Enrico Fermi, a physicist, once asked the question: if the universe is as old as the physicists think it is, and life spontaneously appears by normal random physical processes, then sheer probability says there must be millions upon millions of worlds "out there" with intelligent life on them. Out of these countless millions, it is staggeringly unlikely that humans are the most technologically advanced race in the universe. If that is indeed so, then why is it that we have yet to have noticed these other races? Even our technologically meager (by sci-fi standards)race has managed to heft a few loud spacecraft into the dark void to broadcast our existence for all to hear. Where are all the others? This statistical conundrum has been given the name Fermi paradox.
This sort of thinking has fascinated science fiction authors for decades and several have put forth their fictional renditions as to why this might be the case. The latest offering is from Alastair Reynolds, the first in his series titled Revelation Space. Reynolds' speculation generates an intriguing story: the reason humans have not met other intelligent species in their interstellar travels (the book is set hundreds of years in the future) is because there doesn't seem to be any intelligent life Out There. There happens to be thousands of other alien cultures, all extinct, that never managed to mature past a planetary supremacy, much like what we enjoy today. Why? What happened to these other races to keep them from advancing any further?
That is the question pursued by Dan Sylveste, an archaeologist working on the planet Resurgam. Here he pursues some pretty far-fetched theories surrounding the planet's long-dead alien race called the Amarantin. The book traces Dan's attempts to pursue the enigma of the Amarantin in spite of several others' attempts to stop him.
All told, Revelation Space does an excellent job developing, following, and expanding the mystery which the Fermi paradox presents. Reynolds' reason why intelligent races never reach spacefaring capacity ends up terribly interesting. By way of a hint, the reason has something to do with why the samurai don't quite succeed in their military ventures against the modern west and its gatling guns in The Last Samurai.
Not only does the basic premise of the book make it worth the read, the book is full of technology that deserves to be imagined. The weaponry and spacecraft are well-described and suitably futuristic. Reynolds manages to reach far beyond anything you see in Star Trek in terms of real advances but at the same time maintaining an air of believability. I found Reynolds' multipurpose combat suits, a staple of science fiction these days, to be particularly well-drawn, interesting, and just plain cool.
Revelation Space fulfills the reader's curiosity nicely, but fails to deliver on a number of other fronts. First, in today's science fiction, there seems to be a need to fill the world with innumerable AI devices. Revelation Space is no exception. Not only does the ship contain thousands of AI agents that interact with humans onboard, but AI's populate the weaponry, the combat suits, and the shuttlecraft. Even more, so-called "simulations" of several of the characters exist and are characters in their own right, interacting with the humans, offering them advice as well as causing them problems. Ethical problems with casually filling every blender and wristwatch aside, I find the sustained focus on such technology to become tedious and unbelievable. It adds virtually nothing to this particular story and I would have enjoyed it very much without it.
Second, the characters themselves are terribly, terribly uninteresting. Dan is an arrogant, one-dimensional bore who seems only there as a plot fulfilment agent that discovers various pieces of the Amarantin puzzle. He trudges through a love sequence, several conflict-with-dad sequences, and even a sustained struggle with antagonists both AI and human, always to come off plastic and shallow. One of the other characters, Volyova the gunnery officer of the spaceship Nostalgia for Infinity is almost always boring and one-dimensional, except when she slips into frighteningly understated machine fetishes with her planet-destroying weapons cache. Other characters, including the rest of Nostalgia's crew, Dan's wife, and several of the AI simulations remain even less engaging than these. Perhaps Reynolds is another of the sci-fi authors who can't quite manage a human character, but succeeds in spite of this because of the interesting content of his ideas.
Lastly, I found the world (in this case, universe) itself to be profoundly lonely. There are only four people (or maybe five, depending on what you call a person in this book) on board the 4-kilometer-long Nostalgia for Infinity. The book involves only a handful of other characters and very few other people ever come into the picture. If one were to make this book into a movie, the producer wouldn't need to hire many extras. Coupled with a scope of vast distances, a half-dozen different populated planets and enormous time spans, this manages to come off a very empty, lonely existence. There isn't a single character that evinces much of any human emotion, all of the characters are alienated from everyone else, and all of them are at least mildly psychotic.
All of this adds up to a slightly positive review. Perhaps I do not expect much from science fiction authors, but it seems to be a persistent shallowness in the field that ideas outshine humanity. All in all, the mysteries explored by the characters in Revelation Space are compelling enough on their own to make me enjoy this book. I shudder to think what this would mean for our race if indeed this speculation into the Fermi paradox should prove true.
Monday, March 28, 2005
Friday, March 18, 2005
Thursday, March 17, 2005
How much Diesel is too much?
Scifidaily.com recently posted an article (please don't click on the link; it has a terrible picture of Vin doing the thing that I hate about him most...) mentioning plans to continue with Chronicles of Riddick:
A sequel to Chronicles of Riddick? Call me cynical, but could it possibly hold up to the sheerly accidental coolness of the original? Exactly how much more legendary will Riddick become, given the fact that he went from scary con to superhuman combat machine in the second movie? Will he challenge the Beyonder in Underverse? (Actually, that might be worth seeing...)
Also, I hope you caught that other subtle comment: Diesel in a Hannibal historical movie? In the words of the immortal Ren, "...maybe something good, maybe something bad..."
A sequel to one of the most original and exciting pure sci-fi films in years is in the works, according to its larger-than-life star. Vin Diesel (Pitch Black, The Iron Giant, Saving Private Ryan) has told MTV News that work soon will begin on the sequel to the phenomenal 2004 genre outing The Chronicles of Riddick, which itself was a sequel to the very underrated 2000 sci-fi’er, Pitch Black. Once Diesel finishes work on the 2006 historical epic, Hannibal the Conqueror, he reports he will begin production on COR2, the second in what will be The Chronicles of Riddick Trilogy. The second film, he says, will take place in the ominously titled Underverse; the third will see Riddick’s return to his homeworld, Furia. He states COR2 will be rated R, unlike the PG-13 rated COR1. While COR1 did only $115.4 million worldwide (it cost $140 million), it did huge DVD business. Ultimately, I have a hunch that COR1 always will be on my most underrated films list. If you have yet to see it, watch it now. RIGHT NOW!
A sequel to Chronicles of Riddick? Call me cynical, but could it possibly hold up to the sheerly accidental coolness of the original? Exactly how much more legendary will Riddick become, given the fact that he went from scary con to superhuman combat machine in the second movie? Will he challenge the Beyonder in Underverse? (Actually, that might be worth seeing...)
Also, I hope you caught that other subtle comment: Diesel in a Hannibal historical movie? In the words of the immortal Ren, "...maybe something good, maybe something bad..."
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Monday, March 14, 2005
The finicky heart: Selflessness and hypocrisy in community life
Real community involving real people is messy. After an initial honeymoon period, every human relationship always undergoes a period where we are unable (0r unwilling) to hide the less-than-perfect parts of our personality and conflict begins. In order for relationships to deepen, these aspects of the personality must be recognized, the conflict dealt with, and trust built. Once this occurs, the result is usually a new level of intimacy which makes the relationship more satisfying.
The process of achieving this level of intimacy requires risk, and risk is more easily avoided than embraced. Often, this risk is worth taking in the context of a new romantic relationship on the basis of passion and attraction. Friendships too often pass these trials easily enough on the basis of an initial shared interest.
But what about the context of shared community? What is it that induces a group of people who share little else in common to offer one another their real self, despite fears of rejection? One of the rare places this occurs in our culture is the church. Based around a mutual desire to be faithful to the claim that God has on each of their lives, groups of Christians assemble and consciously enter into a dangerous but authentic community life.
In this process of achieving an authentic community life, a growing intimacy reveals features that others find disagreeable. People are then confronted by the challenge of choosing to act kindly toward a person with whom they have a legitimate complaint. Sometimes this is a passing difficulty, much like one faced in marriage: one partner has aggravated the other and rather than venting their frustration, they continue to show love and kindness until the breach is healed by mutual communication, forgiveness, and reconciliation. But sometimes two people rub each other the wrong way constantly. If two people, once revealed in all their warts and glory, maintain an air of civility and kindness, is this an act of selflessness or hypocrisy?
A charge oft leveled against Christians is that they are hypocrites. By this critics usually mean one of two things: either the Christian is saying people ought to act a certain way and then proceeds to act in a way that contradicts it, or the Christian is pretending to be nice while concealing a heart of arrogance, self-righteousness, or condescension.
The two conflicted persons mentioned above cannot be hypocrites by either definition. Rather, they are exhibiting a divine attitude of patience and forbearance in spite of personal contrary feelings. This is one of the things that distinguishes the Christian community from virtually all other social forms. Unlike family or work relations, the Christian community is a voluntary association. Each is not required by blood relation or labor contract to put up with others whom they find disagreeable. Rather, they do so out of a desire to love like their Lord, who drew near to them in spite of their unlovable features.
Finicky hearts are as present in the Christian community as anywhere else in human society. But it is here that one can find acceptance and love as a conscious choice, a deliberate act of love in the full face of whatever true person lies beneath masks and pleasantries. It is a wonder that my Christian brothers and sisters treat me with kindness and dignity in spite of the difficulties I place in their path as they learn who I truly am. And I look forward to the ways in which our hearts will change as the One who transforms works His wonders on each of us in the midst of this authentic community.
The process of achieving this level of intimacy requires risk, and risk is more easily avoided than embraced. Often, this risk is worth taking in the context of a new romantic relationship on the basis of passion and attraction. Friendships too often pass these trials easily enough on the basis of an initial shared interest.
But what about the context of shared community? What is it that induces a group of people who share little else in common to offer one another their real self, despite fears of rejection? One of the rare places this occurs in our culture is the church. Based around a mutual desire to be faithful to the claim that God has on each of their lives, groups of Christians assemble and consciously enter into a dangerous but authentic community life.
In this process of achieving an authentic community life, a growing intimacy reveals features that others find disagreeable. People are then confronted by the challenge of choosing to act kindly toward a person with whom they have a legitimate complaint. Sometimes this is a passing difficulty, much like one faced in marriage: one partner has aggravated the other and rather than venting their frustration, they continue to show love and kindness until the breach is healed by mutual communication, forgiveness, and reconciliation. But sometimes two people rub each other the wrong way constantly. If two people, once revealed in all their warts and glory, maintain an air of civility and kindness, is this an act of selflessness or hypocrisy?
A charge oft leveled against Christians is that they are hypocrites. By this critics usually mean one of two things: either the Christian is saying people ought to act a certain way and then proceeds to act in a way that contradicts it, or the Christian is pretending to be nice while concealing a heart of arrogance, self-righteousness, or condescension.
The two conflicted persons mentioned above cannot be hypocrites by either definition. Rather, they are exhibiting a divine attitude of patience and forbearance in spite of personal contrary feelings. This is one of the things that distinguishes the Christian community from virtually all other social forms. Unlike family or work relations, the Christian community is a voluntary association. Each is not required by blood relation or labor contract to put up with others whom they find disagreeable. Rather, they do so out of a desire to love like their Lord, who drew near to them in spite of their unlovable features.
Finicky hearts are as present in the Christian community as anywhere else in human society. But it is here that one can find acceptance and love as a conscious choice, a deliberate act of love in the full face of whatever true person lies beneath masks and pleasantries. It is a wonder that my Christian brothers and sisters treat me with kindness and dignity in spite of the difficulties I place in their path as they learn who I truly am. And I look forward to the ways in which our hearts will change as the One who transforms works His wonders on each of us in the midst of this authentic community.
Thursday, March 3, 2005
A Brief Survey of the Fantasy Genre Today: Part II: Realms of mystery and magic
If a non-fan on the street were to be asked to identify the difference between fantasy and science fiction in literature, his answer would most likely be simple: fantasy has magic, science fiction has futuristic technology. At this point, the purists howl and begin recounting their favorite critical essays on the range of speculative fiction and its numinous boundaries. But the very bedrock of both genres ultimately come down to something very like this in the minds of the reading public and even the minds of many fans. For the purposes of this article, let us assume that a fantasy story contains some aspect of the magical that forms an important part of the story.
This next step in a survey of the fantasy genre today must address the vastly different roles magic plays in the fabric of these stories. In some, it is somewhere in the background, a mysterious feature of a world shrouded in wonder. Often, it is a well-known (if only to a select few) force to be mastered as any other rational discipline. Sometimes, it is a loophole or gimmick in the fabric of the universe, a secret to be exploited for good or evil ends.
For a person concerned with meaning and symbol, it is important to think critically about the role magic plays in the fantasy story. Its function in terms of its place in the world matters as much as its function in the story. For a detailed essay into the facets and dangers implicit in the use of magic in stories, read Steven Greydanus' essay Magic, Middle-Earth, Muggles, and Meaning.
With that treatise out of the way, let's delve into the different ways magic is often treated in the modern fantasy literature:
Magic-as-science and economies of magic: This seems to be the favorite and most widespread these days. With a culture saturated in modern scientism, the logical place for magic is with the physical sciences. It becomes another force that can be harnessed just like electromagnetism, gravity, or chemistry. In this sort of role, the wizard is merely a technologist with access to power that can manipulate the world into doing his bidding.
These stories are only superficially different from science fiction, since much of the narrative is often devoted to the exposition of how the magic functions and how the process is learned and mastered. The quintessential version of this is Jordan's Wheel of Time series. In it, some unique individuals can control "the weave" which is essentially a psionic or magical manipulation of a well-defined physical force. It is certainly considered to be a form of magic by readers, but it is also a form of science due to its predictable and rational function. Other examples are Eddings' the Will and the Word, and even Star Wars' Force.
Often, in the most well-developed of these stories, the methods and origins of magic become resources to be managed using the science of economics. When this is the case, sometimes it becomes a thinly-veiled environmentalism in stories where magic is depleted by careless magicians or the natural world polluted by over-use of magic.
Magic gimmicks: there is a vast array of stories whose entire content consists of a single magical gimmick around which the world is built. The gimmick seems usually to be the result of an elaborate what-if question pursued on the part of the author. Once the question is asked, the story then becomes an exercise to explore the usual hero myth. Here, the structure of the story revolves around the nuances of the gimmick, which provides sources of conflict and resolution. An example of this is David Farland's Runelords series. In these stories, the gimmick revolves around the question, What if a person's attributes could be stolen and "branded" onto someone else?
Magic as horror: in certain traditions of fantasy, magic remains an aloof, dangerous, and supernatural component of an otherwise realistic world. Here, magic is associated with the demonic or the underworld and those who practice it are members of arcane cabals or insane dabblers in things Man Was Not Meant To Know. Examples of this include anything written by H. P. Lovecraft and most sword and sorcery (Robert E. Howard's Conan).
A similar relation to this category would include magic as occultism-made-real. In such stories, the traditional occult elements such as alchemy, hexes, and crystal balls have the powers claimed of them in medieval and other real-world time periods. In many of these stories, the magical elements remain associated with horror and the supernatural. In others, it is associated with the popular gothic culture and is seen in a retro-revisionist way such that it remains dark and appealing but not quite evil. In still others, (J. K. Rowling comes to mind) it remains tentatively neutral.
Magic as mystery: in a very few of these stories, magic remains a part of the world but is a distant, dreamy element - sometimes good and sometimes evil - and always mysterious and poorly understood (at least by the protagonist). These stories seem usually to draw on old faerie traditions and sometimes stray into territory better named supernatural fiction. In these stories, the operations of magic are rarely predictable, friendly, or neutral. They are most often in the service of enigmatic beings and beyond the ken of mortal man. A good example of this is Lord Dunsany's The King of Elfland's Daughter and much of the modern urban fantasy (such as Charles de Lint).
Magic as deep structure: in some few stories, magic becomes more than any of these other things. It is found in the story as something of wonder, something beyond the grasp of mortals, but something very much a part of the world. It transcends the limited purview of faerie traditions, the spirit world, or conventional supernatural categories. Somehow, magic is at once a part of the mortal experience and beyond his grasp or control. The best example of this sort of magic is that embodied in Tolkein's Middle-Earth. It is seen elsewhere in Wangerin's The Book of the Dun Cow, Lewis' Narnia, and even in Eddison's the Worm Ouroboros.
As far as I am concerned, as both a reader and a writer of fantasy fiction, I usually prefer the last two or three items on the list. Very seldom does magic-as-science appeal to me, and I rarely want to explore the what-if scenarios involved with magic-as-gimmick. Sometimes, the horror elements and the freakish scenarios imagined by Lovecraft and his literary brethren fascinate my imagination, but I admit that I find their appeal too limited for a steady diet.
I nearly always prefer magic to be wondrous, mysterious, something that offers a glimpse of a world and power beyond the reach of humanity. Magic ought to touch on the numinous, bridging the world we know and leading us to a brief glimpse of a wider reality. Not one hidden in secrecy like the Gnostic worlds of Dan Brown, but one of a deeper, truer reality all around us but barely perceived and often forgotten or denied. It is these worlds that I enjoy best of all: beatific vistas, mythic worlds that offer a window to a wider, fuller world in which the immediate reality of our world is seen in a radical new light.
This next step in a survey of the fantasy genre today must address the vastly different roles magic plays in the fabric of these stories. In some, it is somewhere in the background, a mysterious feature of a world shrouded in wonder. Often, it is a well-known (if only to a select few) force to be mastered as any other rational discipline. Sometimes, it is a loophole or gimmick in the fabric of the universe, a secret to be exploited for good or evil ends.
For a person concerned with meaning and symbol, it is important to think critically about the role magic plays in the fantasy story. Its function in terms of its place in the world matters as much as its function in the story. For a detailed essay into the facets and dangers implicit in the use of magic in stories, read Steven Greydanus' essay Magic, Middle-Earth, Muggles, and Meaning.
With that treatise out of the way, let's delve into the different ways magic is often treated in the modern fantasy literature:
Magic-as-science and economies of magic: This seems to be the favorite and most widespread these days. With a culture saturated in modern scientism, the logical place for magic is with the physical sciences. It becomes another force that can be harnessed just like electromagnetism, gravity, or chemistry. In this sort of role, the wizard is merely a technologist with access to power that can manipulate the world into doing his bidding.
These stories are only superficially different from science fiction, since much of the narrative is often devoted to the exposition of how the magic functions and how the process is learned and mastered. The quintessential version of this is Jordan's Wheel of Time series. In it, some unique individuals can control "the weave" which is essentially a psionic or magical manipulation of a well-defined physical force. It is certainly considered to be a form of magic by readers, but it is also a form of science due to its predictable and rational function. Other examples are Eddings' the Will and the Word, and even Star Wars' Force.
Often, in the most well-developed of these stories, the methods and origins of magic become resources to be managed using the science of economics. When this is the case, sometimes it becomes a thinly-veiled environmentalism in stories where magic is depleted by careless magicians or the natural world polluted by over-use of magic.
Magic gimmicks: there is a vast array of stories whose entire content consists of a single magical gimmick around which the world is built. The gimmick seems usually to be the result of an elaborate what-if question pursued on the part of the author. Once the question is asked, the story then becomes an exercise to explore the usual hero myth. Here, the structure of the story revolves around the nuances of the gimmick, which provides sources of conflict and resolution. An example of this is David Farland's Runelords series. In these stories, the gimmick revolves around the question, What if a person's attributes could be stolen and "branded" onto someone else?
Magic as horror: in certain traditions of fantasy, magic remains an aloof, dangerous, and supernatural component of an otherwise realistic world. Here, magic is associated with the demonic or the underworld and those who practice it are members of arcane cabals or insane dabblers in things Man Was Not Meant To Know. Examples of this include anything written by H. P. Lovecraft and most sword and sorcery (Robert E. Howard's Conan).
A similar relation to this category would include magic as occultism-made-real. In such stories, the traditional occult elements such as alchemy, hexes, and crystal balls have the powers claimed of them in medieval and other real-world time periods. In many of these stories, the magical elements remain associated with horror and the supernatural. In others, it is associated with the popular gothic culture and is seen in a retro-revisionist way such that it remains dark and appealing but not quite evil. In still others, (J. K. Rowling comes to mind) it remains tentatively neutral.
Magic as mystery: in a very few of these stories, magic remains a part of the world but is a distant, dreamy element - sometimes good and sometimes evil - and always mysterious and poorly understood (at least by the protagonist). These stories seem usually to draw on old faerie traditions and sometimes stray into territory better named supernatural fiction. In these stories, the operations of magic are rarely predictable, friendly, or neutral. They are most often in the service of enigmatic beings and beyond the ken of mortal man. A good example of this is Lord Dunsany's The King of Elfland's Daughter and much of the modern urban fantasy (such as Charles de Lint).
Magic as deep structure: in some few stories, magic becomes more than any of these other things. It is found in the story as something of wonder, something beyond the grasp of mortals, but something very much a part of the world. It transcends the limited purview of faerie traditions, the spirit world, or conventional supernatural categories. Somehow, magic is at once a part of the mortal experience and beyond his grasp or control. The best example of this sort of magic is that embodied in Tolkein's Middle-Earth. It is seen elsewhere in Wangerin's The Book of the Dun Cow, Lewis' Narnia, and even in Eddison's the Worm Ouroboros.
As far as I am concerned, as both a reader and a writer of fantasy fiction, I usually prefer the last two or three items on the list. Very seldom does magic-as-science appeal to me, and I rarely want to explore the what-if scenarios involved with magic-as-gimmick. Sometimes, the horror elements and the freakish scenarios imagined by Lovecraft and his literary brethren fascinate my imagination, but I admit that I find their appeal too limited for a steady diet.
I nearly always prefer magic to be wondrous, mysterious, something that offers a glimpse of a world and power beyond the reach of humanity. Magic ought to touch on the numinous, bridging the world we know and leading us to a brief glimpse of a wider reality. Not one hidden in secrecy like the Gnostic worlds of Dan Brown, but one of a deeper, truer reality all around us but barely perceived and often forgotten or denied. It is these worlds that I enjoy best of all: beatific vistas, mythic worlds that offer a window to a wider, fuller world in which the immediate reality of our world is seen in a radical new light.
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