With Stormboy, of course – and my mid-40s-heart gave a great big heave.) She is also caring for her ailing mother, grieving her long-lost father, and seeking connection through a series of flings. Plus, of course, all the heartache that comes with her work.
It’s almost eye-rollingly trite to call this novel is a wake-up call, but of course that’s what it is. The idea that I would no longer hear kookaburras or magpies or the various teeny little tweety-birds I hear on the regular is horrifying. Is there something I can personally do? Probably not. Maybe I should send a copy of this book to some politicians.
It’s a splendid piece of art and I hope it gets more attention.
Platform Decay, Martha Wells
I read Platform Decay! Of course! And of course I liked it! Although… it’s a bit different from what I was expecting.
What was I expecting? I think I was expecting more pew-pew space adventures with ART, to be honest. It’s where System Collapse appeared to be leading, after all.
Instead, we get a story that’s focused on very few characters – none of whom we’ve had much, if any, interaction with in the past (Murderbot excepted, obviously) – on a new and potentially hostile space ring. There is a tie back to the previous two stories; there always is, because the Corporates are small-minded, vindictive, petty, bullies who can’t let anyone get away with anything if they can possibly do something to them.
TL;DR there is a good amount of action, there is an excellent amount of banter and snark, we get to experience quite a different space habitat, and Three is still around. I won’t be sad to come back to this one as part of my maybe-it’s-annual re-read of the series.
A few more thoughts:
Murderbot: continues to be an absolute delight to follow. I wouldn’t keep reading if I didn’t find its style immensely enjoyable. I like that we can see real change in the way it thinks about humans, more along the lines of ‘weary acceptance’ but in reality it’s a little bit more… well… emotional than that. Although it wouldn’t appreciate me using the word. I also continue to take great joy in its competence. I am a sucker for competence. Also, it’s actively learning about its organic side and taking steps to look after itself, and following other people’s suggestions (sometimes). How healthy is that??
Slight spoiler:
Continue reading →Considering The Female Man by Joanna Russ (Farah Mendlesohn)
First, (re-)read The Female Man. I think that really is necessary. Then you’ll be fresh and able to really get into the points that Mendlesohn is making in this compact and insightful book.
While I’ve read a bit of Russ criticism – including some of Mendlesohn’s previous work – I’m not claiming to be an expert. So one of the things I appreciated about this book was Mendlesohn touching on some of the previous work done on Russ in general and The Female Man in particular, to give context to this particular book. I was interested to see some of the ways that attitudes have changed, and some of the aspects that haven’t previously been explored in much depth: in particular, here, how Russ’ Jewish identity impacted on the structure of the novel, as well as the story.
It really is a wee book: 169 pages, and a tiny package. But Mendlesohn packs a lot in! There’s an introduction to both Russ and the novel – historical context, cultural and literary context, feminist context – which doesn’t shy away from the fact that Russ in the 1970s was decidedly TERF (acknowledging that she did change her views, which is the only reason I can still come at reading the book – but YMMV!). Then, three chapters going deep in literary analysis: Character; Structure; Argument. How “the Js” work as individual characters as well as aspects of, perhaps, one whole; how what feels initially like a convoluted maybe-not-really-a-narrative-at-all actually works, and why Russ wrote it that way; and how the novel presents Jewishness, anger, and humour. And an epilogue about the epilogue, which is so meta I think Russ would have approved.
I’ve read The Female Man a few times, and I always get more out of it. There are definitely things I had never noticed before – because my cultural, historical, and literary context are very different from Russ’s, there are things that just did not click for me, but which Mendlesohn has pointed out. In particular, I think, there’s the discussion about how the characters function across the story, with and against one another – their attitudes have always been what I found most fascinating, and that’s just been deepened.
One thing I will note: there are a few typos in the copy I read (eg Jael is Jane once, and Joel another time).
Highly recommended to those looking to further appreciate Joanna Russ and her work. You can get it here.
Notes from a Regicide, Issac Fellman
This is a complicated and complex, beautiful, fierce, glorious novel. There are so many things going on. The short version is: if you want a beautifully written novel involving a political story (I mean, look at the title), trans stories, a love of art, dealing with families, and a hint of science fiction – just read this. Don’t bother reading this review, just go find it.
If you need some convincing, well:
I feel like the only way I can talk about this book is to identify some of the strands, but also begin by saying all of the strands work together perfectly.
In part this is a son editing and presenting his father’s memoirs, particularly from when the father was in prison. The son, Griffon, includes notes at the start of those chapters – just a little William Goldman-esque, noting that he’s done some pruning. Those sections are where most of the politics are. The father, Etoine, lived for many years in Stephensport, an island that has completely turned its back on the wider world, ruled by a prince chosen by electors – who otherwise sleep in “the stone yard” and for whom citizens pray. Etoine is an artist, and gets drawn into revolutionary activity mostly against his will. It’s here Etoine meets fellow artist Zaffre (which really is a beautiful colour); she is a much more willing revolutionary. As someone who taught kids about revolutions for many years – well, the political bits here ring true, in the most devastating and fierce and poignant ways.
It’s also a memoir of Griffon, finding his family with Etoine and Zaffre, and also finding himself: he is trans, and it’s only on meeting Etoine and Zaffre that the possibility of living as himself starts to seem feasible. As an adult, looking back on his adolescence, Griffon is both harsh on his younger self for being self-centred and arrogant, and also forgiving for not knowing any better. It feels right.
So there is a lot about family here – having one, ignoring them, the frustrations and embarrassments and comfort, the impossibility of ever knowing people fully and the joy of being known and loved despite that. All of that alongside the politics.
And then there’s the art. Etoine and Zaffre are artists: for both of them, although in different ways, art is at the core of their identity. Fellman captures the obsession and drive of some artists, not romanticising the despair but also not ignoring the difficulties; for both, art is about life and life is about art – and it’s inextricably connected to politics, too.
I haven’t finished yet. There’s also mental illness – Etoine is an alcoholic, Zaffre has schizophrenia (maybe; her diagnosis is unclear), which they manage to varying degrees across their lives, to different effect on themselves and those around them. Again, not romanticised, but it also doesn’t make either of them a villain – and nor is it necessary to their art. It just is.
And, finally, this is a science fiction novel. Honestly it would be easy to ignore that part. It’s not quite blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, but it’s not far off. It is completely necessary to the world of the story, but it’s also not at the heart of the narrative. It’s supremely well done. I feel like there will be a lot of people who go into this expecting A Science Fiction Novel who may be disappointed by the way it uses the genre; that would be sad, but I would get it. I also think there will be a lot of readers who would love this book – for all the reasons listed above – who will avoid it because it’s called science fiction. That, my friends, would be a great tragedy. But if the foregoing words don’t convince you of that, there’s not much I can say.
Really. Just read it.
This is yet another book I have read by Ian Mond, and – intriguingly – he’s never steered me wrong. I’m not going to say we always agree, because there’s a lot he reads that I never will, but the circles of our reading Venn diagram do have some overlap.
