I just finished the short story collection, The Hard Way Up (Ace 1972), by A. Bertram Chandler. I really enjoyed it. I had pigeonholed Chandler as a military space opera writer who was using the back drop of outer space to tell military and political stories of intrigue and adventure; however, after having read this short story collection, I admit he is more than this. He is a genuine Science Fiction writer with a capital S and F who doesn't just use the stereotypical tropes of the genre--spaceships, laser guns, robots, aliens-- to spin yarns. He also utilizes science fiction's speculative and extrapolative philosophical structure to engage in rich "thought experiments."
A story that illustrates this point, I think, is "The Wandering Buoy," which was originally published in Analog in September of 1970. The story is very intriguing, very suggestive. It concerns a strange encounter John Grimes has as he and his crew are wandering through interstellar space in their Adder class space ship on a routine mail courier mission in which they encounter a strange, unidentifiable sphere. The source of the drama in the story is the struggle of the crew and Grimes to "domesticate" the strangeness of this sphere. They launch various probes at the sphere, and these are repelled by an unknown force. They then try to communicate with the sphere, thinking it a kind of ship, through electronic and psionic means, but they fail to make contact. Eventually they come to understand the nature of the repellent force that keeps them at a distance from the sphere, and they suceed in exploring it. I don't want to give away what they discover in the sphere, but suffice it to say it's very interesting.
On the surface, this story seems to be re-telling of Arthur C. Clarke's famous short story, "The Sentinel," which was published in the Avon Science Fiction and Fantasy Reader in 1951. In Clarke's story a space survey crew discover a strange pyramid on the moon which turns out to be the herald of an alien race who nurtured humanity in its youth. Famously, Clarke expanded this story into 2001: A Space Odyssey with Stanley Kubrick. But in some very distinct parts, Chandler puts unique "spins" on this narrative. The Sphere is distinct from the pyramid in Clarke's story and the Monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey in some very important points.
And yet, I'm less concerned with their differences than their similarities. I find it so intriguing that science fiction narratives gravitate toward this interesting "encounter" plot. It's as if a major cognitive affordance offered by science fiction is that it allows us to imagine encounters with strange, Alien entities that challenge our notions of who we are and where we came from.
Showing posts with label space opera. Show all posts
Showing posts with label space opera. Show all posts
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Thursday, February 21, 2013
A. Betram Chandler's *The Subtractor*: The Cozy Interior of a Star Ship
Last night I had trouble falling asleep and so I picked up some light literature, a series of short stories by military space opera writer, A. Bertram Chandler. Recently I re-read Isaac Asimov's Foundation Trilogy, and so that put me in the mood for some more "military themed" space opera, i.e. starships, galactic empires, cloak and dagger conspiracy on an outer space canvas. I have an Ace Double edition of two of Chandler's famous John Grimes stories, The Road to the Rim (a novel), and The Hard Way Up (short story collection). I read the second short story in The Hard Way Up, titled, "The Subtractor," and I wanted to comment on it.
First, some brief summary. The story relates the first command of John Grimes, a member of the Federation Science Survey, the military of a futuristic intergalactic union of humanity. He gets command of a small but fast ship that functions as a V.I.P. courier for the military. The narrative of this story is pretty straightforward. Grimes and company pick up a suspicious V.I.P. by the name of Alberto, a clean-cut yet mysterious official sort of person. He couriers the V.I.P. to a planet on the border between the Federation and two other alien empires, and then conspiracy and espionage ensue. I don't want to give about the interesting plot twist at the end, but I do want to comment on the effect of the story.
For me, the most interesting element of this story was the atmosphere of the interior of spaceship flying through space. The majority of the story relates scenes that take place within the tiny ship as it hurtles through space to its destination. Not much happens on the ship in terms of plot progress, but the atmosphere is vivid and satisfying. You get that since of intimate isolation among the crew members who find themselves in this small environment in the middle of the vast emptiness that is outer space. Because of this isolation and monotony, they are realistically concerned about minor things, like their meals and how to pass the time, e.g. drinking cocktails and playing chess. To an extent, the environment related is, cozy, fundamentally social, and in spite of the fact that very few things happen on the ship, a sense of adventure is nevertheless palpable. In terms of tone, the story relates the destination-focused experience of sailors on a great journey, or of submariners doing a long tour underwater, but the context has been switched to outer space.
I haven't read much of A. Bertram Chandler, but my recent re-read of Isaac Asimov's Foundation Trilogy inspired me to stick with space opera a little bit longer. I think I may review one or two of his stories in the following days. In any case, this one was great!
First, some brief summary. The story relates the first command of John Grimes, a member of the Federation Science Survey, the military of a futuristic intergalactic union of humanity. He gets command of a small but fast ship that functions as a V.I.P. courier for the military. The narrative of this story is pretty straightforward. Grimes and company pick up a suspicious V.I.P. by the name of Alberto, a clean-cut yet mysterious official sort of person. He couriers the V.I.P. to a planet on the border between the Federation and two other alien empires, and then conspiracy and espionage ensue. I don't want to give about the interesting plot twist at the end, but I do want to comment on the effect of the story.
For me, the most interesting element of this story was the atmosphere of the interior of spaceship flying through space. The majority of the story relates scenes that take place within the tiny ship as it hurtles through space to its destination. Not much happens on the ship in terms of plot progress, but the atmosphere is vivid and satisfying. You get that since of intimate isolation among the crew members who find themselves in this small environment in the middle of the vast emptiness that is outer space. Because of this isolation and monotony, they are realistically concerned about minor things, like their meals and how to pass the time, e.g. drinking cocktails and playing chess. To an extent, the environment related is, cozy, fundamentally social, and in spite of the fact that very few things happen on the ship, a sense of adventure is nevertheless palpable. In terms of tone, the story relates the destination-focused experience of sailors on a great journey, or of submariners doing a long tour underwater, but the context has been switched to outer space.
I haven't read much of A. Bertram Chandler, but my recent re-read of Isaac Asimov's Foundation Trilogy inspired me to stick with space opera a little bit longer. I think I may review one or two of his stories in the following days. In any case, this one was great!
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Isaac Asimov's "The Mule": Intergalactic Demagogue
I'm almost finished with my re-read of Isaac Asimov's Foundation Trilogy. I realize now that I prefer the first book to the latter two. The first book is more widely historical in range. It doesn't feel to me to be a sustained, novel-length narrative, which these days I have less patience for. In my own writing, I try to maximize narrative potential with as little words as possible. The first book, The Foundation, feels to me more a collection of loosely knit short stories than two serialized novels, which is what I think the latter two novels are: two longer narratives sutured together.
Don't get me wrong. I still appreciate Foundation and Empire and Second Foundation. I'm particularly intrigued by the character of "The Mule," the mutant military dictator who is able to manipulate emotions. I'm going to focus on him in this post.
It's intriguing to me, this idea that one person can influence history drastically. "The Mule" is a kind of wild card, a variable not accounted for in Hari Seldon's plan for the establishment of a Second Empire. I love the symbolism derived from The Mule's incognito persona, the court clown "Magnifico Giganticus." "The Mule" is wearing motley and is parading around as a clown. He is literally the joker thrown into the deck of playing cards that is history.
I think Asimov's portrayal of The Mule syncs with some very genuine fears that Americans had about political leaders in the late 40s and early 50s: hyper-charismatic demagogues who had set themselves up over the masses had whipped whole populations into an emotional ecstasy/frenzy. Some were eager to interpret such large personalities as the cause of WWII, a horror that the world was still very much recovering from when Asimov was writing his story.
I wonder if The Mule can be seen as an allegory for interwar political leaders--deadly speakers, deadly showman--like Mussolini, Stalin, FDR, Hitler, Churchill, Huey Long, and so forth.
But strangely, the ability of The Mule to manipulate the emotions of large swaths of humanity is a power that is not necessarily evil in and of itself. The true evil, rather, is the Mule's psychological problems. These make his ability to manipulate others dangerous. Because of his childhood, his experiences connected with his deformities, his alienation from the rest of humanity, he becomes an antagonizing ego-maniac who resents the rest of humanity. The Second Foundationers change his mind so that he becomes, in the end, a benevolent dictator. But this plot point carries with it an implication: the ability of a leader to manipulate whole groups of people is not intrinsically evil or suspicious; rather, it's this rare ability married with a the wrong psychological makeup.
In any case, The Mule is an interesting imaginary version of a category of political leader--the charismatic great leader who seems to be able to channel history--that intrigues us, disturbs us, frightens us, and enchants us.
Don't get me wrong. I still appreciate Foundation and Empire and Second Foundation. I'm particularly intrigued by the character of "The Mule," the mutant military dictator who is able to manipulate emotions. I'm going to focus on him in this post.
It's intriguing to me, this idea that one person can influence history drastically. "The Mule" is a kind of wild card, a variable not accounted for in Hari Seldon's plan for the establishment of a Second Empire. I love the symbolism derived from The Mule's incognito persona, the court clown "Magnifico Giganticus." "The Mule" is wearing motley and is parading around as a clown. He is literally the joker thrown into the deck of playing cards that is history.
I think Asimov's portrayal of The Mule syncs with some very genuine fears that Americans had about political leaders in the late 40s and early 50s: hyper-charismatic demagogues who had set themselves up over the masses had whipped whole populations into an emotional ecstasy/frenzy. Some were eager to interpret such large personalities as the cause of WWII, a horror that the world was still very much recovering from when Asimov was writing his story.
I wonder if The Mule can be seen as an allegory for interwar political leaders--deadly speakers, deadly showman--like Mussolini, Stalin, FDR, Hitler, Churchill, Huey Long, and so forth.
But strangely, the ability of The Mule to manipulate the emotions of large swaths of humanity is a power that is not necessarily evil in and of itself. The true evil, rather, is the Mule's psychological problems. These make his ability to manipulate others dangerous. Because of his childhood, his experiences connected with his deformities, his alienation from the rest of humanity, he becomes an antagonizing ego-maniac who resents the rest of humanity. The Second Foundationers change his mind so that he becomes, in the end, a benevolent dictator. But this plot point carries with it an implication: the ability of a leader to manipulate whole groups of people is not intrinsically evil or suspicious; rather, it's this rare ability married with a the wrong psychological makeup.
In any case, The Mule is an interesting imaginary version of a category of political leader--the charismatic great leader who seems to be able to channel history--that intrigues us, disturbs us, frightens us, and enchants us.
Friday, February 1, 2013
Isaac Asimov's *Foundation*: Reconciling the Macroscopic and Microscopic
I started re-reading Isaac Asimov's famous novel of galactic empire, Foundation. I love this novel.
Asimov's Foundation epitomizes the "space opera," a sub-genre infamously difficult to pin down. Of course, there are other versions of the "space opera" that predate Asimov's Foundation series that only vaguely resemble it (the key family resemblance being, of course, that they are all, loosely defined, adventures in "outer space"). There are C.L. Moore's "interplanetary" stories of Northwest Smith of Earth (1930s), and, of course, there are Edgar Rice Burroughs's popular "Barsoom" stories, which were originally published in the all-fiction Munsey magazine, The All-story in February of 1912.
These older "space operas" are much more "operatic" than Asimov, which is less concerned about human interest and more concerned with sociological issues: the rise and fall of governments, the emergence of specific cultures, the effect of technological change on material economies, and so forth. Foundation has more in common in terms of genre with Edward Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire than with Moore or Burroughs, to an extent.
In another post about my favorite Asimov short story, "The Last Question," I wrote, "Human beings, in this narrative, are less individuals and more a flowing force of energy, like the molocules of water in a river." As far as Foundation is concerned, this is overstatement. In Foundation, human beings are a force, are referred to as a "conglomerate" whose actions can be predicted with some accuracy based upon statistics. This is Hari Seldon's famous "psychohistory," a kind of super-mathematical historiography that doesn't only deal with the past but makes predictions about the future.
The interesting thing that Asimov does in these Foundation stories, to my mind, is to imagine a reconciliation between that age-old historical question: does history move forward because of significant figures (e.g. Alexander, Caesar, Charlemagne, Napoleon, Hitler); or, does history move forward because of sociological/economic laws that disregard individuals. In other words, he uses literature to negotiate the apparently incommensurate "mascoscopic" approach to history (sociology, economy, ecology) and microscopic approach (biography, great persons).
That's what good literature does: it allows us to think things hitherto unthinkable.
Asimov's Foundation epitomizes the "space opera," a sub-genre infamously difficult to pin down. Of course, there are other versions of the "space opera" that predate Asimov's Foundation series that only vaguely resemble it (the key family resemblance being, of course, that they are all, loosely defined, adventures in "outer space"). There are C.L. Moore's "interplanetary" stories of Northwest Smith of Earth (1930s), and, of course, there are Edgar Rice Burroughs's popular "Barsoom" stories, which were originally published in the all-fiction Munsey magazine, The All-story in February of 1912.
These older "space operas" are much more "operatic" than Asimov, which is less concerned about human interest and more concerned with sociological issues: the rise and fall of governments, the emergence of specific cultures, the effect of technological change on material economies, and so forth. Foundation has more in common in terms of genre with Edward Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire than with Moore or Burroughs, to an extent.
In another post about my favorite Asimov short story, "The Last Question," I wrote, "Human beings, in this narrative, are less individuals and more a flowing force of energy, like the molocules of water in a river." As far as Foundation is concerned, this is overstatement. In Foundation, human beings are a force, are referred to as a "conglomerate" whose actions can be predicted with some accuracy based upon statistics. This is Hari Seldon's famous "psychohistory," a kind of super-mathematical historiography that doesn't only deal with the past but makes predictions about the future.
The interesting thing that Asimov does in these Foundation stories, to my mind, is to imagine a reconciliation between that age-old historical question: does history move forward because of significant figures (e.g. Alexander, Caesar, Charlemagne, Napoleon, Hitler); or, does history move forward because of sociological/economic laws that disregard individuals. In other words, he uses literature to negotiate the apparently incommensurate "mascoscopic" approach to history (sociology, economy, ecology) and microscopic approach (biography, great persons).
That's what good literature does: it allows us to think things hitherto unthinkable.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
A. Bertram Chandler's *The Road to the Rim*: Affect and Inverse Space Opera
I recently started reading science fiction writer A. Bertram Chandler. The novel I read was The Road to the Rim (1967). It was an interesting read. What I found most interesting about it was how it seemed to participate in a particular science fiction genre. My reflex is to call it "space opera," but further meditation makes me realize how incorrect that is. Why? My general impression/definition of space opera tends to sync with the one on Wikipedia:
"Space opera is a subgenre of science fiction that emphasizes romantic, often melodramatic adventure, set mainly or entirely in outer space, generally involving conflict between opponents possessing advanced technologies and abilities."
This definition emphasizes the emotional element of space opera--melodrama, romance, adventure! This feels right for me. Of all the texts I've read or watched that folks have labeled "space opera," this intensity of emotion seems to be present. I'm particularly thinking of--of course---the original Star Wars Trilogy. Consider the bombastic music; the revenge plot; the love triangle; the epic military struggles. These are occasions for showcasing great emotional outpourings.
Disclaimer: I know "space opera" is just a useful categorizing tool and that we should use it loosely, as a kind of heuristic device for throwing into focus elements of certain science fiction narratives that we may or may not see; and so, I'm in no way trying to put forward an argument for a "definitve" definition of space opera. But, for me, it feels correct to associate space opera was an intensity of emotion.
This intensity of emotion is definitely not present in A. Bertram Chandler's The Road to the Rim. Indeed, it can be defined by a lack of emotion. Sometimes this lack of emotion, I'd say, borders on the pathological. There is a notable lack of affect in both the narration and in the characters's behaviors.
I find this so intriguing. I can see why folks would be inclined to describe this novel as a "space opera," considering it takes place completely in outer space. Also, there are space pirates, battling starships, love affairs, etc.. But the world is presented in what I would suggest is almost in "greyscale." The human emotion seems to be quite absent.
I get the sense there is a conformity in tone between the narrative as such and the military lifestyle / scenarios depicted in the novel. The protagonist is one soldier in a great space fleet and a major theme is his relationship to procedure, policy, protocol, etc.. The meticulousness of the narrative style mirrors the meticulousness of the protagonist's behavior and thought patterns.
The term "hard science fiction" might apply. "Hard" might refer to the novel's inherent masculinity, it's emotionless element; and yet, "hard" is generally used to refer to the way scientific theory in framed in a science ficiton narrative. This novel, I'm convinced, is decidedly not faithful to scientific theory.
And so, considering how I've set space opera up here--a science fiction narrative set completely in outer space that showcases great human emotional outpourings--I've decided to call A. Bertram Chandler's The Road to the Rim an example of inverse space opera. Hmm... Does this label fit?
"Space opera is a subgenre of science fiction that emphasizes romantic, often melodramatic adventure, set mainly or entirely in outer space, generally involving conflict between opponents possessing advanced technologies and abilities."
This definition emphasizes the emotional element of space opera--melodrama, romance, adventure! This feels right for me. Of all the texts I've read or watched that folks have labeled "space opera," this intensity of emotion seems to be present. I'm particularly thinking of--of course---the original Star Wars Trilogy. Consider the bombastic music; the revenge plot; the love triangle; the epic military struggles. These are occasions for showcasing great emotional outpourings.
Disclaimer: I know "space opera" is just a useful categorizing tool and that we should use it loosely, as a kind of heuristic device for throwing into focus elements of certain science fiction narratives that we may or may not see; and so, I'm in no way trying to put forward an argument for a "definitve" definition of space opera. But, for me, it feels correct to associate space opera was an intensity of emotion.
This intensity of emotion is definitely not present in A. Bertram Chandler's The Road to the Rim. Indeed, it can be defined by a lack of emotion. Sometimes this lack of emotion, I'd say, borders on the pathological. There is a notable lack of affect in both the narration and in the characters's behaviors.
I find this so intriguing. I can see why folks would be inclined to describe this novel as a "space opera," considering it takes place completely in outer space. Also, there are space pirates, battling starships, love affairs, etc.. But the world is presented in what I would suggest is almost in "greyscale." The human emotion seems to be quite absent.
I get the sense there is a conformity in tone between the narrative as such and the military lifestyle / scenarios depicted in the novel. The protagonist is one soldier in a great space fleet and a major theme is his relationship to procedure, policy, protocol, etc.. The meticulousness of the narrative style mirrors the meticulousness of the protagonist's behavior and thought patterns.
The term "hard science fiction" might apply. "Hard" might refer to the novel's inherent masculinity, it's emotionless element; and yet, "hard" is generally used to refer to the way scientific theory in framed in a science ficiton narrative. This novel, I'm convinced, is decidedly not faithful to scientific theory.
And so, considering how I've set space opera up here--a science fiction narrative set completely in outer space that showcases great human emotional outpourings--I've decided to call A. Bertram Chandler's The Road to the Rim an example of inverse space opera. Hmm... Does this label fit?
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Utopic versus Realistic Space Opera: Battlestar Galactica (2004) and Star Trek: The Next Generation
My wife and I recently watched all four seasons of Battlestar Galactica (2004) for the first time. What an amazing show! I loved the way it seemed to take traditional space opera tropes and somehow make them more "human" and "gritty." There's a realism to that show that makes one think while watching it, "Yes. If there were spaceships, if there were spacefleets, this is what life within them would be like."
I found it strange how often I thought of Star Trek: the Next Generation while watching this show. I often made comparisons. Having had some distance from the show, I now realize why I was making these comparisons.
If ST:TNG is utopic--a kind of futuristic paradise--then Battlestar Galactica is realistic. I wouldn't go so far as to say it's dystopic, a horrible world. Sure, humanity has been destroyed and is hurtling through space in the search of a new home; and yet, dystopic texts, I think, don't hold out the prospect for hope BSG does. In BSG, the possibility that the humans will find earth is always there.
Comparing ST:TNG to BGS reveals some very interesting things, I think, about two "flavors" of science space opera, what I want to call "utopic space opera" and "realistic space opera."
For example, let's compare a few characters. In ST:TNG you have Captain Jean Luc Picard and in BSG you have Commander William Adama. Both of these figures share some characteristics: Adama is a scholar (consider his book-filled study), and Picard is a scholar (Picard is always quoting the Western Canon). They both demand respect from their crews. They both make inspirational speeches. And yet, there are some major differences: Adama is willing to execute folks if they get out of line. Picard doesn't believe in corporal punishment. Adama is an alcoholic and curses a lot. Picard drinks earl gray and is very proper. Adama deals with the civil government: the president of the colonies. Picard doesn't deal with the civil government at all. He gets all his orders from the military, the Starfleet.
Now let's consider another pairing of characters: the second in commands, Colonel Saul Tigh and Captain William Thomas Riker. How are they similar? Well, Tigh executes the commands and polices of his superior officer, and so does Riker. Riker appears, in many episodes, as a kind of disciplinary figure; Tigh is completely in charge of disciplining the crew. Other than their rank and military funiction, I can't think of any additional characteristics they share except they both appear to like to play cards. Now let's think about their differences. I can think of a major one: the majority of the grew of the Battlestar Galactica hate or at least fear Saul Tigh. He's a bastard, and for good reason: he courts this sort of image for specific purposes. The majority of the crew on the Enterprise, however, love Ricart. His leadership style is to "get close" to those below him.
Now I want to consider the two ships that dominate these two shows: the Battlestar Galactica and the U.S.S. Enterprise. They are both similar in that they're both the flagships of their fleets: the Colonial Fleet and Starfleet. But, they couldn't be more different. The Enterprise is the cutting edge of technology, the best Starfleet has to offer. The Battlestar Galactica is outmoded technology, an old-fashioned throwback, a kind of museum that is literally falling apart. The Enterprise is filled with potted planets, carpeted, and appears--at least to me--to be air-conditioned. Gods, they have orchestra and theater performances inside of it! The Battlestar Galactica is like a submarine. It's spartan: all metal, and screws, and cold, and cramped. Airlocks everywhere and, as the show progresses, more and more dirty. Often you wonder, as you're watching, "I bet it stinks in there."
Another minor comparison: think of the two bars on the ships. Well, Battlestar Galactica starts off with no bar at all until they realize that they are going to be on the ship for so long, they need some sort of place for recreational unwinding. And so they build Joe's bar. The Enterprise has Ten Forward, which is a posh, "wear-your-best" bar.
Another comparison: food and water and real world concerns like toothpaste and fuel come into consideration in BSG. In ST:TNG, none of this is considered. It's "post-scarce." Everyone has everything and anything they need.
There's a lot more here and I have to stop typing. This post is getting long. I think I'm getting at the key differences between these two shows, which point to something more major: two visions of the science fictional future or space opera. We have with BGS an imagined future that's not all polish and beauty. We have something more visceral and real. But there is indeed something comforting and inspiring by the vision of ST:TNG.
I'm not sure which vision I prefer. I think they're both interesting and enduring pieces of art. But we have with these shows demonstrated two flavors of space opera that are crystallizing.
I found it strange how often I thought of Star Trek: the Next Generation while watching this show. I often made comparisons. Having had some distance from the show, I now realize why I was making these comparisons.
If ST:TNG is utopic--a kind of futuristic paradise--then Battlestar Galactica is realistic. I wouldn't go so far as to say it's dystopic, a horrible world. Sure, humanity has been destroyed and is hurtling through space in the search of a new home; and yet, dystopic texts, I think, don't hold out the prospect for hope BSG does. In BSG, the possibility that the humans will find earth is always there.
Comparing ST:TNG to BGS reveals some very interesting things, I think, about two "flavors" of science space opera, what I want to call "utopic space opera" and "realistic space opera."
For example, let's compare a few characters. In ST:TNG you have Captain Jean Luc Picard and in BSG you have Commander William Adama. Both of these figures share some characteristics: Adama is a scholar (consider his book-filled study), and Picard is a scholar (Picard is always quoting the Western Canon). They both demand respect from their crews. They both make inspirational speeches. And yet, there are some major differences: Adama is willing to execute folks if they get out of line. Picard doesn't believe in corporal punishment. Adama is an alcoholic and curses a lot. Picard drinks earl gray and is very proper. Adama deals with the civil government: the president of the colonies. Picard doesn't deal with the civil government at all. He gets all his orders from the military, the Starfleet.
Now let's consider another pairing of characters: the second in commands, Colonel Saul Tigh and Captain William Thomas Riker. How are they similar? Well, Tigh executes the commands and polices of his superior officer, and so does Riker. Riker appears, in many episodes, as a kind of disciplinary figure; Tigh is completely in charge of disciplining the crew. Other than their rank and military funiction, I can't think of any additional characteristics they share except they both appear to like to play cards. Now let's think about their differences. I can think of a major one: the majority of the grew of the Battlestar Galactica hate or at least fear Saul Tigh. He's a bastard, and for good reason: he courts this sort of image for specific purposes. The majority of the crew on the Enterprise, however, love Ricart. His leadership style is to "get close" to those below him.Now I want to consider the two ships that dominate these two shows: the Battlestar Galactica and the U.S.S. Enterprise. They are both similar in that they're both the flagships of their fleets: the Colonial Fleet and Starfleet. But, they couldn't be more different. The Enterprise is the cutting edge of technology, the best Starfleet has to offer. The Battlestar Galactica is outmoded technology, an old-fashioned throwback, a kind of museum that is literally falling apart. The Enterprise is filled with potted planets, carpeted, and appears--at least to me--to be air-conditioned. Gods, they have orchestra and theater performances inside of it! The Battlestar Galactica is like a submarine. It's spartan: all metal, and screws, and cold, and cramped. Airlocks everywhere and, as the show progresses, more and more dirty. Often you wonder, as you're watching, "I bet it stinks in there."
Another minor comparison: think of the two bars on the ships. Well, Battlestar Galactica starts off with no bar at all until they realize that they are going to be on the ship for so long, they need some sort of place for recreational unwinding. And so they build Joe's bar. The Enterprise has Ten Forward, which is a posh, "wear-your-best" bar.
Another comparison: food and water and real world concerns like toothpaste and fuel come into consideration in BSG. In ST:TNG, none of this is considered. It's "post-scarce." Everyone has everything and anything they need.
There's a lot more here and I have to stop typing. This post is getting long. I think I'm getting at the key differences between these two shows, which point to something more major: two visions of the science fictional future or space opera. We have with BGS an imagined future that's not all polish and beauty. We have something more visceral and real. But there is indeed something comforting and inspiring by the vision of ST:TNG.
I'm not sure which vision I prefer. I think they're both interesting and enduring pieces of art. But we have with these shows demonstrated two flavors of space opera that are crystallizing.
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