Punking Everything in SF/F (Part One): The Present
Cyberpunk, steampunk, biopunk, and now greenpunk? When will it end? Fans have been punkifying science fiction and fantasy for decades, and it doesn’t seem like it will let up any time soon. With each passing moment, new ideas spring into the collective consciousness of SF/F fans, who, in turn, impart their selective, subgenre-crazed minds on all of us by bringing to task the next stage in science fiction and fantasy’s evolutionary ride. But are we getting ahead of ourselves, and is this constant segmentation of SF/F pointless or, at least, premature? What flaws are inherent in the frequent punking of speculative fiction? Publishers have yet to grasp onto the punk genres, and neither have bookstores, independent or otherwise. Subgenres have little use outside of the relatively isolated, and sometimes rabid, fanbase. Realistically speaking, it would be impossible to incorporate even a pinch of the subgenres in existence today into bookstores, with logical exceptions to the Internet–after all, Amazon has been kind enough to narrow the science fiction and fantasy sections into nebulous, cross-pollinating subcategories. So what is our obsession with subgenres (and sub-subgenres)? Are we inherently segmentative, meaning do we have an innate desire to categorize? That might be true, because it is without hindrance that we can see the makings of our own segmentarian nature in the desire to isolate ourselves. But here we might consider the distance of prejudice, which exists only insofar as personal grudges permeate the subgenre sphere. How many of those sub-subgenres are created simply to get rid of an unwanted swath of books? None? Perhaps we can only see prejudice as it exists in the academic, the purist academic who longs for the demise of science fiction and fantasy with an unhindered gaze. You can see the joy in his eyes when he looks down upon those who so willingly accept Margaret Atwood into their ranks. Or maybe he is a she, and the bitterness is just as strong. Who knows? What we do know is that punk, in its newest, and historically disjointed (disconnected) form is science fiction and fantasy fans’ greatest tool. Isolate the good, the bad, and the ugly, put them in the little jar of context-less wonder, and consume them as readily as a meat pie (or a veggie pie, should your personal inclination be to the earth). Punk is dead, perhaps, but alive too, reborn as a suffix with a mysterious past. And all this, the thoughts presented here, the continued arrival of punkified sub-subgenres, makes me wonder if we need to educate ourselves as to what punk actually is, or was, to properly evaluate whether our suffix-obsessive punking nature is well served in a genre so clearly complicated by its weaving in and out of popular culture and literature itself. Yes, that is where we should go next. To the punk-mobile. Let’s take our Peabody-and-Sherman-style journey into the past to unravel the not-so-distant history of a forgotten genre (forgotten, at least, by those not steeped in the rather confusing realms of cultural criticism and literary theory). Expect that post soon. For now, consider, if you will, the nature of subgenres, the drive to create them, and the question of whether doing is has a purpose other than for our amusement. And if you have thoughts, share them here, because your thoughts are of interest to me. I must consume them, like candy. Creepiness aside, comments are welcome. ————————————— Continue to Part Two (Punk), Part Three (Cyberpunk A), Part Four (Cyberpunk B), and Part Five (Cyberpunk C).
Reader Question: The Alien Exit
Mercy from Young Writers Online had this interesting question to ask: Why does everyone resort to aliens in recent sci-fi/gov/end of the world movies? Because aliens are easy. People do not question aliens as the villains, because, despite all our efforts to acknowledge our difficulty in understanding and dealing with the human/Other dichotomy, we are still as xenophobic as ever, regardless of race or gender. Aliens represent the ultimate Other, the figure that is so clearly not human, that any human argument cannot figure them into a human version of the human/Other dichotomy. Similar logic allows for the continued discrimination against animals—because they are not “human,” and, thus, do not, under any circumstance, deserve the same rights as you or me. We are human, they are not, and no matter how hard you might want to argue for their humanness, we will always refute it with DNA evidence, a factor we can no longer use to apply to people of color (no logical genetic variations exist in the various “races” to adequately provide evidence for the argument that we are different). The alien, thus, is the easiest target to choose, especially in harder times. Hollywood is remarkable at knowing viewer trends. They have people somewhere who watch viewer habits to determine how they will react to movies under different situations. It seems that they have determined that we really don’t need any more instances of human error in our end of the world stories, or even in a lot of our science fiction (w/ exception to certain movies). Aliens offer a way out, a way of saying “now you have a bad guy who doesn’t exist, who, as far as we, cannot actually harm any of you or do any of the things in our movie.” After all, why worry about the rights of imaginary creatures? Why indeed. They’re aliens. Fictional aliens. There’s no need for us to ponder the possibility of their existence, nor how we might treat them if, by a stroke of luck, we meet one of these strange creatures. But, to be fair to Hollywood, they are on a remake kick, and much of the films that fit into this category of “the aliens did it” are re-imagined tellings of old movies, such as The Day the Earth Stood Still and even Knowing, which was not a direct remake, but certainly a rehash of a story that has been told numerous times before (heck, even Childhood’s End by Arthur C. Clarke has an ending which reflects very much the bizarre final moments of that Nicholas Cage flick). These are my arguments, though, and certainly not absolutes. Anyone reading this is welcome to chime in if you have a different opinion (or the same opinion). Just be thankful that we’re not resorting to old giant monster clichés…oh, nevermind, there was Cloverfield, a bastardization of the genre by the evil and craptastic J. J. Abrams. Seems like science fiction movies are in full rehash mode. ————————————————- If you have a question about science fiction, fantasy, writing, or anything related you’d like answered here, whether silly or serious, feel free to send it via email to arconna[at]yahoo[dot]com, tweet it via Twitter to @shaunduke, or leave it in the comments here. Questions are always welcome! If you liked this post, consider stumbling, digging, or linking to it!
Fantasy is Colonial, Modern Science Fiction is Postcolonial?
Examining trends in genre fiction is an impossible task. Fantasy and science fiction are constantly moving, the latter more so than the former, and yet I have been noticing something within both genres (a shifting theme for the latter, and a staple for the former) that I want to examine and understand. Readers are welcome to challenge me on this, and in fact I hope you do, because I have not been reading in these genres as long as some of you have, and you may, as a result, see trends and themes differently. One tendency I have seen in fantasy is that of the building or collapsing of empires/nations/peoples via a colonialist or imperialist method. Recent examples include The House of the Stag by Kage Baker and even Karen Miller’s The Innocent Mage/The Awakened Mage duology, along with a great many epic fantasy series, in which invasions of empires play a prominent role. Villians, thus, tend to be imperialist in nature, interested in one of two things: 1) the subjugation or destruction of a people, and 2) the acquirement of new properties (i.e. land) for an existing or emerging empire. Looking back brings us to The Lord of the Rings, which contains an example of a colonialist extermination/enslavement that ultimately fails, except insomuch as the Hobbits are concerned, since they are not only colonized by the forces of Mordor (or, more specifically, Saruman’s forces, if memory serves me), but also subjugated as a people. Science fiction, however, has a shifting agenda. Its early and middle-aged works focused heavily, as I have described before, on imperialist or colonial issues, particularly in relation to galactic empires. Some newer works have done much the same, such as Old Man’s War by John Scalzi and a handful of other authors doing what might be called “tribute” works, though no offense is meant by that term. But recent developments seem to point to a more postcolonial approach. By that, I mean that the story deals more with the after effects of a cultural rupture in which the colonist, whoever that might be, has either ceded control to the indigenous body, or collapsed its colonialist structure and turned into something less concerned with matters of empire and more concerned with what you might call “traditional governing.” So, the colonized may not longer be colonized because the colonizer is no longer there, or because power has shifted, for whatever reason, so that the colonialist structure no longer exists (though the latter is, for all intensive purposes, a rarity even in our world). The best example I can think of this occurring is in Tobias S. Buckell’s novel Sly Mongoose, which, while not always directly focused on the fallen empire, manages to offer a science fiction view of the end of empires and what the colonized goes through to survive or re-establish control. There’s a certain brutality to it, because Buckell’s novel is not set in a world that is distant from its colonial past. Other novels, I’m sure, exist, though I have to admit that I am blanking on them at this time. The point of this is that there seems to be a far more likelihood of postcolonialism existing within science fiction as a theme than there is for fantasy. Fantasy seems to be occupied with the act of colonizing, in some for of another, while science fiction seems to want to dismantle the colonial structure. It seems fitting that fantasy cannot imagine its postcolonial future, and that its cousin genre must do so. One reflects an imagined past, a medieval fantasy (outside of urban fantasy), while the other is almost always looking forward. The genres compliment one another, even if it was never meant for them to do so.
Reader Question: English, the Ultimate Tongue
Bowie from Young Writers Online recently asked the following: Why do all aliens speak some form of English? Well, the truth is that aliens exist within a strange temporal distortion in which they are exposed to English before human beings even exist, so when they come knocking, they are not only fluent in the language, but technologically far more advanced than us apes. As strange as that sounds, that’s exactly what has happened. You see, scientists propose that Bubble Theory may be the next big thing in physics. It proposes that all sentient beings live in little temporal bubbles that are designed to make sure certain species are younger than others when such species figure out how to enter other bubbles. As you know, there’s a quasi temporal node that exists between the subspace platinum barrier of quantum erasure, and other confusing technojargon. But of course all of the above is a load of horse manure. The reason aliens almost always speak some form of English is due to a need by the writer to engage the reader or viewer. English has, for good and for bad, become the dominant language on this planet, and is the language of the more dominant pop-culture nations (U.S., U.K., and even India). Throw into the mix the fact that most of the world’s T.V. and book consumers (and the world’s largest markets for such products) happen to communicate almost exclusively in English and you really have no way around the reality that English is a human identifier. Writers know this, either on a simplistic or complex level, and often use this knowledge to create certain literary or film conditions–namely sympathy. Aliens who speak unknown or even harsh sounding languages have a tendency to be viewed as the enemy and unlikable by most viewing audiences. This stems from early science fiction movies and stories that dealt less with the complex inner workings of alien species and more with the monstrous and evil nature of the inhuman (see Patricia Kerslake’s Science Fiction and Empire for more information on that, if memory serves me correctly). Battlestar Galactica is a show that is fully aware of this, hence why it does not deal with aliens or creatures that are incapable of communicating with the humans in the show (and the audience). And there is even a dichotomy within BSG. Take, for example, the centurians, who are somewhat humanoid, but quite clearly not human, and also are incapable of speaking in human language. As such, they must relay all information through their humanoid “superiors” (the flesh-and-blood clones). The result? The centurians are not, until the very end of the movie, given any serious consideration beyond declaring them “the villains.” Viewers, however, do feel sympathy for the cloned models, because they are not only human-looking, but emotionally complex. Language plays a big role in that, because while it is true that they are, at times, seemingly monstrous, they still can relay to the characters and to us their deeper emotions. We can feel for them because they can express something to us that doesn’t immediately translate to “evil.” The same is true of other instances of English-injected alien encounters. Language plays a remarkable role in creating the conditions of sympathy/empathy/etc. But I could go on for much longer than I think is appropriate for one post on this subject. If you have a different opinion on this matter, feel free to let me know in the comments. This subject is really one that could do with some serious, critical attention, and I bet my readers could get a ————————————————- If you have a question about science fiction, fantasy, writing, or anything related you’d like answered here, whether silly or serious, feel free to send it via email to arconna[at]yahoo[dot]com, tweet it via Twitter to @shaunduke, or leave it in the comments here. Questions are always welcome! If you liked this post, consider stumbling, digging, or linking to it!
Science Fiction and Empire, and Other Thesis Considerations
Most of you already know that I am attending the University of Florida’s graduate program in English. Having arrived in Florida, I’ve become quite aware of the relatively short space of time I have to design and write an acceptable thesis in order to earn my M.A. The biggest concern for me isn’t so much the time, but the topic. I have a lot of interests in relation to science fiction. I’m particularly curious about the relationship between racism and the human/Other dichotomy in science fiction and (post)colonialism. But my curiosity extends into other areas, such as the building and collapsing of empires, and related subjects. In fashioning my M.A. thesis I’ve come to some interesting observations. For instance, why are imperialist structures of empire so prevalent within science fiction? What about these kinds of empire constructions function so well in the science fiction genre? Historically, American imperialism rose and “fell”—because it never truly fell, in all fairness—at around the time that science fiction came into existence, assuming, of course, that Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein is the first true science fiction novel or story. By the time that American imperialism had, generally speaking, fallen out of favor and much of the world began to de-colonize or dismantle their empires, science fiction had come into its own, evolving from its early pulp roots to a genre filled with serious examinations of potential futures. Heinlein, Asimov, et al., all played a role in establishing the grand galactic empires, many of which were highly imperialistic. It would be fair to say that these individuals, many of them fairly well-educated (particularly Asimov, who was a scientist of some notoriety), were influenced by a particularly insidious American habit. Such habit transferred into the capitalist structure, much to the dismay of those capitalists who see the system as flawed, but ultimately beneficial when properly maintained, such as myself. Imperialism, unfortunately, transferred from the empire-building tendencies of the nation to the capitalist tourist engine that permeates much of the more desirable vacation spaces in the world (notably the Caribbean). Historically, it makes a lot of sense that science fiction would be inherently obsessed with structures of empire and imperialism, because, as is often stated, the genre is indebted to its written past and present. Whether or not I will study this issue further, I cannot say. There is much to consider in the next year, and ironing out the kinks will a part of that. Focuses change, interests adjust, but one thing will remain true: science fiction and empire will continue to a be a curiosity of mine. P.S.: I should note that much of what has been said here applies to British imperialism and empire as well. I simply chose American imperialism as an example through which to relate my understanding of empires in science fiction. Also, I’m speaking primarily from a more “classics” perspective. Recent endeavors into issues of empire have been more in-depth that previous standards of science fiction literature.
New Weird Science Fiction?
I’ve heard the term “New Weird” before, but I have to admit that I am horribly unfamiliar with it as a subgenre, particularly in relation to science fiction. This topic comes up due to having received a copy of the Year’s Best SF 14 edited by David G. Hartwell and Kathryn Cramer, from Jason Sanford, one of the contributors. They call Mr. Sanford’s story, “The Ships Like Clouds, Risen By Their Rain,” a prime example of New Weird SF. If I were to call anything “New Weird SF,” it would be Mr. Sanford’s story, but I don’t think I can rightly define what “New Weird” even means. If you think about it, science fiction is already weird, and any discussion or attempt to quantify the genre as suddenly weirder, or newly weirded, falls quite short of the mark. How can a genre be more weird than its already weird self? That’s not to say that “New Weird SF” isn’t small segment of particularly outrageous pieces, but I don’t see how something can be weird and yet magically new when the genre itself is full of similar styled pieces. This is not at all a slight on Mr. Sanford, because his story is quite good (I reviewed it here some time back), but while he is quite brilliant, I would not say he is particularly original. Claims to originality are always already flawed, because everything has already been done before, in some capacity or another. Originality now seems to apply only to pieces that make readers aware of their greatness to the extent that they no longer see where its influences arise from (and some obvious exceptions must be made for those people who make it their jobs to always be aware of the past, such as literary critics, etc.). Sanford’s piece does this quite effectively, but it would be unfair to say that his work does not reflect past writers (it should not be misconstrued here to mean that Sanford is obviously or intentionally allowing past writers or ideas to influence his work, or that such influences have been exposed to him; originality ceases to exist in the human construct primarily because we seem to be born with an overabundance of repetition, not just genetically, but psychologically, leaving a certain necessity constant renewal of old, ingrained ideas in all aspects of our creative lives). But, I say all this with only a mediocre exposure to this subgenre called “New Weird SF,” and perhaps Sanford’s story is not necessarily representative of the movement, per se, but simply a good example of a kind of feeling or imaginative quality that makes up the subgenre. Perhaps “New Weird” is, in and of itself, a developing creature that has yet to break out of its mold, much as Cyberpunk arguably shattered the technological landscape in its predictions and visualized symbologies. Never underestimate science fiction for its unflinching ingenuity. Having indicated my ignorance, perhaps someone who reads this blog who considers themselves far more versed in the subgenre to provide more adequate answers would be so kind as to leave me a comment refuting my claims. This would be me begging you all for your knowledge, whatever it may be. P.S.: I should clarify that while I do not believe originality exists in a pure form, I do believe in the power of suggestion inherent in good writing. A good story, in its more pure, unarguable form, will always separate the reader from the genre experience, will remove the past from the reader and create anew the present or future or whatever. This assumes, of course, that an individual reads a piece of fiction as a reader, not a critic or eagle-eyed literary narcissist.