Murakami vs. McCarthy

Looking at the technical (ha) back end of this site and its statistics, I see someone found me on Google by searching for Haruki Murakami vs. Cormac McCarthy. Well, that person, this is your lucky day, for I am here to answer that conundrum using the type of technical know-how and analysis that this blog is famous for.

The answer is Murakami, via fatality. That one where Sub Zero rips out your spine, specifically.

Pierre Boulle- Planet of the Apes

Planet of the Apes

Vintage

 Pierre Boulle

1963

"I racked my brains to discover some sense in the events I had witnessed. I needed this intellectual exercise to escape from the despair that haunted me, to prove to myself that I was a man, I mean a man from Earth, a reasoning creature who made it a habit to discover a logical explanation for the apparently miraculous whims of nature, and not a beast hunted down by highly developed apes.”

Somewhat randomly pulling Pierre Boulle's original piece of sixties science fiction from the shelves, a quick examination led me to realise that this was an intriguing prospect in terms of looking at a franchise in relation to humble origins. Planet of the Apes, as we know it today, is a firmly established Hollywood money-maker with a selection of classic soundbites and images cemented in pop-culture history, each much parodied; one of the first things I think of when I think of Planet of the Apes is the image of Troy McClure in the lead role in 'Stop the Planet of the Apes, I Want To Get Off!', from the classic Simpsons episode A Fish Called Selma. Since then there have been two attempts to reboot the franchise, but despite that Charlton Heston is still the man most associated with the title, thanks to the original five movies. I haven't seen any of them.

It's one of those things where I've been so often assaulted with parodies of them (well, the original) that I feel like I've experienced it quite enough as it is, and I've been put off by the apparent cheesiness; the hokey, cheap-looking ape costumes, the terrible, sub-Shatner acting ability of Heston, and the sheer lunacy surrounding the whole thing. I think in that respect, the themes and cultural presence of the movie franchise in my eyes made, on quick judging-the-book-by-the-cover analysis, the book seem that much more appealing. When you simply look at the details of the novel without the larger context, it gains a huge amount of literary hipster credentials.

Translated from the French (because I am but an ignorant Englishman), Pierre Boulle's most famous future sci-fi franchise phenomenon novel is essentially a philosophical (but not overly so) adventurous pure science fiction concept that uses adventure and mystery to explore a few basic social issues; essentially turning the world upside-down to look at it from a different perspective. The plot itself moves along quickly, thrillingly, towards a thoughtful, logical conclusion (with a final twist at the very end, and it doesn't involve the Statue of Liberty), evoking stylistic similarities to many earlier luminaries of the genre.

I couldn't resist this picture.

Ulysse Mérou travels across the universe in a time-manipulating space shuttle with two science companions, to the star system of Betelgeuse, where the team discover the planet Soror, a planet with a breathable atmosphere strikingly similar to Earth. Upon landing, they discover numerous human beings living savagely in the forest, with no language, society, or intelligence. Before getting much of a chance to study the undeveloped humans, the party is attacked by a, wait for it, a pack of seemingly-intelligent, talking, clothes wearing, congo-dancing damned dirty apes. Ulysse is captured, plays dumb, and is taken to civilisation and placed in a cage at a research facility. Still hiding his true intelligence, Ulysse takes the opportunity to observe the apes, but can only guess so much without communication. In an act of narrative fortune, however, Ulysee makes a connection with a chimp scientist named Zira, and is able to learn some monkey-talk and bring his presence out into the open.

It was from this point especially that the gap between this novel and the story as it exists in modern media became most apparent. Earlier on in the novel I felt that the pacing and style of Bouelle's prose and story most reminded me of Arthur Conan Doyle, in particular The Lost World and his other Professor Challenger stories. Then I remembered Boulle's countryman Jules Verne and his famous adventure stories, and Boulle's fantasy origins became more tangible. Still though, this novel was written in the mid-sixties, and betrays its period style through the contemplative philosophical musings related to the analogous events of the novel. When Ulysse finally begins to explain himself to the ape civilization (at the most appropriately dramatic time), rather than continue along the lines of danger and adventure by having his life threatened or worse, Ulysse is rather quickly accepted into society, and spends much of the rest of the novel working with the apes, contemplating the meaning of this odd reverse species arrangement.

This considered pace secured my admiration for the book, elevating it up there with the best science fiction I have yet to experience, such as the work of Arthur C. Clarke, and Daniel Keys' Flowers for Algernon. Like the best of its genre, Planet of the Apes uses a deceptively outrageous formula to ask searching questions about the human race, but does so with style and mystery the eggs the reader on to complete it. It's at strange odds with the uber-serious tone of Rise of the Planet of the Apes, the most recent film, with the irony being that the franchise is far  from considerable as a philosophical allegory for the standing of man amongst the animals of Earth. Still, perhaps the biggest compliment I can give this novel is that despite its weightier overtones it still feels fresher and more exciting as a pure story than the massively engorged, cash-injected twenty-first century temple of decadence movies. Highest recommendation of its genre.

George Orwell- Burmese Days

Burmese Days

Penguin Modern Classics

 George Orwell

1934

Other Orwell Reviews- Burmese Days - A Clergyman's Daughter - Homage to Catalonia - Shooting an Elephant and Other Essays

“It is one of the tragedies of the half-educated that they develop late, when they are already committed to some wrong way of life.”

Having spent far too much time reading other people's blogs recently has guilt-tripped me in to writing something for mine; which should never be that difficult since I basically set the premise of this blog to ensure I couldn't fail. Still, I have at least got some pretty darn good reading done recently, with books by George R.R. Martin (I wonder which), Jose-Luis Borges, and Pierre Boulle's excellent, excellent high-concept sci-fi novel a Planète des singes, as the French call it, otherwise known as that cheesy Hollywood film with Charlton Heston and a bunch of monkeys. But before all that came a kind of personal reading landmark, in the form of the last novel left to read by a certain Mr. George Orwell.

I'm not sure which of Orwell's books I read first, but it was either Animal Farm or Nineteen Eighty-Four, and I'm not entirely sure when it was either, but I do know that both were polished off in quick succession. That must have been ten years ago now, and since then my typical scatter-shot reading habits ensured that, rather than attacking Orwell's bibliography quickly, it's taken me this long to get to the end- well, if you don't count the volumes of letters, diaries and further essays all out there in some form that I eventually hope to get to. I'm a growing fan of author miscellanea.

One of the true joys of Orwell is that he's very, very easy to analyse and follow through his path towards 1984. I like Animal Farm, but 1984 is a far better read, and it's been a lot of fun to look at every single one of his earlier books so far and see the concepts in a rougher developmental stage. Crucially, I've also enjoyed each one of those books on their own merits to varying extents, from the twisted Dickensian stye of A Clergyman's Daughter to the rather more dry and satirical musings of Keep the Aspidistra Flying (a dumb name for a very intelligent novel). Burmese Days (oh god, three paragraphs in and I've just reached the title), the last of mine to read, was also Orwell's first novel-length fiction, and is the first that I haven't really enjoyed on its own merits.

I'll attempt to refrain from diving into the plot much, because it's not a very interesting plot, telling the leisurely story of local political corruption in the imperial setting of Burma, where lead character privileged important white man John Florry is thrust in the middle of a dispute between Indian associate Dr, Veriswami and the villain, corrupt magistrate U Po Kyin, while meanwhile awkwardly courting an equally privileged, important and white woman, albeit one younger than he. In essence, the combined events left me the impression of two main themes, both quintessentially Orwellian (that phrase has to be annoying for some people) in nature but entwined in an uncomfortable way that prevents the narrative from reaching a satisfying conclusion. The look at imperial Burma, directly portrayed from Orwell's five year tenure in Burma as a an imperial policeman, is the most interesting side of the book since Orwell knew Burma as a real-life Eurasia. Unfortunately his portrayal of the fascist state is narrow, unexplored with any vigor or much analysis; at least to the standard and effect of Orwell's later works. 

What's left, then, is the second focus; Florry as an example of an ineffectual, confident English fop. When he inevitably falls for the young, pretty, unattached Elizabeth, his previous confidence and self-image falls to pieces in the face of real emotion, as though he, representative of English males like him, should never really have left his mother's side. In essence it's a type of characterisation that exists strongly today (or at least in the 90's), through the presence of the entire career of Hugh Grant. Only, Orwell threw me slightly off balance at the end, with my typical expectations of a somewhat wholesome resolution dashed against the wall like the brains of a rabid cat. I'm not exaggerating there either, Burmese Days ends on a far heavier note than seemed necessary.

I should probably try and put a lid on these ramblings before they get totally out of control and incoherent, and try to figure out what I've learned. On the one hand, I'm disappointed that my last foray into Orwell's fiction wasn't great fun, but I'm not particularly surprised since, after all this was his first novel. Historically it is absolutely an essential building block on the road to 1984 and the best novel ever written, but it's only fractionally as interesting. It suffers from dallying on characterisations that aren't entirely comfortable yet, though will eventually morph into the cultivated figure of Winston Smith, and so there's plenty of intrigue to be found from an Orwell fanatic. For everyone else, there's not really much point in recommending this book to you, because if you haven't read 1984 or Animal Farm then you probably shouldn't be wasting your time reading this stupid blog anyway, alright?

Chris Ayres- War Reporting for Cowards

War Reporting for Cowards

Chris Ayres

2003

“The movies, I thought, have got the soundtrack to war all wrong. War isn't rock 'n' roll. It's got nothing to do with Jimi Hendrix or Richard Wagner. War is nursery rhymes and early Madonna tracks. War is the music from your childhood. Because war, when it's not making you kill or be killed, turns you into an infant. For the past eight days, I'd been living like a five-year-old — a nonexistence of daytime naps, mushy food, and lavatory breaks. My adult life was back in Los Angeles with my dirty dishes and credit card bills.” 

Blogging is hard.

Well, it's not, it's actually kind of easy, in that you've got the complete freedom to write whatever you want, whenever you want, and spurt out as many opinions as you can muster. Somehow, though, the motivation to sit down for an hour, if that, and type out a hastily-written summary of a random book I've just read is really, really hard. Recently I've found it harder because I've stepped up my pace in book reading, amassing a pile of 'to review' books at a greater pace than I could possibly write. Still, the only way to soldier on, I find is to force myself to hammer at the keyboard until something legible comes out. It doesn't really matter what, it's just that I kind of rely on the momentum...

Though I was originally going to review George R.R. Martin's A Dance with Dragons- Book One, of the Song of Ice and Fire series, I quickly realised that I could save time and effort by waiting until I'd read part two, whenever that might be. So, from fantastical fiction I switch to a more fascinating non-fiction, with the attention-grabbing title of War Reporting for Cowards, and it's snazzy orange cover.

I picked up the book many months ago, drawn in by the snazzy cover, the intriguing blurb, the gushing review quotes, and the desire to read something similar to Toby Young's How to Lose Friends and Alienate People. Basically; a piece of non-fiction by a British journalist out of his element, hopefully containing humour and poignancy. Ayres tale promised to fulfill that potential as he described how a fairly useless foreign correspondent for The Times (of London, you know) somehow managed to volunteer to become a war reporter, hanging around in the desert with a bunch of US marines in Iraq. With a plot like that it would take a pretty crappy writer to make it boring, and thankfully, Ayres is fairly good. Like Toby Young, he portrays himself as a foppish, cumbersome Hugh Grant type, perfectly unsuited to combat in the desert. A fairly likable chap, Ayres essentially acts as the reader's viewpoint; as a thoroughly pampered and and untested child of the first world, experiencing things with a sense of wonder and horror easily perceived. 

What makes War Reporting... a likable, easy to read book is Ayres' honest, open prose, where he doesn't really overstate anyone's personality or give anyone included a movie star aura. The marines who he spends so much time with are very likable people; respectful, well-trained, occasionally grumpy but never mean. Ayres doesn't go into the book with an agenda, and doesn't attempt to editorialize his experiences in an argument for or against the war on Iraq. It's presented as morally ambiguous throughout, including the end of Ayres time at war and his guilt mixed with relief. If anything, it's the natural sequence of events that kept this book from being really great for me.

The author's sudden departure from the country seems to cut everything short, and doesn't really give Ayres enough time to comprehend or appreciate his experiences. One of the key points of the book is the realisation of just how insane it is to be a war correspondent, traveling along the front line with an army, except without any weapons, and the author's unexpected reluctance and guilt at leaving hints at a developing story that doesn't have the time to get going; but then, at the same time, remains more believable because of it. Ultimately I'd recommend War Reporting for Cowards to all but the most staunch anti-war people; as a compelling narrative of the surreal nature of war. It won't blow your mind, but it will lodge itself in there somewhere for a good long while.