This is making the rounds, so it must be posted here too in order to over-saturate the blogosphere with John Carter goodness. (Note: I have not watched the video below, and have no intention to do so. I plan to see the movie and do not want that experience spoiled by the 10 minute clip. But if you’re not that type of person, then the following video is sure to be fascinating.)
You’re probably already familiar with the shitstorm that erupted on Peter Watts’ blog over acrackedmoon’s “review” of R. Scott Bakker’s novels. If not, then you should glance through to see what has been going on (this is not the same as the other shitstorm which also involved acrackedmoon’s comments, though certainly the issues are related). Here, I am interested in one particular issue: the question of privilege. But before I do that, I want to say a few quick things: I harbor no ill will towards Peter Watts, acrackedmoon, R. Scott Bakker, or any of the people involved in the comments. I may not like some of the commentators, but that’s a separate issue. I think Watts makes some valid points. I think acrackedmoon makes some valid points. I think they both occasionally put their feet in their mouths and say things that are counterproductive to discussion and debate. They are both human beings. I understand why acrackedmoon takes the approach that she does, and while I do not always agree with that approach (sometimes I think she shuts off debate by being overly aggressive when taking a step back might be more productive), I think many of the issues she attacks are ones we should be concerned about anyway. I think it’s more pathetic that we don’t think about the problems she raises (such as the treatment of women in literature, racism, etc.) except when someone throws “a fit” and uses “bad words.” For the record: from what I know of Mr. Watts, he is concerned with many of the same issues and reflects that in his writing (this based on my friend’s obsession with him as a writer). I do not agree that the “tone argument” is invalid in all instances, as I’ve said before. But I do not agree that responding to another’s “tone” with a similar “tone” makes you look any more “civilized” than the person you’re attempting to delegitimize. Now that all of that is out of the way, I’d like to draw your attention to one problematic comment left on Peter Watts’ blog by someone calling himself Giorgio. Who the hell do you think you are? Who the hell do _she_ think she is? What makes you think that she can arrogate herself any kind of representative role? Who the hell gave _you_ the right to decide who someone can or cannot represent? I’m _sure_ all those tormented people feel better now that someone finally can be obnoxious on the Internet in their place. Get down off your high horse, ACM is a privileged woman from a privileged background (a Thai Chinese!) who speaks a very good English and is completely steeped in North American culture in a country where only 10% of the population speaks any English at all, who has access to Internet in a country where only a quarter of the population has any kind of connection and apparently has a lot of free time she can spend reading fantasy books and maintaining a constant Internet presence. If _she_ can represent someone, I surely can decide that I’m the voice of billions of farmers and factory workers and as such I’m happy to tell her that she’s an obnoxious bourgeois and should start thinking about doing something productive and useful to make up for the history of prevarication and oppression who gave her her role in society. There is one fundamental problem here: the assumption that “shared privileges” are equal. Let’s take as true that acrackedmoon is an upper class Thai woman and that a marker of that is the fact that she has apparently unfettered access to the Internet (the commenter’s statistic is wrong, by the way: 25.5% of Thais have Internet access, but another 66+ million and change use mobile phones – that’s practically the entire population of Thailand; determining how many of those mobile users also use their phones to access the Internet is a little difficult, but if Africa is any indication, phone-to-Internet access is likely more common than standard Internet in countries previously dubbed as “third world.” You also have to take into account other forms of Internet access, such as cafes, etc. – basically, we need to seriously get beyond this “she’s got the Internet, so she must be totally privileged because Thailand is a backward bumfuck country where everyone lives in rice patties and huts” bullshit. Backwards my ass.). What do these assumptions tell us about acrackedmoon? That she has privilege within her country of residence. One way to think of this is to use the Internet as an analogy: if I have access to the Internet through broadband, but acrackedmoon only has dialup, could we reasonably suggest that our access is the same? Are the privileges equal? The answer: no. While we both benefit from having access, that does not mean we benefit in the same way, or that we have the same level of access. The same is true if we think only in terms of nations. A privileged woman in Thailand is certainly better off than lower class Thais, but is she better off than an American woman (or, as the comments seem to suggest, a white American male)? If you think the answer to that question is “yes,” then you are naïve as best, or an utter idiot at worst. Yes, acrackedmoon has privilege, but only within the context of her country of residence. Compared to myself, a white, straight male living in Florida on a University stipend? We might be more equal, but there are still things that I have which are not as easily accessible to her, and our relationships to our countries of residence are not the same. I am not as privileged in America as acrackedmoon supposedly is privileged in Thailand, and yet in relating our positions it becomes clear that we are not equal from a socio-economic perspective. I’m not saying this in order to speak down to acrackedmoon or Thais; rather, I’m bringing this up because it
There is something absolutely magical about visiting another country, especially a country like England. At least, I think so. But why? On my descent into Gatwick, I thought about that question, and this is the best I could come up with: England is a country that wears its history on its face. To someone like myself, who has lived in various parts of the United States where colonial history is not explicitly present (i.e., there aren’t a whole bunch of forts and “old towns” on the West Coast).[1] But what does it mean for a nation to wear its history on its face? Traveling to England is like traveling through hundreds of years of history compressed into one space. It is impossible to look at England without being able to see the ancient, the old, the modern, and the contemporary all comingled in the same space. Perhaps this does not fascinate the British, but it certainly grabs my attention every time I visit (just as it captures me now as I sit in the airport).[2] Perhaps that is, in part, why Damien Walter claimed that England is bewitched by the magical/mystical (having only glanced at the post, this is really random speculation). England really is magical, mystical, bewildering, wondrous, and all manner of other delicious descriptors one might use. But it’s because of the history, I think, that so many tourists are drawn here. That history is a kind of magic of its own, filled with myths, legends, exciting stories, architecture, characters, and literature. It’s a place where you always feel like there’s something grand to learn about the very place you’re standing on. Something happened here, perhaps something insignificant within the endless stream of historical time, but something exciting nonetheless. Maybe that’s why I keep coming back – this is my fourth trip to England (though my first foray into the southern half of the island). I’m jetlagged. I’m tired. I’m unclean. But I’m amazed by the wonder around me. Is this just the journey of the tourist? Or is there something truly magical about England or equally ancient places that inspire such emotions? A question for you all: what countries or places have you visited that seemed to wear its history on its face? Let me know in the comments so I can make a list of places to see with my girlfriend… This is what a picture taken from a plane looks like. What is it, you might ask? Well, it’s the clouds being murdered by the sunlight on the horizon. Pretty? I think so, even if my photography skills say otherwise… ——————————————————— [1] When I say old, I mean by degrees of hundreds of years. Much of California was settled fairly late in American history. But there is also something to be said about living in these places that demystifies the historical experience. I love the Old West – the mines, frontier towns, the Gold Rush sites, etc. – but I have lived in that space for so long that it doesn’t hold the allure it once did. [2] I wrote this post while I was sitting in Gatwick International Airport while waiting for my train.
This week, Tobias S. Buckell joins us on the show to talk about his latest book, Arctic Rising, the environment, technology (green and otherwise), and a load of other fantastic stuff. You can check out the episode here. And… Over at Duke and Zink Do America there’s a new column asking whether Star Trek is conservative, liberal, or progressive. I know, right? Who would have thought that my genre interests would bleed over into my political world? Ha! In any case, go leave a comment with your opinions! There’s also a brand new episode of the podcast. The Agenda: Syrians are still getting screwed, Gingrich writes a wiki, Arizona is rated G for GOP, Trotta expects to get raped, and Santorum smears. Plus: Jen goes on a rant about naughty things and we cover two funny moments in the political landscape. You can check out that episode here!
Have you seen Ironclad? It stars Paul Giamatti as King John of England and James Purefoy as Thomas Marshall, a Templar Knight (Purefoy, by the way, seems to have had a role in at least 3/4ths of the medieval-era-ish film productions released in the last 6 or so years, which is impressive). If you haven’t, you’re probably not missing anything you didn’t see in Braveheart. It’s not a bad movie by itself, mind you. A little on the long side at two hours, sure. But as a film, it has a lot going for it. Decent acting, a plot that makes internal sense, and a narrative that balances between all out war (there will be blood!) and the rigors of attrition. If this were set in the mythical kingdom of Genland, with the plot centered on King Hojn’s use of Adnish mercenaries to reclaim his throne from the wicked barons who forced him to sign the Namga Artac, then it would be an interesting movie with lots of parallels to England’s medieval history. But that’s not what this film is about. You see, in this version of history, King John doesn’t successfully take Rochester Castle from an entrenched baronial force. Rather, the French magically show up and he’s forced to trudge out into the marshes of England trailing his treasure (which is mysteriously lost), after which he dies of dysentery. Thus the heroes are saved! Oh merciful heavens our surviving heroes can go on to live their lives in sin! Yes, sin. You know why? Because Thomas Marshall violates his religious codes of conduct as a Knight Templar by not only sleeping with a woman (abstinence!), but with a woman married to another man. This results in said woman explaining how important it is for Thomas to live life. Oh! He must live it by committing a cardinal sin! Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying sex out of wedlock or adultery is evil or even sinful in my mind. But we’re not talking about the world I live in. We’re talking about 13th century England. Now, I don’t want to suggest here that nobody was breaking religious law back then. I’m sure the Knights Templar were quite good and putting their willies where they shouldn’t (according to their religious rules). But we’re told in this story that these vows are supremely important to Thomas. Not just important, but so damned important that he spends the entire movie resisting temptation of one form or another, claiming the moral high ground alongside others with less strict religious rules. And all this is destroyed by a single woman. If any story could make it more clear to us that the serpent of the Bible lives in the loins of the female human, this is the one. But I suppose that’s me reading a lot into a movie within a film tradition in which religious “rules” really only mean a lot when it comes to who you marry and who you behead. The real problem with this movie is that it gets its history so terribly wrong as to be dangerous. Let’s toss aside the fact that somehow our hero has resisted wicked temptation his whole life, the criminal use of modern phrases, and the strange logical gap between the importance of Rochester Castle (it controls everything in London and is ever so crucial to King John’s campaign — this is actually true) and the suspicious absence of anything resembling a defensive force in the castle itself (you can count the number of soldiers/archers/defenders on your hands and feet and still have digits left over). Let’s just talk about the utter failure on the part of Jonathan English (ha!), Erick Kastel, and Stephen McDool to write a story that resembles the actual event. Let’s take, for a moment, the glorious inadequacy of these writers, shall we? The BBC website says the following of the battle Ironclad attempts to depict: King John lay siege to the castle in 1215 and took it after two long months. He finally undermined the south east tower and burned the props with the “fat of forty pigs” causing the tower to collapse. The city was well placed for raids on London and it also enabled them to devastate the lands of Kent, particularly those belonging to Lanfranc, Archbishop of Canterbury, who had crowned Rufus and was therefore Odo’s and the rebels’ enemy. Short, but sweet. The English Heritage website adds a few more details: In 1215, garrisoned by rebel barons, the castle endured an epic siege by King John. Having first undermined the outer wall, John used the fat of 40 pigs to fire a mine under the keep, bringing its southern corner crashing down. Even then the defenders held on, until they were eventually starved out after resisting for two months. What’s that? The French didn’t show up and send King John packing at Rochester Castle? Really? You mean our heroes lost by starvation, thus surrendering after an understandably brave months-long fight? The only thing Ironclad gets correct in the above description is that King John used the fat of forty pigs (sappers!) to cause the tower to collapse. But most everything else — the order of events, the players, etc. — falls apart when under simple scrutiny. There’s no city. No cathedral. No indication that anyone actually lives near Rochester Castle, which is unusual when you think about the film’s logic: this is such a strategic point for taking the country, and yet nobody seems to live in the bizarre wasteland around the castle (there’s no farmland either). Not for miles! And we’re given some beautiful shots of England countryside to prove this! Even Wiki-frakking-pedia points out where Ironclad fails miserably: William d’Aubigny commanded the garrison but contemporary chroniclers do not agree on how many men that was. Estimates range from 95 to 140 knights supported by crossbowmen, sergeants, and others.[9] John did take the castle, most of the higher nobles being imprisoned or banished; and the French
Over at Tor.com, Karl Schroeder, author of the Virga series, has taken a stab at SF’s failures to predict or imagine the future. Specifically, Schroeder takes issue with the genre’s penchant for imagining technological and/or sociological change (in isolation), but not for imagining changes in factors like government and/or violence. He uses as his basis for his argument Steven Pinker’s The Better Angels of Our Nature, a book I have not had the pleasure to read, but which I understand to be not only one of the most important non-fiction works of our time, but also an illuminating work. You can read the full argument here, but I’d like to open this post with this: I said I was accusing society in the above quote (“…Our technological society’s one big blind spot is that we can imagine everything about ourselves and our world changing except how we make decisions.”), but actually the people I was accusing of being most vulnerable to this blind spot were science fiction writers. It’s true there are plenty of Utopian futures in SF, but the vast majority of books within the sub-genres of cyberpunk, space opera and hard SF contain regressive or static visions of human conflict in the future. We’ve given them license to break the barrier of lightspeed, but not to imagine that some other organizing principle could replace bureaucracy or—even worse—to imagine that we could without tyranny reduce human conflict down to a level of ignorable background noise. I think the problem with Schroeder’s argument is that it relies on a flawed logic about the purpose of SF (or, rather, the function of SF) that I’ve brought up a number of times before: namely, that SF is, by its nature, about predicting or imagining fully realized (read: totalized) potential futures (read: prediction). Unfortunately, futurism tends to get confused with science fiction, and for good reason. After all, both share the same impulses, the same internal logics, and so on. But SF is not futurism. And by extension, it is not about the future. SF is, by its very design, always already about the author’s present.* We can take as gospel the historical and scientific truth of Pinker’s book, but that doesn’t change the fact that so much science fiction never has to take it seriously. True, public policy and social organization will be different in 200 years, but the alienation of that absolute difference limits the generic potential of SF. What Schroeder seems to call for is a return to the utopian genre — particularly, totalized works like those of Thomas More (Utopia), B. F. Skinner (Walden Two), William Morris (New From Nowhere), or Edward Bellamy (Looking Backward). But reading these works now only alienates the ignorant, as many of the “new” social structures found in these works have been tried (most have failed). But SF isn’t technically utopia, or vice versa.** It isn’t meant to be totalized in terms of predictive qualities. Rather, it is supposed to look at our current world and to do two things (both/either/or): 1) think through “problems,” and 2) explore such problems through allegory, metaphor, and estrangement. That is why SF is about the present, not the future. That is why SF is set in the future, but is not necessarily about it. The setting is coincidental for the SF author, whether he or she acknowledges it or not. What separates the various forms of fantasy from SF isn’t the setting, but the method/way/style/approach the author takes to explore his or her present. Fantasy need not be about a real world problem; it can stand on its own as a journey. But SF in its pure and actual form is always about the real world transplanted into a different frame, one which relies on the foundations of scientific exploration, even to the limits of the fantastic. So while SF has done a fabulous job playing out the possibilities of technological advancement, singular social change, and so on, it has and must be, by its nature, utterly terrible at predicting actual worlds. Another way to think about this might be to say that SF has more in common with the modernist literary movement than with the late 19th and early 20th century realists, though it certainly takes a few pages from the real. Having said all of this, I should note that I don’t disagree with Schroeder about the desire to see SF deal more intelligently with the knowledge found in Pinker’s book (or other forms of knowledge, as the case may be). And there is a certain importance in applying the cognitively estranging effect of SF in its proper “futuristic” form to social organization (government, etc.). Perhaps we’ll see that, but it will be in isolated pockets, not as an SF trend or purpose. Before ending this post, here’s one last complication Schroeder does adds: In order to write a credible violent future, you’re going to have to show me how these break down. And because the steadiness of the historical trend shows that these reinforcing circles are not vulnerable to the obvious disruptions described above, that’s not going to be an easy task. He’s right, in a way, but I can’t help thinking that this won’t matter much to the general readership. Convincing Schroeder only matters if he represents the genre as a whole. I’m not convinced, however, that this is true, or that enough SF readers are familiar with Pinker’s book. I’m waiting to be proven wrong. —————————————————————– *By “SF” I mean a particular generic form that shares more in common with Darko Suvin’s cognitive estrangement than Pulp Era science fantasy. I make the assumption that Schroeder shares this definition, even if he does not put it in the same terms. **I like to think that utopia is a subgenre of SF, but this would be historically inaccurate, as the utopian genre existed far before the SF genre (i.e., as generic traditions).
