Christopher East

Matt Ruff’s Bad Monkeys (2007) reads like a movie, and it’s a film I’d probably like to see: sort of The Usual Suspects by way of David Lynch, or maybe Jean-Pierre Jeunet, depending on which way you wanted to tone it. Told in flashback from a room of a hospital psych ward, it’s the story of Jane Charlotte, a drug-addled problem child, who relates to her interviewer the history of her recruitment and participation in a secret organization known as Bad Monkeys. The organization’s mission is to make the world a better place, and their M.O. largely involves quietly doing away with evil people–”bad monkeys.” In the course of her narrative, of course, Jane quickly reveals herself to be the most unreliable of unreliable narrators, depicting the organization as something of a bizarre society with fantastical powers, that exists within the interstices of our mundane reality. Does this magic underworld exist, or is Jane merely out of her mind? Herein lies the story tension, and Ruff does a fine job keeping the reader guessing.

I rather liked this one, without quite loving it. As with the other Ruff novels I’ve checked out, it’s colorful and inventive and dazzling in places, and for the most part it swept me along on the strength of its ideas, humor and the promise of a big reveal. But it did bog down from time to time in talky exposition, and the ending–while not unsatisfying–also felt a bit kludgier than the careful build-up demanded. Ultimately, then, it didn’t blow my doors off (as, say, Sewer, Gas & Electric did), but it’s a fun, worthwhile read, a taut and engaging film-on-paper. (Even better, I could see a liberal reinterpretation of its ideas making for a sick episodic TV show…hmm…)

I used the recent Blu-ray re-release of Band of Brothers (2001) as an excuse to watch the entire run over again. This 10-episode miniseries almost single-handedly triggered my fascination with World War II history when I first saw it several years ago, and it still holds up very well after repeat viewings.

The series is a dramatization of Stephen Ambrose’s non-fiction book of the same name, which depicts the exploits of one remarkable company of paratroopers from their formation in the States in 1942 through until the end of the war in Europe in 1945. Although at times it’s structurally hamstrung by its historical accuracy, and at other times it takes a few liberties with it, it provides a revealing look at combat and what the soldiers went through, and for the most part it makes for stirring drama. The combat sequences are realistic and harrowing, and some of the episodes, particularly “Day of Days,” “Carentan,” and “Bastogne” (to me, the jewel in the series’ crown) are simply superb. There’s solid ensemble acting from the entire cast, including Damian Lewis, Ron Livingston, Donnie Wahlberg, Rick Gomez, Shane Taylor, Ross McCall, Dexter Fletcher, and more. (There are also interviews with the real-life soldiers depicted in the series, and the actors do an impressive job capturing their mannerisms and bringing them to life.)

If you have any interest in WWII history and you haven’t seen this yet, I’d call it a must. (And even if you don’t, you might want to try it anyway!)

I don’t think this review is particularly spoilery, but if you prefer going into new shows unbiased, you might skip this one…

On Friday, Joss Whedon finally returned to episodic television with Dollhouse, a contemporary science fiction series starring Eliza Dushku. Dushku is a blank-slate operative for a top secret organization which implants its “actives” with the memories and abilities of others and rents them out to the rich and powerful to perform assignments. The true nature of the Dollhouse is as yet unexplained, and its many employees — stern leader Olivia Williams, concientious “handler” Harry Lennix, ubergeek brain programmer Fran Kranz, and mysterious doctor Amy Acker, among others — seem at odds about the organization’s ultimate objectives. Meanwhile, an FBI agent (Tahmoh Penikett) is hell-bent on uncovering the Dollhouse and exposing it.

It’s a juicy SF premise that raises interesting ethical questions, there’s plenty of story potential, and the show could really go places if it’s developed right, but by and large I found the pilot hugely underwhelming, to say the least. I love Joss Whedon’s work, but this first episode — which involves a profoundly uninteresting kidnapping “A” story — is a tonal mess, mostly bereft of Whedon’s trademark humor, as if it’s been forcibly branded with a CSI-like procedural gloss by a third-party post production department. I’m not convinced Dushku has the chops or versatility to convince me she is who she’s been “imprinted” to be every week. And so far there isn’t really anyone to root for and get behind. Heroic ciphers work on Mission: Impossible, but this is Joss Whedon, and his shows are all about character — it just doesn’t seem like a good fit.

It’s still early, of course, and I suspect the series will get better as its talented writing crew finds its legs — provided Fox allows them to do their thing, that is. There were, at least, the merest glimpses of potentially interesting backstory about the organization. So there’s creative promise here, and I’m happy to see Amy Acker back in a series, but overall, it’s a pretty disappointing first step.

James Morrow rocks. If you’re unfamiliar with his work, he’s a brilliant satirist and fantasist, his work generally involving complex philosophical, religious, and political issues and conflicts. Using the tools of genre fiction, he wrangles with controversial arguments in daringly irreverent, and highly entertaining, fashion. I don’t think I’ve ever been disappointed by his work.

That holds true with The Philosopher’s Apprentice (2008), a delightful gonzo fantasy about ethics and belief that continues his tradition of tackling the tough issues. This one stars Mason Ambrose, a Darwinist philosopher who, rendered an academic pariah thanks to an unfortunate rivalry, is recruited by one Edwina Sabacthani to tutor her daughter Londa. Londa, a peculiar teen who is something of a tabula rasa, ethically speaking, needs to be provided with a “moral compass.” And so Mason hies off to a remote, private island in the Florida Keys to undertake Londa’s ethics instruction, only to learn that his charge….isn’t entirely natural. Londa was in fact created, in Frankenstein fashion, by an “ontogenerator,” which essentially birthed her at age eighteen from the genetic material of her mother, magically pumped her full of knowledge, and unleashed her into modern society, a blank slate. This gives her a curious and singular take on things, and, shaped by Mason’s lessons, she sets about changing the world.

It’s a wonderfully inventive, thought-provoking, and funny novel that raises questions — about abortion, faith, genetics, capitalism, environmentalism, and ethics, just to name a few speaking points — and examines them with fearless comic gusto. As usual with Morrow, on the surface it’s not for the right of wing, but Morrow’s lefties take their lumps too. And lest the presence of that familiar political dichotomy sour you to the idea of the novel, it’s also just a cracking good read; Morrow’s prose is weirdly old-fashioned and entirely modern simultaneously, hinting that somewhere underneath the surface of our mundane, casual reality, there are frighteningly smart, odd, curious people out there actually doing and saying these things…it’s one of those novels that just cries out to be read aloud. Anyway, it’s perhaps not for everybody, but for those for whom it’s, uh, for…highly recommended!

Consistent with my time-honored tradition of “discovering” shows only after it’s too late, I just caught up with Arrested Development (2003-2006), which joins Dead Like Me, Firefly, and Wonderfalls at the top of my list of Shows That Died Way Before Their Time.

We started watching this first on Hulu (all 53 episodes are available free online) and ended up liking it so much we got the DVDs. The set-up is simple, involving a disfunctional Orange County family whose real estate business is in a shambles following a corruption scandal. Michael Bluth (Jason Bateman, perfect as the show’s center-of-gravity) takes up the reins of the foundering corporation, when his father George (Jeffrey Tambor) is imprisoned. He also finds himself trying — with equal measures confidence and ineptitude — to keep the family together.

It’s a pretty simple premise, made exceptional by inventive writing, crisp, fast-paced editing, and a superb ensemble cast. My favorites are probably Will Arnett (as Michael’s antagonistic ne’er-do-well brother Gob, a magician) and Michael Cera (as George-Michael, Michael’s son and the only innocent member of this self-centered family), but there’s great support from David Cross, Portia de Rossi, and Tony Hale, among others. It transcends it simple sitcommy premise with quick edits, an unpredictable, anything-goes attitude, Pythonesque conceptual continuity, and hilarious running gags, brilliantly spun to keep from getting old.

My review hardly does it justice, really. It’s one of those rare shows that starts strong and proceeds to get better and better — season three runs at a fever pitch right up until its final moments. Another sad case of a TV show too good to stay on the air…I heartily recommend this one.

Jenn and I just got back from a hockey date at the Staples Center. I was hoping to get to post the “Kings Win!” picture we took last time, but no such luck. The Kings went down fighting, a 3-2 shootout loss to the Edmonton Oilers. However, we did get to witness a rarity — with the goaltender pulled, the Kings tied the game with about a minute remaining to get it to overtime. Aside from being horribly officiated (on both sides) it was a pretty good game, and we had fun.

In the true spirit of Valentine’s Day, there were three fights and several “scrums.” (I put “scrum” in quotes because Jenn still isn’t convinced it should be a word. Bonus points for a correct definition…hint: it has nothing to do with soap.)

All in all, it was a fun afternoon!

Superbad (2007) is one of those bawdy teen comedies that the kids seem to like nowadays. (Excuse me for a second, I’m off to fetch my old man slippers…) I liked Michael Cera in this. The movie itself? Not so much. Essentially, two geeks (Cera and Jonah Hill) are entrusted by hot girls to acquire booze for a house party. If they succeed, they get laid…or so they think. Naturally, things don’t go exactly as planned. Hilarity ensues.

Or, maybe not. Outside of Cera’s affable, wishy-washy charm and a brilliantly chosen seventies funk soundtrack, Superbad did very little to push my buttons. The Jonah Hill character was excruciatingly unlikeable, and I found the supposedly charming, dumbass “boys will be boys” behavior just…depressing. To me, it’s like all the worst aspects of high school, exagerrated. It’s not without the occasional laugh-out-loud moment — usually Cera’s improv-sounding deliveries, and also some good bits from the duo’s ubergeek friend Fogell and his cop buddies (especially Bill Hader). But ultimately, at its best this one didn’t get much better than mildly amusing for me, and the rest of the time it just struck me as unpleasant.

Our internet went out on Friday morning and we only just got it back last night. If I ever thought I wasn’t addicted to the internet, I have now been disabused of that notion. Argh!

I’m now about four days further behind on the slushpile and other Futurismic business, but I’m going to get back at it this morning. I’m also cooking up some more reviews for the blog which I’ll post eventually. For now, though, I’m just happy to have stopped twitching…

You know it’s a bad month for genre short fiction when Realms of Fantasy shuts down, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction goes from monthly to bi-monthly, and Warren Lapine announces his return to magazine publishing. (Oops, pardon my cheap-shot, but I just can’t muster much hope this time around…if it succeeds, more power to him.)

Things are tough all over, of course, but I think I’m noticing the continued slow death of the magazines (as opposed to, you know, the fast and utter collapse of banks – go figure) because short fiction was such a major focus of my career ambition for so long. I’m noticing it, and yet it’s not hitting me as hard as I feel like it should, maybe because I haven’t been writing that many short stories lately…which somehow feels like part of the problem. Do we only care about fiction magazines when we’re worried about marketing our stories?

Of course, there’s been talk of the slow death of the science fiction magazines for as long as I’ve been reading in the field — we’re going back to the mid-eighties, here, and I’m sure it started well before then. The latest bad news may just be more of the same , the slow gradual decline continuing. But the thing about attrition…well, it can’t last forever, can it? How much more life can our “core” magazines have in this brutal economic climate?

For our part in the short fiction scheme of things, Futurismic continues on its merry, modest little way, and so far we’re still looking to publish a story per month for the forseeable future. I’ve noticed a marked increase in submissions since we reopened in January, which I originally figured was a time-of-year thing, but maybe writers are simply running out of markets.

I get the impression short genre fiction’s webward migration will continue — it may be the only liferaft left for the form. And I do still think the short form is a valuable early stomping ground for writers, so it will probably survive, even if it continues to be more and more of a niche thing. So I’m not sure what the point of this post is…I guess I’m just waxing nostalgic. Watching the field’s “big” magazines struggle is like watching a dream die…the 12-year-old kid in me who wanted nothing more than to publish in the digests next to his heroes…in glorious print, maybe even with my name on the cover (lol)…it reminds me of a different version of myself, a different time.

On the other hand, I feel like I should be more futurismic about this — change isn’t inherently bad, is not equal to death. Short fiction will survive, and if it doesn’t, some other form of individual story-telling will arise to take its place and fill that need. Meanwhile, publishing (along with music, and film, and TV, and just about every other form of art these days — I mean, can you believe we still use the Nielsen ratings?) is going to have to figure out a new economic model. Maybe the current economic meltdown will really get people thinking about some new solutions.

The latest Futurismic story has been posted! Swing by the site and check out “Erasing the Map” by Marissa Lingen, which asks the question (in the words of our esteemed chief honcho Paul Raven): “If you could have traumatic memories surgically removed, would you take the risk of losing some of the memories you treasure?”