Archives for posts with tag: Reviews

As much as I may (un)ironically sneer at a lot of fantasy worlds, the Discworld seems to always get a pass. It has been close to my heart for almost half of my life now, having started to read it in Transition Year, fourteen of my twenty-nine years ago. Then, there was near twenty books for my younger self to follow, with many more to come. Now, we near forty and hope we’ll see that many.

Which is, of course, a stupid and arseholey thing to do. Pratchett has Alzheimers and everyone feels the need to weep and wibble and talk about how sad that is, but you know what? The man has kept writing. Even more impressively, not only has the quality not dropped, it has bloody well improved. You can hear his voice so very clearly now, which presumably is the effect of his dictating rather than typing the work. The already great prose now has a more lyrical, flowing quality. The characters sound that little bit more distinct. The books look further to bigger problems. We should be championing him as a writer and a person for his ability, giving a well-earned triumph to someone who has not failed to enthrall us. Yes, there will not be that many more journeys to Ankh Morpork, but better that we get one or two more books like his recent output than a hundred lacklustre efforts. This is the victory lap, and let’s enjoy it with him.

I Shall Wear Midnight is his latest book and the last to feature Tiffany Aching, the witch once in training and now put to work. While the earlier books were concerned with showing what it means to be a witch and what she must expect, this story now places her into that very world on her own, without the support of the witches who have been training her. Oh, they are there, and if Tiffany asked for help they would give it. They would even be kind about it, and that would be her mettle proven as something or a lesser stuff. Tiffany must stand alone. What is interesting is how ordinary a lot of what Tiffany must face is: while he has spent more time alluding to it in his Witches books rather than actively showing it, Tiffany is presented here as the Disc’s equivalent of a social worker. There may be conflicts with extra-dimensional forces and elven queens, but in the everyday life of a witch, there are old people who need help and children who need education and wives and daughters who need to be protected from abusive husbands… For all the menace of the dark magical forces in the world, it’s the humdrum and ordinary which present the worst problems. Once beaten, a demon flees; but a father who nearly beats his daughter to death remains at large…

Pratchett’s books for children are, somehow, always darker than his “grown-up” books. This isn’t just that the material is left open to younger, cleaner minds: the latter books are concerned with how a city functions or what the point of law is, dealing in more abstract concepts; the former deal with smaller issues which directly affect people and are, in their own way, more understandable (or at least relatable) to children. Children see terrible things every day, and Pratchett accepts the fact and rather than gloss over it admits the fact. In a lot of ways, it’s the most reassuring thing you can do for a child: tell them that they are not alone. It even seeks to show them a greater picture with the recurring theme of Tiffany’s stories: that there is hope and goodness and joy and pride, but you will have to work for it. The revelation of Tiffany’s inclination towards being a witch is the key to this, and without spoiling that wonderful reveal I will say this: it doesn’t matter how talented you are, hard work is more important if you want to succeed.

The great things about Pratchett’s recent work is that they are all about the thing and yet about more than the thing. Nation (his only non-Discworld book of recent years) was clearly a reaction to the diagnosis of his Alzheimers, yet at no point was it mentioned. Instead, he used it as the fuel to make one of the saddest and most touching of books in recent years, in which a boy faces the end of the world and the possibility that there is no God. Unseen Academicals was superficially about football, yet there is only a single actual match and it is at the end of the book; instead, the novel concerns itself with the idea of self-determination, the manifold nature of love and the social constructs and interaction of mankind. I Shall Wear Midnight is about a witch facing insane prejudice, but at its heart it looks at the selfishness of personal belief, mob mentality, problems that may never have solutions and the importance of dying with dignity. I cannot think of another author who writes about such things for children. Even if names can be offered (and I would genuinely welcome nominations!), I cannot think of anyone who does it so well.

One thing is clear: Pratchett is angry. Not in a negative way, oddly, but a constructive one. There is anger present that now has a channel. His work has always been concerned with social mechanisms and human behaviour, but now it goes further and looks harder at the cracks and flaws. There is optimism there, and that in a way is what gives the anger a sense of reality and grounding: we can all be so much more. There is no wailing or gnashing of teeth, just someone pointing to a better world if we can just stop being so short-sighted. Better yet, the issues he raises are offered with balance: while Mrs Spruce is a fairly hateful strawman, she is relatively unique in that regard as every other character of note is allowed some merit to be given to their motivations and actions (even, and I say this with some relief, the Duchess whom I can quite assuredly state that you will hate until a certain moment passes!). In contrast, while Tiffany is presented as a strong, confident young woman, she is herself able to make mistakes and present a flawed argument: in trying to help a housewife caught in an abusive relationship, she ends up terrifying her; her bossy, know-it-all actions, though well-meant, do not help her relationship with her steading in a time when anti-witch prejudice is on the rise. But the key which turns the lock and makes all of this work is that Tiffany recognises her mistakes and grows. In standing alone, she makes mistakes and errors of judgement, but she also, critically, learns to recognise them, adapt and change for the better of both her and the people in her care.

What better message can we give children, young and old, that that?

To those that now might be worried that social ills have usurped the importance of good humour in Mr Pratchett’s work can relax. The book is as funny as any of his better works. The Nac Mac Feegle are still the same tiny whirling dervishes of fun – albeit finally tempered with an edge of depth and even transparent, genuine rage when presented with a situation that threatens those vulnerable and dear to them – and Tiffany gets to hold wry, witty observations of the world. The humour is essential, both to offset the darkness of the book and indeed allow it to go to a scarier place than would be comfortable or even tolerable without. Being the final Tiffany Aching book (and possibly the final Witches book, although there is a door of sort left open at the end), not only do we get an end to the story that will satisfy us if never another word is written on Mistress Weatherwax et al, we even get an extension and conclusion to stories long since let go. In this I must insist that you avoid any review likely to spoil, since who or what returns is a lovely surprise that brings a great many things full circle.

I Shall Wear Midnight is a joy to read, and comes with my highest recommendations. There may not be many tales left to see, so let us savour them all the more and raise a glass to Mr Pratchett for such a magnificent time.

Hey look, it’s a new background theme! As much as I liked the old one, there was a weird spacing issue that I was too lazy to go in and fix via CSS (also, nerd fail: I don’t necessarily know how). How long until this one is changed? Wuhidunno. I keep meaning to put some level of personalisation onto it, but then I keep forgetting to make space on the desk for my scanner and that is how a baby procrastination is born…

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Predators in 30 words: Perfectly good and unpretentious shooty-uppy, swordy-wordy B-movie that provides ample entertainment for its hour and forty minutes. Also: Kurosawa fight! Spetsnaz! Larry Fishburn as Bear Grylls! Mild gunporn!

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Not living in a major metropolitan area has the rather unfortunate drawback in having to be very damn careful of what websites I look at when something comes out that I don’t have immediate access to and wish to avoid spoilers of (in this case, Scott Pilgrim’s Finest Hour). It’s the very reason that I took days off work to read the Harry Potter books when they came out – after a certain amount of time and investment, you don’t want your enjoyment taken down by anything but disappointment in the work itself. Having the best parts explained to you by someone lacks a certain… quality.

Remember: nerd rage is not big, nor is it clever. It’s just kind of sad and embarrassing, really.

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And now, our feature presentation.

Rewatching The Wire is an interesting experience I allow myself every couple of years. The first runthrough, in which you watch it with virgin eyes unless you have evil friends or the Wikipedia Disease, is an education in sociology and the nature of institutions. The second runthrough is almost certainly going to be an examination of craft and a reevaluation of your original views: there is no way you can consider Daniels or McNulty in the same way as you did when first introduced to the characters; your viewpoint is altered by knowing where they go and what they do. Critically, you are not perturbed by the close of their character arcs: in a lot of fiction, a character’s departure can be almost random and without any logistical purpose other than the efficacy of their removal; in The Wire, even though you may not predict how their stories will finish, it feels like a logical and natural progression of the character and their actions. With the second viewing, this is emphasised doubly so.

I, however, am now onto my third viewing. What is fascinating about this is that I am still seeing new angles and interpretations of the same story. The main difference is that I am more focused on the secondary and tertiary characters, such as Ziggy in season 2. Ziggy is a perfect example of the depth available to multiple viewings: in your first view, he is a frustrating and difficult character to watch until the very end in which you hopefully feel some pity or at least sympathy for him. On the second viewing, you bring this sympathy with you, and it colours how you see him. By this point, my heart is broken by him as he comes into focus as one of the biggest victims of the series.

Without saying too much (spoiling The Wire being one of the Great Taboos of TV), he is someone who is not only ground down by social institutions, he is destroyed by the people around him as well: typically, it is people acting on behalf of the institution that cause the effect; in Ziggy’s case, the individuals do this as much for their own pleasure as they do social dictates. For all his bluster and arrogance and bad decision-making, he is someone desperately trying to find a role for himself and some measure of acceptance. All his trash talk is a direct response to external stimuli, which frequently tends to be the derision of him supporters and enablers as much as his opponents and dissenters. After the Thing With The Duck, the stevedores in the bar mock and insult Ziggy behind his back even though they were the ones who egged him on. Rather than send Ziggy to college as they did his brother, his father keeps him trapped within the same social decay he is himself trapped within, unable to qualify why. Ziggy’s unseen brother is critical in this: he is not mentioned before Ziggy and Frank’s father-son talk on the docks, and is never mentioned again; he’s the one who escaped the circumstances of his birth and the dock life, while Ziggy is the one destroyed by it. Even Nicky, Ziggy’s uber-competent cousin, treats Ziggy as his mood takes him and without any real empathy outside of personal convenience. All of this is crytallised with Ziggy’s final major act of the series: not only do we realise that this could have happened at any point prior, but it is only in the aftermath that we see anything resembling Ziggy’s actual personality, long since submerged in an effort to fit in. It’s the only time we see a genuine, sober and honest reaction from him.

It’s impossible to see this from the first viewing, and with the cast of hundreds, hard to see on the second. There are few things in this world that can stand up to this sort of scrutiny. Some of the Terry Pratchett books I read when I was younger have taken on new meaning since I came into some semblance of adulthood and a vague understanding of how and why people act, but it’s only the more recent books (such as The Truth and Going Postal) that bear up as entities of sociological and mechanistic scrutiny rather than interesting character dynamics and jolly comedy. Infinite Jest is about the only thing that springs to mind as something comparable (and even then with two caveats: first, that there are probably others and suggestions are welcome; second, that Infinite Jest requires even an even greater gap than the couple of years The Wire requires before diving in anew).

The joy of the Summer exams is that my workload eases and I suddenly have a lot more time to read. It is glorious. I’ve finished five books of varying scale in fewer days, the first of which is SKIPPY DIESby Paul Murray.

Skippy loves the girl in the school next door; said girl may or may not have something to do with the resident psychopath Carl; Skippy’s obese roommate and child-genius Ruprecht is obsessed with the highly abstract and possibly reality bending M-theory; their school – which is not at all a particular and real school in Blackrock – is in the middle of a separation of Church and State; and Skippy has to go and make everything that bit more complicated by dying in the opening lines of the book.

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