I'm revved up to attend PulpFest 2012 in Columbus, Ohio this weekend. I'm really interested in connecting with the pulp magazine collecting community. As a genre fiction enthusiast / aspiring writer / scholar, I often take for granted the real material origins of the genres we take for granted. I have to remind myself that science fiction, fantasy, and supernatural horror didn't emerge, fully formed, from our culture like night mushrooms. They slowly but surely evolved out of many different contexts, one of the major ones (dare I say *the* major one) being American pulpwood magazines.
Sure, sure: modern supernatural fiction or "weird literature" can be linked to the British Gothic novel; science fiction can be connected to the science romances of H.G. Wells and Jules Verne; modern fantasy can be said to be fully founded or at least fully outlined by J.R.R. Tolkien. The British Isles can claim, indeed, to be a major "ur" location for the supernatural genres we love. And yet--something happened to these genres when they were "percolated" through the pulp magazines. The American pulp writers drew from this old world traditions and began to add to them, to change them.
In comparison to H.G. Wells, Mary Shelley, and J.R.R. Tolkien, I offer Edgar Rice Burroughs, H.P. Lovecraft, and Robert E. Howard. Generally speaking, all of these writers--all six of them--have mass appeal. Their work--which the clever genre historian has firmly situated within the history of the modern supernatural genres (the "weird" genres, as I like to call them)--was read and continues to be read by a lot of people. But there are characteristics that flag Burroughs, Lovecraft, and Howard as being in distinct camps from Wells, Shelley, and Tolkien: distinct shifts in tone, content, character, style, narrative structure, etc.. It just may (just *may*) be useful to attempt to map these shifts along national grounds. Hmm... A major project.
A distinct characteristic, I'm thinking, inherent in the pulp versions of science fiction, fantasy, and supernatural horror is the presence of, simply, a lot of geographical space. In Burroughs Mars stories, for example, you have Barsoom, a new world to explore and discover, to fight in and conquer, to organize. In Howard, you have the great vistas of Hyborian Age--all the many kingdoms, cities, dread ruins, and wilderness expances plumb, explore, conquer, organize. In Lovecraft, nothing less than the entire cosmos are unflung for the characters to experience, meditate on, and finally recoil from.
This is just a start, a tentative "toe-dip" along this line of thought. But it may be a fruitful road, I'm convinced: a major distinction between pulp versions of genre and their corresponding British representatives, it seems to me, is something as simple as space, more space: in the pulps the narratives are set against a lot of room for the characters to move around in, to adventure in. Hmm...
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
The Utopic Impulse of E.A. Burroughs *A Princess of Mars*
I just finished reading Edgar Rice Burroughs A Princess of Mars (1917). The version I read was a 1973 printing by Ballantine Books; however, the book was originally a serial story published in 1912 from February to July in All-Story Magazine, one the first if the not the first American Pulp Magazines. I'm not sure if there were any major changes from the serial to the novel manuscript. From my perspective, this novel (novella, really--159 pages) read like a fully connected, organically conceived novel.
What struck me about this story was the narrative pace. Events unfold at breakneck speed. One moment the protagonist, John Carter, is riding along the desert in Arizona on Earth; the next moment, he's on Mars. There is one chapter that begins with him a destitute fugitive from justice. This chapter ends with him as a warlord who is leading a great host to capture a city.
This sort of intensity of narrative pace is becoming, to my mind, a characteristic of "pulp fiction" generally (a term I don't usually like to throw around).
Another intriguing element of this novel is how it clearly connects the Western, frontier story with the science fiction. It begins as a traditional Western story--complete with Native Americans and a frontier setting and scenario. And, after some metaphysical convolutions, it transforms into a kind of science fiction tale with an emphasis on adventure. A lot of folks label this as a "science romance," and this term, I think, refers to the casual approach to scientific knowledge/theory characteristic of the narrative.
I'm not sure about the contemporary usage of the term "science romance," and I'm not particularly interested--at this point--in charting its no doubt rich and interesting genealogy. Nevertheless, I think it's important for current writers trying to create a new kind of "science romance" or "science fantasy" to takes these terms/categories seriously. I'm not that person.
For my money, I think considering Burroughs A Princess of Mars as a kind of "liminal" sci-fi/western or a "proto" science-fiction gets some interesting thoughts churning. Native Americans become Martians in this allegory; the White Men become Red Men. At the end of the novel a kind of reunification/reconciliation between the White Men and Native Americans is effected. The city-state of Helium and the horde of Tars Tarkas become political allies and close friends. Hmm...
There's a scholarly tradition that understands science fiction as characterized by a "Utopic Impulse," i.e. a desire for a better world. Here we have an reconciliation, albeit an allegorical and somewhat fantastical one, of the White and the Red. Hmm...
I'm planning on reading much more Burroughs for my dissertation, so I'll leave these thoughts ill-formed right now.
What struck me about this story was the narrative pace. Events unfold at breakneck speed. One moment the protagonist, John Carter, is riding along the desert in Arizona on Earth; the next moment, he's on Mars. There is one chapter that begins with him a destitute fugitive from justice. This chapter ends with him as a warlord who is leading a great host to capture a city.
This sort of intensity of narrative pace is becoming, to my mind, a characteristic of "pulp fiction" generally (a term I don't usually like to throw around).
Another intriguing element of this novel is how it clearly connects the Western, frontier story with the science fiction. It begins as a traditional Western story--complete with Native Americans and a frontier setting and scenario. And, after some metaphysical convolutions, it transforms into a kind of science fiction tale with an emphasis on adventure. A lot of folks label this as a "science romance," and this term, I think, refers to the casual approach to scientific knowledge/theory characteristic of the narrative.
I'm not sure about the contemporary usage of the term "science romance," and I'm not particularly interested--at this point--in charting its no doubt rich and interesting genealogy. Nevertheless, I think it's important for current writers trying to create a new kind of "science romance" or "science fantasy" to takes these terms/categories seriously. I'm not that person.
For my money, I think considering Burroughs A Princess of Mars as a kind of "liminal" sci-fi/western or a "proto" science-fiction gets some interesting thoughts churning. Native Americans become Martians in this allegory; the White Men become Red Men. At the end of the novel a kind of reunification/reconciliation between the White Men and Native Americans is effected. The city-state of Helium and the horde of Tars Tarkas become political allies and close friends. Hmm...
There's a scholarly tradition that understands science fiction as characterized by a "Utopic Impulse," i.e. a desire for a better world. Here we have an reconciliation, albeit an allegorical and somewhat fantastical one, of the White and the Red. Hmm...
I'm planning on reading much more Burroughs for my dissertation, so I'll leave these thoughts ill-formed right now.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
An Homage and Critique of Michael Saler's *As If: Modern Enchantment and the Literary PreHistory of Virtual Reality* (Oxford UP, 2012)
I'm reading a book of literary history, As If: Modern Enchantment and the Literary PreHistory of Virtual Reality (Oxford UP, 2012) by Michael Saler. He treats the Sherlock Holmes stories of Arthur Conan Doyle, the Cthulhu Mythos of H.P. Lovecraft, and J.R.R. Tolkien's Middle-Earth. To really simplify his argument: he is pushing back against literary historians/critics who see genre fiction (i.e. mystery, science fiction, and fantasy) as problematically escapist, as completely severed from this reality. He asserts that these writers created alternative worlds that allowed readers to come to see their own realities as contingent, as "fictional" in a way. He attempts to make a case that the fictional worlds created by these writers opened up a space for their readers to imagine Reality with a capital R as malleable, as subject to change.
Let me just say, I loved Saler's book! For all intents and purposes, this is an homage to Saler's book! A recommendation for you to buy it and read it!
His reading of H.P. Lovecraft's biography and its relationship to the overarching thematic trends in the Cthulhu mythos is very convincing and compelling. I am so inspired by the idea that such an intelligent and serious scholar has turned his sights on Doyle, Lovecraft, and Tolkien. He even talks about Dungeons and Dragons in this monograph, something that delights considering it was published by the Oxford University Press. As a researcher struggling with many of the issues broached in this book, I can truly say it put wind in my sails. And, admittedly, there's a lot in Saler's book that I'm still trying to wrap my mind around.
And yet--
I get the sense Saler wants to see genre fiction and the alternative worlds that emerge from them as pseudo-"didactic" texts, texts that teach a lesson. I don't think he sees genre fiction as didactic in a direct, allegorical way (e.g. the orcs of Middle Earth aren't supposed to represent fascist Germany; Cthulhu is not supposed to be an alienating modernity; Sherlock Holmes is not performing as a perfect modern citizen, etc.). Saler is much more subtle. However, in spite of his subtlety and very convincing analysis (as well as the obvious respect he has for genre), I find his overarching framework slightly unpalatable. He seems to be describing (in a highly sophisticated way) what genre fiction allows its readers to do.
I guess a part of me doesn't prefer thinking about genre fiction in an instrumental context, as if its only worth studying because it serves an important social function. It's seems an obvious, kind of "throwback" argument. "Reading pulp fiction will rot your brain!" says the elitist. "You should read mature art that's truly beautiful." "No," responds Saler, "pulp fiction will make me a better person."
I think all art serves a social function. From an anthropological perspective, art is function. For me, that's a given. But by focusing on this function, some very important elements of art are thrown out of focus. How do I want to approach science fiction, supernatural horror, fantasy?
Uhh... let me get back to you on that.
Let me just say, I loved Saler's book! For all intents and purposes, this is an homage to Saler's book! A recommendation for you to buy it and read it!
His reading of H.P. Lovecraft's biography and its relationship to the overarching thematic trends in the Cthulhu mythos is very convincing and compelling. I am so inspired by the idea that such an intelligent and serious scholar has turned his sights on Doyle, Lovecraft, and Tolkien. He even talks about Dungeons and Dragons in this monograph, something that delights considering it was published by the Oxford University Press. As a researcher struggling with many of the issues broached in this book, I can truly say it put wind in my sails. And, admittedly, there's a lot in Saler's book that I'm still trying to wrap my mind around.
And yet--
I get the sense Saler wants to see genre fiction and the alternative worlds that emerge from them as pseudo-"didactic" texts, texts that teach a lesson. I don't think he sees genre fiction as didactic in a direct, allegorical way (e.g. the orcs of Middle Earth aren't supposed to represent fascist Germany; Cthulhu is not supposed to be an alienating modernity; Sherlock Holmes is not performing as a perfect modern citizen, etc.). Saler is much more subtle. However, in spite of his subtlety and very convincing analysis (as well as the obvious respect he has for genre), I find his overarching framework slightly unpalatable. He seems to be describing (in a highly sophisticated way) what genre fiction allows its readers to do.
I guess a part of me doesn't prefer thinking about genre fiction in an instrumental context, as if its only worth studying because it serves an important social function. It's seems an obvious, kind of "throwback" argument. "Reading pulp fiction will rot your brain!" says the elitist. "You should read mature art that's truly beautiful." "No," responds Saler, "pulp fiction will make me a better person."
I think all art serves a social function. From an anthropological perspective, art is function. For me, that's a given. But by focusing on this function, some very important elements of art are thrown out of focus. How do I want to approach science fiction, supernatural horror, fantasy?
Uhh... let me get back to you on that.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
My Theory of Ridley Scott's * Prometheus*: Liquid Extra-dimensional Gods and Flesh-Portals
So I reviewed Ridley Scott's Prometheus--loved it--but I haven't stopped thinking about it. As I said in my review, I think the film purposefully ends with a bunch of unanswered questions. I don't see that as an aesthetic flaw. It actually one of the elements of the film that satisfied. Indeed, in terms of the theme of the film, the unanswerable nature of cosmic questions is the point!
Anyhow--a past-time around the blogosphere lately has been to offer theories about the film, to attempt to answer some of those questions raised by the movie: who are the Engineers? What are they doing? Where to the Xenomorphs fall into this pseudo-prequel? Well, I'd like to offer a theory.
I'm under no delusion that this is the "correct" theory. I'm not convinced that the film makers have thought that far ahead, and I don't fault the writers for leaving threads untied. That's what brings a story to life! Once you've written everything, have all the "kinks" worked out, it's over. Anyhow, here's some thoughts I have, my vision of what the film's questions answered...
Who are the Engineers? Or, Liquefy Yourself Before Traveling Between Dimensions
The Engineers are android-like creations akin to David the android. They were created by the Xenomorphs to serve them. In the same way David the android serves humanity, the Engineers were created to serve the Xenomorphs. Accordingly, the Xenomorph ship where a lot of the action takes place: this is not an Engineer vessel. No. It's a Xenomorph vessel. All of funerary-looking jars filled with the black goo: those are holding tanks for the Xenomorphs's consciousnesses, the true lords of that ship. We humans, when we want to travel long distances across space, we freeze ourselves in hibernation tanks. The Xenomorphs, though, they turn themselves into a black goo. The liquefy themselves and their consciousnesses into a black goo that has to then be downloaded into organic vessels.
Who are the Xenomorphs? Or, Extradimensional Aliens in Search of a Body
In my theory, the Xenomorphs are extra-dimensional creatures of extreme, inhuman intelligence. They come from another dimension completely distinct from our universe, a place where the laws of science are different: energy, space, matter, consciousness--all of these things are different in their dimension. None of our physical laws apply there. Hence, their strange traveling strategy. Unlike the Engineers and humans, which are creatures of this dimension, they Xenomorphs are traversing not just galaxies and star systems; no. They're traversing the dividing line between different dimensions. Creepy, huh? Why are they leaving their dimension behind? Hmm...
Who are the Humans? Or, Can a Body Be a Portal?
Humans have been grown in order to serve as the "organic vessels/ flesh portals" for the Xenomorphs. In other words, the Xenomorphs need a body of the cognitive and physiological capacity of a human to "port" themselves into this dimension. And so, they had the Engineers create the humans on Earth. They allowed us to multiply until there were enough of us to occupy, to "port" through. As of the late melennium, there are enough of us to bring on the Xenomorphs. The human race has "incubated" or "cooked" long enough. No w that there are enough of us, it's time for the Xenomorphs to finish their trip from their dimension to ours. In this theory the Engineers become a kind of taxi-ing service for the Xenomorphs. Humans are mere vessels/portals that the Xenomorphs will use. They have every right to, of course, because they created us. When they get to earth in goo form, they'll "face hugger" us, incubate in us, and then burst out into our dimension having successfully crossed the dividing line separate their dimension from ours.
What is the Meaning of Human Life?
Here's the horrifying answer furnished by this theory: human life was created to allow a extra-dimension race of inhumanly intelligent alien-gods entrance into our dimension so that they can exploit all of its resources.
***
I struck on this idea by considering the opening montage, when David is caressing all the hibernation chambers of human ship-mates. And then I thought about the parallel between David and the only surviving Engineer. They wake him up, David attempts to talk to him, and then the Engineer rips his head off.
I found this exchange so disturbing. Why would the Engineer do this? Why would he attack David? Kill the humans? The Engineer just woke up and found himself surrounded by humans asking him, "What were we made for?" How does he respond? What could his answer possibly have been? Here's a guess:
"Uhh... you were made so that extra-dimensional Aliens can impregnate you and then make their way into this dimension. You are mid-wifes to our creators, our Gods, who will ill-use you in their attempt to come into this world.
Not the best thing to hear. I assume the Engineer thought to himself that, considering their linquistic skill, the humans and David had discovered what they were and that they were there to stop the long surviving Engineer from "taxi-ing" the Xenomorphs to earth, to complete their transference to this dimension. Hmm... He was going to pour the goo that is the Xenomorphs into the ocean that is the earth's Ecosystem to bring about a new age, the coming of the Engineers's dark gods
But there's a kink...
Why were the Engineers running? What happened? What was chasing them in those holographic displays? Hmm...
I think there were two types of Engineers. (1) Engineers who were loyal to the Xenomorphs; and (2) Engineers who rebelled, if you will. Those were the Engineers who were created by the Xenomorphs who were "eager to kill their parents."
What do you think?
Anyhow--a past-time around the blogosphere lately has been to offer theories about the film, to attempt to answer some of those questions raised by the movie: who are the Engineers? What are they doing? Where to the Xenomorphs fall into this pseudo-prequel? Well, I'd like to offer a theory.
I'm under no delusion that this is the "correct" theory. I'm not convinced that the film makers have thought that far ahead, and I don't fault the writers for leaving threads untied. That's what brings a story to life! Once you've written everything, have all the "kinks" worked out, it's over. Anyhow, here's some thoughts I have, my vision of what the film's questions answered...
Who are the Engineers? Or, Liquefy Yourself Before Traveling Between Dimensions
The Engineers are android-like creations akin to David the android. They were created by the Xenomorphs to serve them. In the same way David the android serves humanity, the Engineers were created to serve the Xenomorphs. Accordingly, the Xenomorph ship where a lot of the action takes place: this is not an Engineer vessel. No. It's a Xenomorph vessel. All of funerary-looking jars filled with the black goo: those are holding tanks for the Xenomorphs's consciousnesses, the true lords of that ship. We humans, when we want to travel long distances across space, we freeze ourselves in hibernation tanks. The Xenomorphs, though, they turn themselves into a black goo. The liquefy themselves and their consciousnesses into a black goo that has to then be downloaded into organic vessels.
Who are the Xenomorphs? Or, Extradimensional Aliens in Search of a Body
In my theory, the Xenomorphs are extra-dimensional creatures of extreme, inhuman intelligence. They come from another dimension completely distinct from our universe, a place where the laws of science are different: energy, space, matter, consciousness--all of these things are different in their dimension. None of our physical laws apply there. Hence, their strange traveling strategy. Unlike the Engineers and humans, which are creatures of this dimension, they Xenomorphs are traversing not just galaxies and star systems; no. They're traversing the dividing line between different dimensions. Creepy, huh? Why are they leaving their dimension behind? Hmm...
Who are the Humans? Or, Can a Body Be a Portal?
Humans have been grown in order to serve as the "organic vessels/ flesh portals" for the Xenomorphs. In other words, the Xenomorphs need a body of the cognitive and physiological capacity of a human to "port" themselves into this dimension. And so, they had the Engineers create the humans on Earth. They allowed us to multiply until there were enough of us to occupy, to "port" through. As of the late melennium, there are enough of us to bring on the Xenomorphs. The human race has "incubated" or "cooked" long enough. No w that there are enough of us, it's time for the Xenomorphs to finish their trip from their dimension to ours. In this theory the Engineers become a kind of taxi-ing service for the Xenomorphs. Humans are mere vessels/portals that the Xenomorphs will use. They have every right to, of course, because they created us. When they get to earth in goo form, they'll "face hugger" us, incubate in us, and then burst out into our dimension having successfully crossed the dividing line separate their dimension from ours.
What is the Meaning of Human Life?
Here's the horrifying answer furnished by this theory: human life was created to allow a extra-dimension race of inhumanly intelligent alien-gods entrance into our dimension so that they can exploit all of its resources.
***
I struck on this idea by considering the opening montage, when David is caressing all the hibernation chambers of human ship-mates. And then I thought about the parallel between David and the only surviving Engineer. They wake him up, David attempts to talk to him, and then the Engineer rips his head off.
I found this exchange so disturbing. Why would the Engineer do this? Why would he attack David? Kill the humans? The Engineer just woke up and found himself surrounded by humans asking him, "What were we made for?" How does he respond? What could his answer possibly have been? Here's a guess:
"Uhh... you were made so that extra-dimensional Aliens can impregnate you and then make their way into this dimension. You are mid-wifes to our creators, our Gods, who will ill-use you in their attempt to come into this world.
Not the best thing to hear. I assume the Engineer thought to himself that, considering their linquistic skill, the humans and David had discovered what they were and that they were there to stop the long surviving Engineer from "taxi-ing" the Xenomorphs to earth, to complete their transference to this dimension. Hmm... He was going to pour the goo that is the Xenomorphs into the ocean that is the earth's Ecosystem to bring about a new age, the coming of the Engineers's dark gods
But there's a kink...
Why were the Engineers running? What happened? What was chasing them in those holographic displays? Hmm...
I think there were two types of Engineers. (1) Engineers who were loyal to the Xenomorphs; and (2) Engineers who rebelled, if you will. Those were the Engineers who were created by the Xenomorphs who were "eager to kill their parents."
What do you think?
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
*H.P. Lovecraft's, Book of Horror*: Arthur Machen's, *The Great God Pan* (1894)
A few days ago I discovered a very interesting fiction anthology at my local Half Price Books. It's titled, H.P. Lovecraft's Book of Horror and its edited by Stephen Jones and Dave Carson (New York: Fall River Press, 2008). It's a really interesting idea for an anthology.
It opens with H.P. Lovecraft's famous 1927 survey essay of weird literature, titled, "Supernatural Horror in Literature," and then it proceeds with a story from most of the writers Lovecraft highlights in this essay. So, basically, the anthology starts with a survey of what HPL thought was the best weird literature of his time; and then it gives you a taste of those writers (some forgotten), that he analyzed in his essay. In a way, you're reading the weird literature of the early 20th century with H.P. Lovecraft as your guide. Quite interesting.
I purchased the anthology for a specific story, Arthur Machen's proto-science-fiction / horror novella The Great God Pan (1894) which is widely considered to be a major influence for H.P. Lovecraft's "The Dunwich Horror." I read it and I want to share a little about it. Here's some plot:
Plot
It concerns a scientist by the name of Raymond. He has discovered a surgical means by which to allow an otherwise invisible realm of reality to be perceived by the human sensorium. A minor surgical modification of the brain, he has discovered, will allow a human subject to glimpse "the great god pan." I won't give away what that means. Let this suffice: after Raymond performs the surgery on his ward, what she glimpses does not result in something favorable.
Narrative Structure
The story is written quite well. What really strikes me about it is its narrative structure. The story is not related from the perspective of one character; rather, the plot unfolds through the points of view of many different characters, each with their specific knowledge and their specific ignorance. From the reader's perspective, you become privy to certain information as you pick out patterns that other characters, embedded in the storyworld, cannot hope to see. A consequence of this narrative structure is that you, the reader, are the one making all of the connections even as the characters struggle to make the connections. And as these patterns begin to reveal themselves, the horror begins to mount.
Theme
In terms of theme, there's a lot in this story going on with gender and sexuality. The "villain," if you will, is a woman who is strongly implied to be sexually promiscuous. And a component of the horror, it seems, is the idea that she would let so many gentleman into her bed and body. It's strange. As a modern, this obviously doesn't stir as much as it would for, say, a contemporary reader. And yet--there is nevertheless something powerful about the story.
It opens with H.P. Lovecraft's famous 1927 survey essay of weird literature, titled, "Supernatural Horror in Literature," and then it proceeds with a story from most of the writers Lovecraft highlights in this essay. So, basically, the anthology starts with a survey of what HPL thought was the best weird literature of his time; and then it gives you a taste of those writers (some forgotten), that he analyzed in his essay. In a way, you're reading the weird literature of the early 20th century with H.P. Lovecraft as your guide. Quite interesting.
I purchased the anthology for a specific story, Arthur Machen's proto-science-fiction / horror novella The Great God Pan (1894) which is widely considered to be a major influence for H.P. Lovecraft's "The Dunwich Horror." I read it and I want to share a little about it. Here's some plot:
Plot
It concerns a scientist by the name of Raymond. He has discovered a surgical means by which to allow an otherwise invisible realm of reality to be perceived by the human sensorium. A minor surgical modification of the brain, he has discovered, will allow a human subject to glimpse "the great god pan." I won't give away what that means. Let this suffice: after Raymond performs the surgery on his ward, what she glimpses does not result in something favorable.
Narrative Structure
The story is written quite well. What really strikes me about it is its narrative structure. The story is not related from the perspective of one character; rather, the plot unfolds through the points of view of many different characters, each with their specific knowledge and their specific ignorance. From the reader's perspective, you become privy to certain information as you pick out patterns that other characters, embedded in the storyworld, cannot hope to see. A consequence of this narrative structure is that you, the reader, are the one making all of the connections even as the characters struggle to make the connections. And as these patterns begin to reveal themselves, the horror begins to mount.
Theme
In terms of theme, there's a lot in this story going on with gender and sexuality. The "villain," if you will, is a woman who is strongly implied to be sexually promiscuous. And a component of the horror, it seems, is the idea that she would let so many gentleman into her bed and body. It's strange. As a modern, this obviously doesn't stir as much as it would for, say, a contemporary reader. And yet--there is nevertheless something powerful about the story.
Monday, June 11, 2012
The Danger of Asking "Cosmic" Questions: A Review of Ridley Scott's *Prometheus*
This blog post contains spoilers for the film Prometheus. If you haven't seen the film and intend on seeing it--and you don't want your experience marred--I recommend you stop reading.
***
Recently I saw the Ridley Scott's science-fiction horror film, Prometheus. I loved it! I left the theater with a sick feeling that has been lingering for a couple of days, but it was an experience. And so, I highly recommend it.
It's a beautiful, sublime film in the spirit of such science-fiction / horror classics as Fred M. Wilcox's Forbidden Planet (1956), Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), Ridley Scott's Alien (1979), and Paul W.S. Anderson's Event Horizon (1997). As in all of these films, the tone of cosmic vastness pervaded by horrible, indifferent and god-like creatures suggests to me H.P. Lovecraft's Cthulhu Mythos. As in the work of H.P. Lovecraft, in these films (Prometheus specifically) existential questions about the origins of life, the meaning of the universe, the relative location of the human world are audaciously braved. And--*gulp*--answered.
The unifying structure that combines all of these films is that the answers discovered in the course of the narrative are, in a word, horrifying. In Prometheus, however, this theme is taken to a new height. In answer to such cosmic, existential questions as, "What is the meaning of life? Was humanity created? Why was it created?" the film responds with a resounding, hostile, scream-like gargle: there is no answer to these questions! Don't go looking for such answers! Die!
Weyland Meeting His Maker
Indeed, one of the most powerful scenes in the film was when the explorers have located one of the ancient engineers who is still alive but in suspended hibernation. They wake him up. The elderly Weyland is there, having traversed a great expanse of the galaxy, to ask a question of his maker: "Why did you make us?" After a strange moment where the Engineer-creature caresses the robot creation of Weyland (the android David), he kills the old man.
This exchange--existential question asked, horrible answer given--epitomizes what is going on in a specific tradition of science-fiction founded, I think, by the work of H.P. Lovecraft: cosmic horror. If you go to the stars looking for answers to existential questions, all you will find is horror. Sure, you might discover god, but you might not enjoy just what you discover god to be.
This is why I find the critical reaction to Prometheus somewhat frustrating. Consider the consensus review on RottenTomatoes.com, which rates that film a 74%:
"Ridley Scott's ambitious quasi-prequel to Alien may not answer all of its big questions, but it's redeemed by its haunting visual grandeur and compelling performances -- particularly Michael Fassbender as a fastidious android." (my emphasis)
It's so obvious to me that a major theme of the narrative is that certain cosmic-level, existential questions cannot be answered and should not, perhaps, be asked. The point of the film is that some questions--these cosmic questions--don't have answers; or, rather, the answers are of a scale beyond naive human understanding. Anyway...
To reiterate: I loved Prometheus. I find this kind of story intriguing. It stirs me intellectually and emotionally. But I need to qualify some things. The feeling it evokes is very modern. The reason it satisfies, I think, is because it names a demon, a feeling that many of us "sensitive folks" living in Modernity struggle with: the feeling of oppressive insignificance, anonymity; the unshakable sadness associated with the idea that perhaps life means nothing, that we human beings are just chemical accretions that slop around a rock for a brief span of time, eating, excreting, eating, excreting, multiplying, multiplying. Indeed, I find this kind of story intriguing. To reiterate again: I loved Prometheus. But let me be back off a little bit and say that, although I enjoyed the film--it entertained me--it didn't give me pleasure. The horror genre rarely gives pleasure. The pleasure it gives--if you can call it that--is the pleasure of picking at a wound, or massaging a canker sore in your mouth, or that terrible burn after shooting some liquor. It's the "pleasurable pain" of a horrible feeling confirmed. And so, as much as I liked Prometheus, I liked it conditionally.
***
Recently I saw the Ridley Scott's science-fiction horror film, Prometheus. I loved it! I left the theater with a sick feeling that has been lingering for a couple of days, but it was an experience. And so, I highly recommend it.
It's a beautiful, sublime film in the spirit of such science-fiction / horror classics as Fred M. Wilcox's Forbidden Planet (1956), Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), Ridley Scott's Alien (1979), and Paul W.S. Anderson's Event Horizon (1997). As in all of these films, the tone of cosmic vastness pervaded by horrible, indifferent and god-like creatures suggests to me H.P. Lovecraft's Cthulhu Mythos. As in the work of H.P. Lovecraft, in these films (Prometheus specifically) existential questions about the origins of life, the meaning of the universe, the relative location of the human world are audaciously braved. And--*gulp*--answered.
The unifying structure that combines all of these films is that the answers discovered in the course of the narrative are, in a word, horrifying. In Prometheus, however, this theme is taken to a new height. In answer to such cosmic, existential questions as, "What is the meaning of life? Was humanity created? Why was it created?" the film responds with a resounding, hostile, scream-like gargle: there is no answer to these questions! Don't go looking for such answers! Die!
Weyland Meeting His Maker
Indeed, one of the most powerful scenes in the film was when the explorers have located one of the ancient engineers who is still alive but in suspended hibernation. They wake him up. The elderly Weyland is there, having traversed a great expanse of the galaxy, to ask a question of his maker: "Why did you make us?" After a strange moment where the Engineer-creature caresses the robot creation of Weyland (the android David), he kills the old man.
This exchange--existential question asked, horrible answer given--epitomizes what is going on in a specific tradition of science-fiction founded, I think, by the work of H.P. Lovecraft: cosmic horror. If you go to the stars looking for answers to existential questions, all you will find is horror. Sure, you might discover god, but you might not enjoy just what you discover god to be.
This is why I find the critical reaction to Prometheus somewhat frustrating. Consider the consensus review on RottenTomatoes.com, which rates that film a 74%:
"Ridley Scott's ambitious quasi-prequel to Alien may not answer all of its big questions, but it's redeemed by its haunting visual grandeur and compelling performances -- particularly Michael Fassbender as a fastidious android." (my emphasis)
It's so obvious to me that a major theme of the narrative is that certain cosmic-level, existential questions cannot be answered and should not, perhaps, be asked. The point of the film is that some questions--these cosmic questions--don't have answers; or, rather, the answers are of a scale beyond naive human understanding. Anyway...
To reiterate: I loved Prometheus. I find this kind of story intriguing. It stirs me intellectually and emotionally. But I need to qualify some things. The feeling it evokes is very modern. The reason it satisfies, I think, is because it names a demon, a feeling that many of us "sensitive folks" living in Modernity struggle with: the feeling of oppressive insignificance, anonymity; the unshakable sadness associated with the idea that perhaps life means nothing, that we human beings are just chemical accretions that slop around a rock for a brief span of time, eating, excreting, eating, excreting, multiplying, multiplying. Indeed, I find this kind of story intriguing. To reiterate again: I loved Prometheus. But let me be back off a little bit and say that, although I enjoyed the film--it entertained me--it didn't give me pleasure. The horror genre rarely gives pleasure. The pleasure it gives--if you can call it that--is the pleasure of picking at a wound, or massaging a canker sore in your mouth, or that terrible burn after shooting some liquor. It's the "pleasurable pain" of a horrible feeling confirmed. And so, as much as I liked Prometheus, I liked it conditionally.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
On the Origins of the Term "Science Fiction"
I find myself wondering when the term for the genre of "science fiction" emerged. Lord Wikipedia seems to suggest that, in the American context at least, Hugo Gernsback's preference for the term "scientifiction" stands as an inaugural gesture. Gernsback founded the pulp magazine, Amazing Stories in 1926. And so, it seems that "science fiction" as a distinct genre might be argued to have emerged in 1926. But "scienctificion" is not "science fiction." Hmm...
My gut impression of "science fiction" is of something that achieved "critical mass" in the early to mid twenties. But the term used to describe the work of H.G. Wells, Jules Verne, and Arthur Conan Doyle, makes me question this. Their work was labeled "scientific romances." Were they advertised as "scientific romances"? When did Wells, Verne, and Doyle cease to be writers of "scientific romances" and begin to be considered "science fiction" writers? That's important.
The issue for me is that of tradition and community. When did the tradition of "science fiction" become firmly established in the popular lexicon?
The first entry of its use in the Oxford English Dictionary is from 1851 from a book by W. Wilson titled, Little Earnest Bk. upon Great Old Subject. He writes,
"Campbell says that ‘Fiction in Poetry is not the reverse of truth, but her soft and enchanting resemblance.’ Now this applies especially to Science-Fiction, in which the revealed truths of Science may be given, interwoven with a pleasing story which may itself be poetical and true—thus circulating a knowledge of the Poetry of Science, clothed in a garb of the Poetry of Life." (OED).
The next entry comes from 1929:
"The editor of this publication [sc. H. Gernsback] addressed a number of letters to science fiction lovers. The editor promised to pay $50.00 for the best letter each month on the subject of ‘What Science Fiction Means to Me.’" (OED).
So, we glimpse the first reference to "science fiction" in 1851, and the next official reference to it in 1929, 78 years later. I'm interested in the strange alchemy that took place over those 78 years, as the idea of "science fiction" evolved, become firmly established, and basically came to become what it is we know and love.
Hmm...
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