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Sisters, you can still stand tall September 1, 2017

Posted by dolorosa12 in blogging, books, meta, reviews.
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I’m the oldest of five sisters, so I’m always on the lookout for stories that reflect my own experience of sisterhood: stories about groups of girls whose personalities may be very different, but whose shared childhood engenders a closeness and a strong sense of mutual support, even if they don’t always understand one another. Unfortunately, the majority of the stories I’ve encountered that explore sibling relationships seem to prioritise brothers (or brothers and sisters), or, if they focus on sisters, emphasise the antagonistic elements of their relationship, as if unwilling to admit that sisters can be supportive of and close to each other. The three books I’m reviewing today, however, were exactly what I wanted: stories with sisters (or, in one case, two girls who were like sisters in every way but blood) front and centre, and stories where sisters were sources of support and strength to each other.

Cover-Five Daughters of the Moon

Leena Likitalo’s novel, The Five Daughters of the Moon is the first in a fantasy duology reimagining the events leading up to the Russian revolution, from the perspective of five sisters roughly analogous with the Romanov princesses. This being a fantasy retelling, however, there are various interesting twists to historical events: some of the sisters have supernatural abilities, others are caught up in the revolutionary movement sweeping their country, and theirs is a matriarchal monarchy ruled by their mother, who is ‘married’ to the moon (a deity in their religion) and takes various lovers to be the earthly fathers of her children. Some of these elements work better than others, and where the story is weakest, to my mind, is in its interpretation of the causes of unrest and revolution, and in its depiction of a Rasputin-like figure (fiendish, terrifying, creator of supernatural automata to control the royal sisters, and secretly masterminding the revolution for his own gain). I’ve always been uneasy with the way some writers seem to interpret revolutions as inherently unjust, unnecessary, and the fault of ignorant people jealous of the wealth and power of their superiors and being manipulated into violent unrest by villains keen to create chaos in order to advance their own interests. It’s why I gave up on The Legend of Korra after one season. Unfortunately, Likitalo takes this line with the revolution brewing in The Five Daughters of the Moon.

The book is stronger in its depiction of the relationship between the five sisters: Celestia, heir to the throne and burdened by the weight of expectation and responsibility, Elise, soft-hearted and burning with revolutionary fevour, Sibilia, stuck in the middle and uncomfortably suspended between childhood and adulthood and impatient with this status, Merile, who cares more for animals than people, and the fey, fragile Alina. They’ve all led a sheltered existence, and over the course of the book their eyes are opened, and they learn to draw strength and courage from each other. It will be interesting to see how things conclude in the second book, and despite my dissatisfaction with Likitalo’s interpretation of revolution, her exploration of the relationships between the five sisters is enough to keep me reading.

Cover-Jewel Lapidary

Fran Wilde’s novella, The Jewel and Her Lapidary, takes place in a land ruled by Jewels — those who wear gemstones imbued with great power — and whose rule is upheld by Lapidaries, who possess the ability to harness the power of the gemstones. The relationship between a Jewel and their Lapidary is thus deeply symbiotic, with the power firmly in the hands of the Lapidary. Those who can harness the gemstones have the ability to reshape the land — but also control the minds and realities of others, and the survival of their realm thus depends on their honesty and good intentions. Unfortunately, the land’s vast wealth, and its pacifism make it a tempting target, and the young Jewel Lin and her Lapidary Sima find themselves singlehandedly defending their kingdom against an invasion. Both had considered themselves to be weak, but their devotion to one another and strong sense of responsibility make them equal to the challenge of ensuring their people’s survival. While the pair are not sisters in the strictest sense, the rules of magic in the story have meant that they were raised together with fierce devotion, and are sisters in all but name. It is, in some ways, a profoundly unequal relationship: Sima has all the magical power, and her ability to manipulate the gems which Lin wears gives her a power of life and death over Lin, while at the same time the rules of their society require a Lapidary’s priority to be the safety and survival of their Jewel. The profundity of the bond which this strange relationship engenders is the key to the survival of their people, and Wilde tells a deeply poignant story in which compassion, quick thinking, and the ability to appear insignificant and weak save the day, rather than violence or even raw magical power. This was a story that left me wanting more, so I was very happy with the news that Wilde will be writing more stories in this universe in the future.

Cover-Buried Heart

Like Wilde, Kate Elliott celebrates the bonds between female characters and the kinds of power that bloom in unexpected places, and like Likitalo her book Buried Heart, the third in a YA trilogy, is concerned with revolution. Unlike Likitalo, Elliott gives nuanced voice to the legitimate cause of her revolutionaries, the people of Efua who in this book rise to overthrow their oppressive Saroese colonists. This final book contains all the best elements of the trilogy as a whole (and indeed of Elliott’s entire corpus): sweeping, epic drama of a society on the brink of profound transformation, a sincere engagement with the dehumanising effect of colonialism on both the oppressors and the oppressed, comprehensive worldbuilding that considers how a society would function on both a macro and a micro level, and the prioritising of relationships between girls and women. The latter is an utter delight, and I enjoyed in particular the depiction of Jessamy, the narrator, her sisters, and her mother Kiya, because it allowed for the exploration of so many different types of power. Jessamy herself is active in a way that is often represented: physically courageous, quick-tempered, and quick to assume positions of leadership. However, by centring so many other girls and women, Elliott doesn’t allow this to be the only kind of power and authority represented in the book. Jessamy’s disabled sister Maraya has a sharp, lawyerly mind, and is skilled at research, wading through dense documents to get to the heart of them in a way that will advance her cause. Her sister Amaya is skilled at acting, and is able to use this in order to disarm the powerful, until they dismiss her as insignificant, which is very useful in spying and gathering information. But the character who meant the most to me was Jessamy’s brilliant mother Kiya, who was given a prominence and authority rarely seen in portrayals of mothers in YA literature. Kiya’s strength comes from her identity as a mother, and all the skills we later see her deploying are those she honed as a parent: care for others, the ability to juggle multiple tasks while also looking ahead to the near and distant future, a strong sense others and their needs and motives, and the ability to console and inspire. It is because of, and not in spite of, these strengths that she becomes the leader of the revolution sweeping Efua, and it was profoundly moving to me to see a character like Kiya honoured, lauded and respected in this way. Elliott is far too sensible a writer to imply that revolutions are won or lost on the basis of their leadership alone — and indeed she devotes a great deal of time to the different groups of people who make common cause in order to fight against their oppressors. However, as unrest builds and the chance to right the wrongs that have plagued Efua since the arrival of the Saroese approaches, the revolution is in safe hands with Kiya at its head.

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‘They’re bad men, but they’re OUR bad men’ May 10, 2014

Posted by dolorosa12 in meta, reviews, television.
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One of my maternal great-grandfathers was what people today would call a ‘colourful racing identity’. It sounds a lot more glamorous than it actually was. Although my grandmother has some interesting stories about family friends known only as ‘Slippers’ and ‘The Colonel’, and her father waking everyone up whenever he’d won big and flinging all the money on the bed, the reality was much more sordid and terrifying than those stories would suggest. In actual fact, my great-grandfather’s gambling habit meant that my grandmother had essentially left school at the age of eight. She was constantly sent to the door to tell bailiffs attempting to evict the family that her parents weren’t at home. One absolutely heartbreaking story she told me involved her mother giving away her new (and much-needed) coat to another child because that child didn’t have a mother and my great-grandmother felt sorry for her. Most chilling of all, the only reason my grandmother grew up in Sydney was because one night her father came home in an absolute panic, and they had to pack up the entire house and flee from Melbourne in order to escape some kind of gang-related threat to his life due to debts. My point is that the charming image conjured up by the words ‘colourful racing identity’ covers a multitude of horrors.

That is what makes Peaky Blinders, a miniseries set in the underworld of Birmingham in 1919, so refreshing. It provides a fictional account of the eponymous gang with their fingers in just about every criminal pie: race-fixing, protection money, gun-running, gambling. The Peaky Blinders (so named because they hide razor blades in their flat caps with which to slash and blind their victims) are mainly drawn from the Shelby family, a multi-generational gang whose stranglehold on the streets is due to a combination of competence, compromise and the ability to incite terror. The local police are corrupt, and prefer to let the Shelby family run things if it means stability and order. For the most part, the poor and dispossessed of Birmingham accept the devil’s bargain they have made with the Peaky Blinders, feeling that paying protection money and turning a blind eye to the gang’s criminal activities is an acceptable price to pay if it provides them with a degree of wealth and security.

That’s not to say there aren’t tensions. The young Shelby men have returned, traumatized, from the battlefields of World War I, only to find that the women – shrewd, tough-as-nails Aunt Polly, and angry, romantic Ada – have been running things just fine, if not better, on their own. Tommy Shelby, who views himself as the gang’s de facto leader, has to reconcile his own grand vision for the Peaky Blinders with the more limited, but safer, scope planned by his aunt.

At the same time, the gang relies on its ability to control the shifting network of alliances of the streets, contending with IRA cells, communist agitators attempting to unionize the factory workers, Traveller families who control the racetrack, Chinese textile workers who moonlight as opium den operators, and, one of my favourite characters, an itinerant fire-and-brimstone street-preacher played by Benjamin Zephaniah. It’s a complicated balancing act of carrot and stick, and when it works, it works because the various players have understood correctly the psychology, needs and fears of their opposite numbers. All sorts of connections and obligations come into play: most of the men were soldiers together, the Shelby family has blood ties to some of the Traveller families, as well as an Irish background that complicates their interactions with the IRA members, and Ada Shelby is secretly in love with the leading communist organizer.

What works so well in Peaky Blinders is that the writers manage the tricky balancing act of showing the true horror of what the Shelby family (and their allies) do to maintain control, as well as the fact that they probably are the best option for the dispossessed people they terrorize. There is no glamour in what they do: Tommy Shelby can move from charming to chilling in an instant, and he is in no way a safe person to be around. There is a violence and brutality involved in people’s everyday lives, and survival requires that they walk past such violence with their eyes averted. Most people in the show lead such precarious existences that their every decision is based on a pragmatic sense of cost, benefit, compromise and danger. The streets of Birmingham may be controlled by bad men, but they are bad men from those very streets, and the choice to give them control is made by the very people who live beside them.

Stepping into the same river twice June 16, 2013

Posted by dolorosa12 in books, childhood, films, memories, meta, television.
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I am 28 years old. I have spent most of my adult life as a student. I only moved out of home five years ago, and I only moved out of sharehouses and student accommodation nine months ago. I have a long-term partner, but no children. All this is relevant.

I was thinking about stories, and how important age and circumstances are in determining meaning and how you react to them. There are some stories I can come back to time and time again, and get different things out of them every time. Buffy the Vampire Slayer is like that for me. I’ve been watching and rewatching it since I was twelve years old, and it means something different every single time. Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles is another story like that for me. Each time I rewatch it, I feel I’ve barely scratched its surface. It reveals its secrets so slowly. I’m somewhat afraid to reread His Dark Materials in case it stops being this kind of story to me. It meant so much to me, it gave so much to me that for it to stop meaning and giving would be unbearable.

There are other stories which I think gain something from being reread with adult eyes. The young-adult literature of Victor Kelleher falls into this category. I first read his work as an eleven-year-old, and continued revisiting it throughout my teenage years, but the true horror and weight of what he was saying doesn’t really hit home until you’ve reached adulthood and had some of your illusions shattered. There are other stories which mattered as much to me as Kelleher’s when I was a child and a teenager – the works of Gillian Rubinstein, Catherine Jinks’ Pagan Chronicles and John Marsden’s Tomorrow series – but for which rereading provokes only nostalgia and the restored memory of what it felt like to be fifteen, and burning with outrage, passionately emoting and dreaming fervently. The stories remain wonderful, but they offer me no new truths in adulthood, only a window into the child I used to be. This is of value, of course, but it’s not the same thing. The vast majority of works aimed at children and teenagers that I’ve enjoyed and read or watched in adulthood evoke much the same feelings.

I grew up watching the films of the Marx Brothers (I first watched Duck Soup in a cinema when I was three years old), and I always found them hilarious. What I didn’t notice until I was well into adulthood was the deep undercurrent of sadness and alienation running through them, and the tendency for Groucho, Chico and Harpo to make self-deprecating jokes, to make themselves figures of fun, to paint themselves as mercenary, petty criminals in order to get in first before someone else said the same things. There’s a defensiveness to all their quips, a brittle, knowing edge to all their humour that you only see when you’re older, and when you know more about the history of immigration to the US.

And then there are the texts for which meaning and enjoyment is, I think, contextual. I read Wuthering Heights as a fourteen-year-old and thought it was a tragic love story. I read it again at twenty-two, and thought it was a horror story, a Greek myth about gods and mortals. At eighteen, when I went through a phase of reading Russian literature in translation, Tolstoy moved me to rapturous tears, while Dostoevsky appalled and repelled me. Isobelle Carmody’s works can only truly be appreciated by teenagers. To an adult, they are dangerously naïve and lack any kind of nuance. At 28, my favourite book of Jane Austen’s is Persuasion, while at sixteen I would have said Pride and Prejudice. When I was fourteen, people told me I would cry my eyes out over the ending of Casablanca, but I was unmoved. My reaction? I hated Rick, swooned over Victor Laszlo (I was going through a bit of a thing for revolutionaries and resistance fighters) and couldn’t see what the fuss was about. If I am earnest now, I was a million times worse then. But I suspect, were I to watch the film again, my reaction might be very different. At fourteen, I read The Mill on the Floss and felt nothing. At twenty, I read Daniel Deronda and felt profoundly moved.

I remember my mother telling me, when I was a passionate armchair revolutionary in high school, that as an adult I would find repellent the Holocaust stories, tales about the Troubles in Northern Ireland and the Middle East conflict that I pored over as a teenager. I didn’t believe her, but she was right. I don’t want to look any more. I used to love uncompromising rebels, and now I prefer diplomats and passive resistance.

I don’t think all of this is down to age, in and of itself. Taste plays a role, as does environment, and the ethos of the age in which you grew up and which informed your tastes. My mother, for example, loves Charles Dickens and finds Zadie Smith contrived and emotionless. I find Dickens cloyingly sentimental, emotionally manipulative and hypocritical, while Zadie Smith evokes feelings of awe and floods of tears in me. I don’t think baby boomers will uniformly share her views, no more than I think Gen Y people will uniformly share mine, but I suspect our respective generations may have affected our tastes to some extent. (That said, my father loves Zadie Smith and was, indeed, the one to introduce me to her work.)

For as long as I can remember, my favourite Shakespeare play has been The Tempest. I suspect I see it with different eyes than the first time I encountered it as a twelve-year-old watching the Bell Shakespeare Company’s production. And I suspect it will mean something very different when I am an old woman. My point in all of this is that although it is possible to step in the same river twice, it is not possible to do so for every river. Some stories are static, and can mean only one thing at one particular age in one particular place. And some others are always changing, and go on and on forever.

Making revolution is not a garden party, part 1 April 27, 2013

Posted by dolorosa12 in books, meta, reviews.
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My modern history teacher in the final year of high school had a habit of repeating the same anecdotes and little spiels over and over again. He said them so many times that I can remember them word for word. One of his favourites, repeated often in the two courses we did on twentieth-century Asia and decolonisation, went like this:

‘How do you make REVOLUTION? It’s not an easy thing to do. Do you just walk down the street shouting “CITIZENS OF MANUKA, LEAVE YOUR LATTES AND JOIN THE REVOLUTION!”? Of course not. Making revolution is difficult. As Mao once said, “a revolution is not a garden party”.’

I was reminded of this tedious little spiel recently, because I’ve been reading a lot of epic fantasy novels set in times of social upheaval and change. This in itself is unsurprising. Epic fantasy tends to deal with power struggles, changes in political leadership and dynastic politics, and the effects these things have on society at large. But these big subjects are often difficult to write well, and so I thought it would be interesting to look at a couple of series I’ve been reading through this particular lens. This post is the first in what I intend to be a two-part series; the second should be ready in the next few days.

Juliet E. McKenna’s Chronicles of the Lescari Revolution was one of those series that I’d been meaning to read for years. I trust epic fantasy in the hands of women much more readily than I do that written by men (if only for the fact that female authors will actually include women as point-of-view characters as a matter of course), and I liked that the premise of the series was not to unite an anarchic, fragmented and violent society under the rule of the One True King, but rather to do away with rule by the nobility altogether. I liked the idea of a revolution started by exiled scholars, merchants and artisans, since I find epic fantasy’s general aversion to the urban middle class profoundly irritating. I found the general premise of Lescar – a country of antagonistic, exploitative dukedoms overrun with mercenary bands only nominally under the control of different dukes – to be believable and interesting.

And then I actually read the first couple of books, and the whole thing fell apart.

I’m sad to say that the series just doesn’t work, or at least it doesn’t work for me. The problem is partly one of characterisation (I find all the characters clichéd collections of tropes rather than engaging human beings), but really one of believability. The problem is that the whole revolution is too easy.

Firstly, look. If the problem in your country is that it’s overrun by mercenary warbands bleeding the people dry while the nobility turns a blind eye and pays the mercenaries to plunder neighbouring territories, those warbands are not going to simply turn around and start following the orders of an impoverished gang of exiles simply because that’s the morally right thing to do. Even with the incentive of prospective plunder to be gained if the dukes are deposed, why would the mercenaries dismantle a system that has served them well in the past?

Secondly, why are all the nobles so stupid? None of them believe the rumours that a bunch of exiles are about to invade at the head of a coalition of mercenaries, and even after one territory is overrun and its duke killed, they still think they have nothing to worry about. This means that at the end of the second book, more than half of the dukes and their families have been killed or driven out of their homelands and the rebels control most of the country.

Thirdly, why have none of the principle characters from the rebel party died over the course of the revolution? None of them are ordinary foot soldiers – they’re all key figures in the conspiracy with vital frontline roles to play. Realistically, some of them should have died by this point.

Finally, magic in this world is a clumsy deus ex machina, and I actually see no need for it. The whole culture would work just as well without it. At present it seems to serve two purposes: it allows the conspirators to communicate across vast distances instantaneously (which, if this ability was missing, would actually make for some interesting tension and real hardship during their revolutionary struggle), and it gives the revolutionaries the edge in battles where they are outnumbered. Both of these strike me as quite lazy. One of my favourite series of books in the world, Sophia McDougall’s Romanitas trilogy, is also set in a world where the entire political and social order is being overturned. At the heart of the novel are two siblings who are escaped slaves. They each have supernatural abilities. None of their primary antagonists do. It works there, because the siblings are utterly without power. The entire world is hostile to them, they are being hunted by an extremely technologically advanced empire, and they are viewed as non-people by the legal system. Without their powers, it would be an extremely one-sided and short-lived fight. But magic in McKenna’s world does not restore some semblance of balance. Instead, it tips the scales too far in the rebels’ favour. When your enemies are vastly outnumbered by superior fighters, when they’re stupid and unable to adapt, when you’re virtually impossible to kill, you don’t actually need magic on your side.

So, overall, I’ve found the Chronicles of the Lescari Revolution to be a massive disappointment. Of course, I should reiterate that I’ve only read the first two books, and things might pick up as the series continue, but at this point, I can’t cheer for the revolutionaries because they have it way too easy.

My next review will be of revolution done right in epic fantasy.

Failed analogies, weak narrative, wasted opportunities: Season 1 of The Legend of Korra June 21, 2012

Posted by dolorosa12 in blogging, meta, reviews.
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[Note: this review is sprinkled with spoilers for both The Legend of Korra and Avatar: The Last Airbender.]

When I think of all the good things The Legend of Korra had going for it (a pre-existing world with lots of potential for further storytelling, a creative team who’d achieved something miraculous with their previous work, an active, engaged, enthusiastic and appreciative fandom) and how it failed to make use of those things in any substantial way, I feel a profound sense of disappointment. In some ways, perhaps, the success of Avatar: The Last Airbender (hereafter ATLA) could have been more of a hindrance than a help to the team behind Korra, since they apparently went out of their way to avoid everything that was characteristic of ATLA in the spin-off series. There are many grounds for criticising Korra; I’ve seen some excellent posts taking the show to task for sexism, for Mako’s characterisation, for the reduction of Lin Beifong to Tenzin’s ex-girlfriend. It would be worth poking around on the ‘korra’ tag on Tumblr as there’s a lot of excellent meta along those lines there. What I want to focus on here, however, is what I see as a broader failure on the part of the writers to create a rich, engaging or meaningful narrative. The characterisation issues I mentioned can be included under this larger umbrella problem of narrative failure.

I really didn’t want to be that fan. You know, the one taking creators of a spin-off to task because the spin-off is nothing like its parent text. But the problem is not so much that Korra isn’t ATLA but rather that Korra lacks the ingredients that made ATLA so successful. As I see it, ATLA’s quality rested on the interplay of four elements (see what I did there?). These were:
1. A cast of rounded, complex, human characters whose actions made sense in relation to their characterisation, who changed over the course of the series and who drew us into their world;
2. A completely three-dimensional, endlessly fascinating setting that reflected the diversity of backgrounds and experiences of the people who lived in it;
3. An engaging narrative which kept you watching and kept surprising you; and
4. Themes and real-world analogies that resonated but could be interpreted in multiple ways and on multiple levels.

Korra lacks all of these things.

Let’s start with characterisation. One of the things that drew me into ATLA was its fascinating array of diverse, fully-rounded characters who each had their own struggles, desires and arcs that were resolved over the course of the series. Thus, Aang, struggling to balance his playful and compassionate personality with his duty as Avatar and his responsibility towards the entire planet. Katara, filled with rage at her mother’s death, a burning desire to succeed as a waterbender and a tendency to mother everyone around her. Sokka, a skeptic in a world of mystics, labouring under a false belief in a certain kind of masculinity and desperate to prove himself to his absent father. Toph, filled with confidence but treated like an invalid. Zuko, unable to live up to his father’s expectations. Azula, the product of a terrible upbringing. Ty Lee, always overlooked. Mai, forced by her parents to repress all emotions. Even secondary characters like Suki and Jet, or those who appear in only several episodes, have comprehensible motivations, distinct personalities and complete character arcs. And the major characters learn from their experiences and change, but they don’t have personality transplants. The beauty of ATLA was that characters grew by recognising the essential aspects of their personalities and channeling them in a productive way. (Hence, Katara’s motherliness becomes a source of strength as she’s able to support Zuko in his fight with Azula and know when to step in and save the day, Aang faces his fears and confronts Ozai, but without neglecting his cherished beliefs, and my beloved Sokka realises that there are many different ways to perform masculinity, and the way where you share your strengths with awesome women and let them make up for your weaknesses is the best. And so on.) And the narrative gave them time to transform. Season One Zuko is very different to Season Two Zuko, who is different again from mid-Season Three Zuko, for example.

But in Korra, the characters start out fairly roughly drawn, and then don’t change. Korra is still headstrong and unfocused. Asami is still a characterless cipher. Lin gains no depth upon the discover that she and Tenzin used to be a couple. Mako seems simply a prize to be fought over by Korra and Asami, while Bolin has no discernible personality beyond being funny and friendly. What is frustrating is that each character had potential. There was a story in how Mako felt responsible for his brother Bolin and how he learnt to recognise Bolin’s competence. There should have been a story about the deaths of Bolin and Mako’s parents. The fact that one was a firebender and one was an earthbender in a world still reeling from Fire Nation aggression should have been brought to the fore. But instead they’re merely killed by Republic City criminals in order to get them out of the way so that Mako and Bolin can be standard fantasy adventure story orphans. There was a story in Asami’s relationship with her father. And above all, there should have been a story in Korra’s journey towards becoming the kind of Avatar her era needed. But none of this has happened. All we’re left with is a series of events in which one character or another does something awesome and brave. That’s all very well, but when the end result is merely that every character can be described as ‘badass’, we have a problem.

And that problem lies in the narrative. Quite simply, not enough happens. In a twenty-two-episode show, slow pacing is understandable. In a shorter season, it’s unforgivable. Way too much time was wasted on the pro-bending. It should have been a small background detail, but instead it tied up the narrative for the first half of the series. More emphasis should have been given to the fact that Korra – like every Avatar before her, it seems – is stuck dealing with problems caused by the previous Avatar. Above all, the narrative should give her reasons to grow and change. The problem is, the writers were backed into a corner by the fact that Korra (along with all the other characters) lacked much of a personality to begin with. And if you’re going to set your entire series in one location, you’d better make sure that this is supplemented with bucketloads of character growth.

This brings me to my third point. One of the best things about ATLA was the mobility of the central characters. They were constantly travelling, and this meant that the viewers managed to see and experience the myriad cultures that made up this richly-imagined world. We saw how the whole world fit together, how different places affected each other, and how the characters were transformed by the places they visited. Who can forget Sokka donning Kyoshi warrior makeup and learning not to be such a sexist idiot? Or Zuko going on a date in Ba Sing Se and realising that the Fire Nation was just one part of a rich and wonderful world? Or Mai in the Boiling Rock, discovering the strength within herself to stand up to Azula?

The problem with setting an entire show in Republic City is not the static location per se, but rather the fact that the writers aren’t doing enough to make the city interesting. They seem more concerned with saturating us with what they think is cool about the world 70 years post-ATLA (metalbending police force! pro bending! predatory criminal gangs! technology!) rather than showing how all those things evolved out ATLA society and fit together, and how these things shape the characters.

Which brings me to my next point: the massive analogy fail which is the Equalists. Like many things in Korra, the idea behind the Equalists is interesting and good, but poorly executed. It makes sense that people without bending power would be resentful of those who had – we saw it with Sokka, after all. Except ATLA was full of examples of people who had worked out ways to get the best of those with bending abilities. Suki and the other Kyoshi warriors, Ty Lee, Mai, Jet and his rebels, the Machinist and even Sokka himself by the end of the series are more than a match for even the most talented of benders. Even the Fire Nation colonial forces were an example of benders and non-benders working together towards a common goal. Yes, Amon is annoyed at benders on a personal level because they took his bending away, and people are resentful because benders have formed criminal gangs, but it’s never portrayed as being reasonable anger.

This is where the analogy failure comes in. It’s pretty clear that Republic City is meant to be an analogue to a cosmopolitan Chinese city in the ’20s – Shanghai, probably. Which gives the Equalists the unfortunate implication of being an analogue to the Chinese communist movement. Which, well, no. Leaving aside the later horrors committed by the Communist regime when it was in power, the movement – like most left-wing movements of the time – arose out of a genuine sense of anger at the inequalities and injustices of society at the time. Right-wing critics of Evil Socialism™ always portray it as a movement of bitter people who resent the abilities and possessions of others and want to take those abilities and possessions away in order to reduce everyone to the same level. As a social democrat, I say ‘huh’? What most people to the left of the political spectrum want is to create a system where everyone starts on an equal footing. Not by taking things away from those with power, but by enabling those without power to have those things too. The Equalist analogy doesn’t work. (For it to work, they’d have to be giving bending to everyone, not taking it away.)

From this rather ranty post, you’d think I hate Korra. If I hated it, I would have stopped watching. What I feel, overwhelmingly, is disappointment. ATLA was so good, so rich and rewarding. I fell in love with its world and its characters, I cried at their pain and rejoiced in their hard-earned victories. I feel completely detached from the characters of Korra. I think the Airbabies are adorable, and I find the fight scenes breathtaking and the artwork pretty. But I don’t appreciate anything on a deeper level. My overall impression of Korra that it is a rushed, circumscribed and superficial series. I wouldn’t mind so much, but compared to ATLA, which was well-paced, boundless and full of depth, it feels like such a waste.

One people December 29, 2010

Posted by dolorosa12 in books, childhood, fangirl, meta, reviews.
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[Spoilers for Victor Kelleher’s book Parkland.]

‘We are all one people,’ Cassie tells her friends, Ralph and Boxer, repeatedly throughout Victor Kelleher’s book, Parkland. This would be unremarkable, except that Ralph is a half-human, half-gorilla much more comfortable with the gorilla side of his nature, while Boxer is a human-chimpanzee hybrid who struggles against his society’s dismissal of him as an animal not worthy of the human consciousness he possesses.

All three are inhabitants of Parkland, a future vision of our Earth made more chilling by its very plausibility. Parkland is a zoo whose inmates are all apes: gorillas, chimpanzees, baboons – and humans. The keepers are humanoid but not human, and they keep the zoo’s population in check with the aid of leopogs, vicious dog-leopard hybrids. The visitors to Parkland are all animals – tigers, giraffes and so on – but they have a strangely human consciousness behind their eyes. The human residents of Parkland are, for the most part, content. The walls of Parkland provide them with food, medicine, clothing and every other material comfort. In Parkland, they are safe and civilised, unlike the savage humans of the BC (‘Before Cage’) era.

Cassie and her friends reject Parkland and everything it stands for. When they discover the keepers wrestling an unknown boy into the enclosures, they realise that they’ve been lied to all their lives: there is a world beyond Parkland’s walls, and there are free people living there. They become determined to escape.

But the feral humans are not the answer to their prayers. They are violent, harsh and believe in survival at all costs, a reflection of the savage, hunted lives they must live. The ferals reject Ralph and Boxer as abominations. And Cassie and her friends have other problems: Leon (as the feral boy is called) was implanted with a tracking device by the Parkland keepers as a means to signal the leopogs, which are to cull the feral population. Cassie, accompanied by her friends and Leon, realises that she must return to Parkland and confront its keepers. It is at this confrontation that she realises the true history of Parkland. Its keepers are aliens who view themselves as responsible for maintaining the balance of life on every planet in the universe. They have visited Earth twice: once to annihilate the dinosaur population (‘an evolutionary cul-de-sac’) and once to prevent human beings from destroying all other life on their planet. The result of that second visit was, of course, Parkland. After many tribulations, the worst of the keepers are killed, leaving Edwards, one of their ‘scientist class’, to work with the humans and the other apes to make Parkland a place of harmony, where the old human knowledge is retained but not abused.

Parkland is absolutely ruthless in its exploration of Kelleher’s main concerns: humanity, responsibility and freedom, and it’s worth examining just what conclusions the book reaches in terms of these three main themes.

Humanity. At its heart, Kelleher’s concern here is with what exactly constitutes a human being. Ultimately he leaves us with a definition of humanity that is quite fluid. Cassie, with all the zeal of an activist, passionately believes that all apes are ‘one people’. In her worldview, there are the people – the inhabitants of Parkland – and the others, the keepers who oppress and imprison them. In thinking thus, she is actually strikingly similar to the keepers themselves, who view all the inhabitants of Parkland as ‘the apes’, and think of themselves as elevated beings. (These two viewpoints consciously evoke colonialism to a great extent, of course.) Clarke, one of the keepers, even accuses his fellow-keeper Edwards of ‘going native’.

‘You’ve been in this body too long, d’you know that? It’s getting to you. You’re beginning to think like the apes.’

‘Maybe I am,’ Edwards conceded, ‘but then maybe that’s not the worst thing that can happen to us while we’re here.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning it’s a pity you haven’t been affected by the body you’re in.’ […]

He [Edwards] was standing at the gallery railing, holding both hands up before him as though studying them. ‘Me?’ she [Cassie] heard him murmur. Next he ran his hands slowly down his face, like a blind man examining his own features. ‘Me?’ he murmured again. ‘Me?’

– Victor Kelleher, Parkland, pp. 204 and 206.

 

The ferals, on the other hand, have a harsh, ‘you’re either with us or against us’ view of humanity. Apes are certainly not human beings. And human beings are not compassionate. They are Darwinist, survive-at-all costs, brutal individuals. The humans in Parkland are little better than collaborators in their own oppression.

Responsiblity Ultimately, although the ferals believe the fundamental responsibility of a human being is to survive (they take this to extremes, abandoning the weak members of their society in the face of attacks), Kelleher is arguing here that the fundamental responsibility of a human being is to be humane. Like most dystopian science-fiction, Parkland is written with a very strong warning to contemporary society in mind: maintain a balance, rein in our destructive and consumerist impulses, or suffer the horrific consequences. We can see, with the ferals, how strong the human urge to dominate and destroy can be. Even in the face of obliteration at the hands of the leopogs, Leon is still talking about the BC age as one of achievement and mastery:

‘But there wasn’t any civilisation,’ she [Cassie] objected. ‘Not until we were taken into Parkland.’

‘They probably told you that to keep you quiet,’ he [Leon] sneered. ‘I’d rather trust the stories, about how we could fly and build things, and how we could live in one place and didn’t have to run all the time. That was before the coming of the leopogs.’

– Victor Kelleher, Parkland, p. 127.

 

Freedom In Parkland, as in the other books of this trilogy, Kelleher links the concepts of responsibility and freedom together very tightly. This makes a lot of sense, as these are, of course, the impulses in humanity that constantly war with one another. The ostensible message of the book is that we are not free to do what we want, because the darker aspects of humanity would cause us to destroy ourselves. However – and this is what makes Kelleher truly remarkable as a writer for children, especially in the late ’80s – the book is more ambiguous than that.

It’s about cages – both physical and metaphorical. Who is more free – the Parklanders, who are secure, comfortable and safe, with every physical need taken care of – the ferals, or the apes, who lack a human consciousness and thus bear no responsibility for their actions? The book ends with Cassie and her friends poised on the brink of a new future, with Parkland a haven, rather than a prison, with the knowledge of the old times available to all who seek it, including the chimp-human hybrid Boxer. But Cassie’s qualms about Boxer’s enthusiasm for the old human knowledge (and the rapacious nature that bent it to destructive ends) undermine the book’s hopeful ending. Ultimately, Kelleher seems to be saying that to be truly responsible and free, to be truly human, is to be free to make mistakes.

Kelleher’s concern with maintaining balance and harmony on earth, as well as between the warring human impulses to create and destroy, finds further expression in the next book of the trilogy, Earthsong, which I will be discussing next. I look forward to seeing you all soon for the next installment of Victor Kelleher Week!

Names, names, names February 5, 2010

Posted by dolorosa12 in blogging, internet, meta.
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This is essentially a housekeeping post which has become necessary because of the high number of links to this blog (yay!). In the light of some of these links, I thought I’d take the time to mention that I have preferred ways of being referred to.

(This probably sounds a little bit fussy, but as someone who has written not one, not two, but four essays about the significance of names in various literary texts, and who spends way too much time looking up the meanings of various names, I care quite a lot about names – in particular my own.)

I’m not one of those people who hides behind pseudonyms online. Most of my readers and other online friends know that my name is Ronni and address me as such. I have a couple of variations on a username theme that I use online, but what I’m about to say is not particularly difficult.

When referring to me
I’m happy to be called any of the following:
Ronni
Dolorosa
RonniDolorosa or Ronni Dolorosa
(or, if you must, in the context of The Republic of Heaven, Aletheia Dolorosa, although I tend to think of that as a very site-specific username)

When referring to this blog
I’d like it to be called any of the following:
Geata Póeg na Déanainn
The Geata
Ronni’s blog/Ronni’s wordpress blog
Dolorosa’s blog/Dolorosa’s wordpress blog

When referring to any of my other blogs, Twitter etc
Longvision
Ronni’s Romanitas fanblog/blog
Dolorosa’s Romanitas fanblog/blog
(and the equivalents of these for Twitter, Livejournal etc)

What I do not like being referred to as
Dolorosa12 (the 12 is a necessary addition as someone else already has the dolorosa.wordpress.com url, but it’s not something I associate with my username in any way)
Dolour Inviolate – in relation to any of my blogs (I know it’s on my Twitter, but it is also not a username that I associate with blogging at all)
Aletheia on its own without the ‘Dolorosa’
Or, worst of all, Aletheia misspelled as ‘Alethia’

I hasten to add that this was not prompted by any heinous misnaming in particular, but it’s something that I thought I should put out there.

As you were!