The New Legends of Monkey - Review

If you were an Australian kid in the nineties, chances are you'll know exactly what I mean by Monkey Magic.

The cast of the fondly remembered

1978 original. 

It meant running home from school and parking i
n front of the TV to tune into a weird and wonderful show of magical clouds, women playing men, and lines that never quite synced with the actors' lips. Granted some of the translation decisions were questionable and most of the philosophical concepts went over our heads, but this campy Chinese production remains a warmly nostalgic memory among a certain age group in Australia and New Zealand.

So it was with great trepidation that I tuned into the 2018 Netflix-produced remake The New Legends of Monkey.

It already had a lot to live up to and the accusations of white-washing didn't fill me with confidence. I braced myself for disaster, crushed my expectations and kept one hand on the remote ready to abort.

Luciane Buchanan as Tripitaka.

Episode One was...fine. The CGI was rough in places, but it did a solid job of setting up Tripitaka (Luciane Buchanan) as our point-of-view character. It tipped a nod to the original series' gender-bender casting by telling the story of a young girl posing as a monk. One could even consider it a clever microcosm of the conundrum the modern show faces; having to step in and take the place of a more worthy predecessor (if so, they probably should have skipped that rather crushing "you're no one", but I digress).

Tripitaka is never more lovable than she is in this first episode. While later instalments often force her into the role of joyless moral heart, I adore the clever, resourceful young woman we're initially introduced to. As an orphan alone in the world she's frequently forced into demeaning roles, whether it's being treated as a servant in her own home or forced to work as a browbeaten waitress. Yet she survives where greater heroes fall. She thwarts the demons using guile, quick-thinking and whatever tools happen to fall into her grasp. And no, she's not above deceipt, theft or identity fraud.

Unfortunately, after this episode we meet the rest of the gang, and pretty much everything that's interesting about Tripitaka gets jettisoned in favor of "too good for this sinful Earth".

Chai Hansen as Monkey.

Still, what the writers take away with one hand, they give back with the other, because Episode Two is where we get to know Monkey and Sandy.

Monkey (Chai Hansen) is delightful; a young arrogant goofball of a god who doesn't know half as much as he thinks he does and is none-too-happy at the idea of taking orders from a "little boy monk". Much like the 1978 version, his main flaw is his ego. Yet this version has a vulnerability that the original didn't; less eternal jokester and more playful youth that never had to grow up. Between the self-centered boasting and instant-karma pratfalls, there are fleeting glimpses of a hurt, angry boy unable to understand what went wrong. It's a subtle difference that lends a more sympathetic context to the circumstances of his imprisonment.

Emilie Cocquerel as Sandy.

Sandy (Emilie Cocquerel) also manages to be much more likable this time round, being an entertainingly batty god rather than a former cannibal. And a woman, which could have gone badly if they'd turned her into a manic pixy dream girl (an outdated sexist trope we're all a little tired of), but fortunately they manage to sidestep it with a combination of good writing, acting and direction. If anything, her erratic mannerisms come off as unsettling and a troubling sign of the tragic backstory we'll learn more of down the road.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I should note that Episode Three was when I realised my hand had moved away from the remote control and I was really getting into the show. My worst fears were proving unfounded. The white-washing I'd dreaded wasn't there (or at least wasn't as bad as I'd been told), the show being set in a world with a richly varied population. Nor was there that sense of confusion that dragged down remakes like Being Human (USA) or Bionic Woman (2007). This was a show that knew exactly what it wanted to be and what to take from the source material to pay homage without being enslaved to it.

Josh Thompson as Pigsy.

Case in point; Pigsy. In the original show, he was a greedy lustful character who saw the error of his ways and joined Monkey on his holy quest. They got a lot of comedy mileage out of his creep-tastic pursuit of women, which was apparently funny back in the seventies. The new show focuses on the same idea of earthly pleasure, only rather having Pigsy (Josh Thompson) chasing after random hapless women, they explore it through his relationship with the powerful Princess Locke. In exchange for him working as her enforcer, she protected him from demons and kept him in a luxurious lifestyle. It's the same idea of personal temptation, except the desire it's coded in is for self-preservation and the simple pleasures to make such a bleak existence bearable. And it's effective. I'm not ashamed to say that Pigsy was far and away my favorite of the new cast. This is a softer, more nuanced version of the character; a closet romantic that hides his marsh-mellow heart beneath a sarcastic, much-needed voice of reason.

My only disappointment was that the show didn't delve deeper with the contrast between him and Sandy. Both of them are gods that suffered under the reign of demons, who made different decisions in order to survive. While Pigsy chose to collaborate, working with the regime in order to avoid the fate of his brethren, Sandy hid herself away and is implied to have gone a little bit (okay a lot) insane in her isolation. That could have made for some very interesting tension, so hopefully that's something they're saving for next season.

(*sigh*) I guess it's time to address my main gripe with the series. Episode Four. I'm going into detail so consider this a general spoiler warning for the next few paragraphs. If you want to avoid spoilers, you can skip down to my thoughts on Episode Five, which start beneath the picture of Milo Cawthorne. (Just as a sidenote: this show is like Power Rangers bingo! I've spotted two already and if I find three, I feel like I should get a prize or something).

Ready? Here we go. *SPOILERS AHEAD*

So just like in the original, Monkey isn't on this quest entirely of his own free will. He's bound to Tripitaka by a magical crown that she can use to cause him pain. Episode Four reminds us of this power imbalance early on with a truly unsettling scene where she uses it during a disagreement over how to fight the demons. Hansen's performance is painfully convincing, displaying various shades of shock, humiliation and betrayal, while Buchanan salvages her character from complete disaster with a subtle flash of horrified remorse.

Admittedly, Tripitaka has used the crown once before, but you could argue that time was a last-ditch, panicked effort to save someone's life. Here, she doesn't have that excuse and it throws an ugly light on their relationship. Can they truly friends if one is holding a whip over the other? How much agency does Monkey truly have? Even if she chooses not to use it, that implied threat is always going to be hovering over his head every time he makes a decision that might contradict hers.

The episode takes these interesting questions and... ignores them completely, buries the issue and coughs up some conclusion about it all being okay because Tripitaka is "pure of heart".

I... I really don't know where to start with that.

At least the actress is of Tongan descent so we avoid the racially charged imagery of a white person benevolently enslaving a man of colour for his own good. Instead we have the uncomfortable sight of one hero inflicting pain on another. Baby steps, right?

I think what we have here is an example of remake missfire. The writers have re-used concepts from the source material, but failed to consider the context. See, this worked in the original because Monkey unambiguously earned his imprisonment. Here, it fails because it's hinted right from the beginning that Monkey wasn't entirely at fault for what he was imprisoned for. There's conflicting versions of what happened and even Tripitaka herself seems undecided on what she believes.

Monkey's way of saying thank you.

Even worse, the show spent a lot of effort setting up the friendship between the two. Practically their first interaction was Monkey laying an exuberant kiss on Tripitaka while she stared in starry-eyed wonder at the culmination of her hopes and dreams. We were encouraged to care about this friendship, so it's distressing beyond words to see one of them hurt the other this way. And even more disgusting to see the show bend over backwards to portray Monkey as in the wrong.

The sad part is it would only take a few minor tweaks to turn this problem into an springboard for character development. For example, Tripitaka is already pretty remorseful at her actions, so don't try to validate her. Let the episode end on an ambiguous note, leaving an open question mark about her ability to live up to the wise monk she replaced. Which would add further dramatic tension down the track and add more personal pressure on her to step up.

The bright light in an otherwise uncomfortable episode:
Milo Cawthorne as Affe. 

But alas. Because the writers went with the easy, feel-good ending, we end up with a deeply uncomfortable aesop that not even the comic genius of Milo Cawthorne can cover up. Fortunately, this episode can be easily skipped, as it's relatively self-contained and contributes very little to the overall storyline.

*END SPOILERS*

Phew! Glad I got that out of my system.

Anyway, If I was having doubts (my hand certainly started to creep back toward that remote control) the show made it up to me in Episode Five, where events takes a deliciously dark turn and we learn where the special effects budget from Episode One went. We meet some fantastic villains, including the menacing Shaman (Daniel Watterson) who has his own plans for our heroes. Some might prefer the idiosyncratic Big Bad revealed toward the end of the season, but for me the stand-out villain was the Shaman who managed to be absurdly charismatic and make my skin want to crawl away and hide in a corner. Add the return of Rachel House and macabre hints about what happened to the other gods, and you've got the best episode of the series.

Daniel Watterson as the Shaman.

This all leads directly into Episode Six, where the hints of Monkey's backstory are expanded on and we learn the events that led to his imprisonment. It's a sordid tale of pride before a fall and personal betrayal, and in any other series would present a chance for personal contemplation and growth.

This is Monkey however, and he's not about to learn a lesson lying down. Which is why we love him. Never change, Monkey!

Sadly, just as Monkey reaffirms his purpose, in Episode Seven Tripitaka starts to seriously doubt her place on the quest. I can't blame her either. Lets face it, if you're being chased through a terrifying forest by faceless monsters, you'd start wondering where you went wrong too.

The real question of the series:

who is Tripitaka?

In all seriousness though, it's cleverly done. Until this point, the audience has known who Tripitaka is. We've gone on this journey with her, we've caught the sly winks at the fourth wall, we've been in on the joke. But here, we start to catch on that we may have been hoodwinked too, that there might be more to her than a wholesome bit of cross-dressing. And so we share her awakening curiosity about her past, and start wondering the same question that haunts her. Who is Tripitaka? I have a few ideas, but I'll save that for another post. (Because apparently I have so much to talk about, I need another post.)

Episode Eight starts with the team breaking up, Tripitaka following her past and Sandy following her, while Monkey and Pigsy continue (rather ineptly) on their quest. It's a nice way to build the connections between team-members other than Tripitaka and Monkey, and gives the slightly neglected Sandy the chance to shine. While Monkey and Pigsy's efforts are comedy gold, they're contrasted and complemented by the gentle melancholy of Tripitaka and Sandy's tentative confidences. Sandy quietly telling the tale of how she came to be alone is the most powerful performance of the series and I'd have thrown the remote away if I hadn't already done it two episodes ago. (What are you looking at? I'm not crying; you're crying.)

"No, no, no. You were a boy monk!"

It all kicks into high gear in Episode Nine, where Tripitaka desperately tries to keep knowledge out of the hands of demons while Monkey and Pigsy plan a rescue. Of course, because this is Monkey and Pigsy, someone else comes up with the plan and they try (mostly) not to screw it up. On the bright side, Monkey finally gets a clue that the monk he's been cozying up to is a girl and breaks his brain trying to figure out how that works.

...Aaand right about here is where I threw in the towel and said "Fine, you win. I ship it. They're adorable and I ship it so hard."

Episode Ten is the finale. I liked that Tripitaka doesn't magically overnight become a fighter, still using her wits and guile to defeat the villain. Monkey contributed less than I expected from the guy whose name is in the title, though it does make a sort of sense, as the most important lesson he's had to learn is that it's not all about him. The only let-down was that Pigsy and Sandy didn't get much to do. Yes, Pigsy got to defeat his ex, but she was never that intimidating a villain to begin with, and Sandy barely got to do anything except sneak around trying to figure out what the others were up to.

However, overall I was satisfied with the conclusion I got. I certainly went back and re-watched it more times than I needed to, and not just to get the screen-captures for this article.

Does it live up to the old series?

No. Absolutely not. The old series had a unique (forgive me I cannot resist the pun) magic. There can never be anything like it again.

But judged on its own merits, this is a pretty good show for adults and a fantastic show for kids. Stylistically and conceptually it has the most in common with the anachronistic ham-and-cheese of Hercules: The Legendary Journeys (1995) and Xena: Warrior Princess (1995). The characters are a delight, bringing their own elements of tragedy and comedy to the table. Even Tripitaka, who the writers forced to suffer as the straight man to the others' antics, proved a resourceful and endearing hero when she was alone. The voice-over could be annoying, but unlike Star Trek Discovery (2017) they had the sense to use it sparingly. And even the less than stellar episodes had something to recommend them. For example, as hard as I bitched about Episode Four, it offered some great slapstick comedy and a cartoonishly entertaining villain.

I would definitely watch a second season and hopefully Netlix supplies us with one soon. The first season is available in Australia for free on ABC iview until the 29th of March 2018, after which I assume it will start running on Netflix.

Final Verdict:  Awesome, with only one serious instance of remake misfire. Kids will adore it, adults will enjoy it. My only regret is that I can't time-travel and make my kid-self watch it.

Quote:

"I'll do as I please, not what others tell me to do.
I only take orders from gods and even then, only if I think it's a good idea."

Nevernight by Jay Kristoff

If you like amoral assassins, boarding schools from hell and more snark than you can poke a stick at, oh boy do I have the book for you.

Nevernight by Jay Kristoff is that rare, perfect blend of genres. It's as if someone lifted the School for Assassins out of Discworld, added a generous scoop of Locke Lamora, and just a sprinkling of David Eddings. (Look, there's a reason I don't write recipe books.)

The main protagonist is new initiate Mia Corvere at an infamous school for assassins. Not only are the lessons actively trying to kill her, but there's a limited number of graduate positions, meaning competition between students is insanely (read: fatally) high. On the plus side, if she survives, she's got steady career prospects in a high growth industry.

With Pratchett-style footnotes and snide undercuts of dramatic moments, Nightshade is a thoroughly entertaining read. However - and all credit to Jay Kristoff here - he never crosses the line into parody. The stakes remain high and the threats remain real. Rather than downplaying the danger, the humour serves to humanise the characters and stave off darkness-induced-apathy.

In fact, it's the characters who can't laugh at themselves who are the least sympathetic. Mia might be a budding killer with demonic powers and an ax to grind, but her bodycount is a drop in the ocean compared to the respectable citizens who run her world. They consider themselves perfectly righteous and will defend their dignity to the death, which makes them more dangerous than any number of poisons, blades or magic spells.

It's hard work making a murder-school look morally superior, but Kristoff pulls it off. He balances the pathos and laughs beautifully, and Mia comes off as fairly sympathetic despite her proclivity for stabbing people. If you're missing Arya Stark something chronic, Mia will fill the void nicely until the next episode of Game of Thrones.

Final Verdict: Awesome. Can't wait for the sequel.

"Whether any of this is true, of course, remains a matter of drunken speculation on the decks of various pork ships. What is true, is that after learning from Mercutio what exactly went on at the Porkery at age thirteen, a young Mia Corvere swore off eating ham for the rest of her life." 

The Broken Well Trilogy by Sam Bowring

What's there to say about Sam Bowring's Broken Well trilogy?

'Go and read it!' is a start. However, since that would make a pretty short review, I'll try and go into more detail.

Think of the Broken Well like "reverse Star Wars".

At first glance, these two works appear to follow the same rules - and not just because Star Wars is high fantasy set in space. Both have a literal black-and-white religion where you're either following the pretty gods of light (the 'light' side) and are good, or you're following the dark creepy gods (ie, the dark side) and are unrepentantly evil. No backsies, no do-overs, do not pass go or collect $200.

If you didn't know this was high

fantasy, clearly you need to go 
back and watch again.

They also revolve around a prophesied Chosen One that will decide the battle between light and dark... blah blah savior... blah blah destiny. You know the drill. Literally fifty percent of fantasy has this premise.

The Anakin Skywalker stand-in of Bowring's universe is a blue-haired infant born on neutral ground. Upon discovering this, the light side does the obvious ethical thing and sends agents to protect the family from the machinations of the-

- Holy crap, did they just steal a baby?! 

Yep, they totally just stole a baby. While fighting darksiders with the same idea. And just to rub in that light emphatically does NOT equal good, they also had a magical tug of war. Using the baby.

Fortunately, this being a magical tug of war, instead of a splatter of gooey insides we get two whole infants, each with a separate aspect of the original kid's personality. Losara is stolen by the "bad guys" while Bel is stolen by the "good guys". So within the first chapter, we have a protagonist literally torn between light and dark.

And more importantly, we learn that everything I just told you is a lie. Nothing in this world is as
simple as it looks. Dark and light have nothing to do with morality, faith is a poor replacement for strategy, and no one's hands are clean in war.

Sadly, the old 'beard or no-beard' test has proved unreliable.

Remember this because it's the overarching theme of the trilogy.

That's great, you may be thinking, but what does that have to do with Star Wars? This isn't the first fantasy novel to challenge black-and-white coded morality (Sara Douglass and Ann Bishop are two of a few million examples). So lets look at the protagonists.

Our light-sided warrior Bel has a lot in common with Anakin Skywalker. He's a magnificent fighter, ruled by his passions, and romantically devoted to a woman he has nothing in common with. And just as Anakin has a bad habit of dismissing any opposition as "evil", Bel blindly assumes that everything dark is an abomination.

Yet this is just a symptom of a deeper problem. Bel, by his own admission, possesses no higher convictions or ideals. He couldn't tell you specifically why the light is better, because deep down, he doesn't care what side he fights on. The only reason he fights for the light is sheer chance. Had he been stolen by the dark, he'd have fought just as passionately for them.

The one on the left has blue hair.

That's how you tell them apart.

Anakin also had a dim understanding of what he was fighting for (recall his arguments for dictatorship during that schmaltzy romance scene in the meadow) and was only committed to the Jedi insofar as they didn't stand in the way of getting what he wanted. He had zero problems lying to them or violating their rules, and the moment they became an obstacle, he turned on them.

So what does this mean? Aside from Bel's idiocies being a bit more justified than Anakin's?

Well... maybe it's a pointed commentary on what happens when you demonise your enemies.

See, both Anakin and Bel were born balanced between light and dark. Bel was initially unified with Losara. Anakin was told his purpose was not to fight for either side, but to keep both sides in check (see the brilliant Mortis arc of The Clone Wars cartoon series). However, they were both recognised as Chosen Ones and taken to be raised by the light, which is where things go wrong.

Both children were taught a very simple life philosophy: light is good, dark is bad. Losara was a "dark worm" that Bel is better off without, and Anakin's ordinary human emotions (fear, anger, love) must be purged. Understandable when you're raising the Chosen One, and you don't want him having doubts at a critical juncture. Yet utterly inadequate when dealing with real-world situations.

And predictably enough, when dealing with the complexities of adulthood, these simple codes completely fail them. Neither youth has any idea how to deal with a situation that's not black and white. Bel throws a tantrum when his girlfriend and father are (justifiably) arrested for committing crimes, while Anakin falls to pieces when he believes his wife is going to die and the Jedi either can't or won't help. And before you say anything, Vader isn't any better. He's simply Anakin adjusting his moral code to suit himself; if the Sith can help him, then the Sith are good and the Jedi are bad. He just swings from one kind of extremism to another.

It's only in Losara that we see any kind of balance, and that's only because he has an advantage the others don't. Unclouded, unbiased logic.

The dark sorcerer who performs human sacrifice and
political assassination...and is the only guy 
who seems to know what he's doing. 

See, because Bel got all the passion, Losara is physically incapable of reacting with strong emotion. This lack means he immediately sees the contradiction between what he's told and what he's observed. He can't hate or fear, so he alone can see both sides for what they truly are. And while that doesn't stop him from doing what he must (seriously he does some scary shit), he's also the only person who makes any effort to avoid the war.

Perhaps the scene that best encapsulates Losara is his meeting with the dark gods. They demand that he serves them first, over and above even his people. He considers this - bearing in mind he is physically in front of the gods at this time - and replies "I'll serve you as well". Not an outright rejection, but an offer of compromise. Later he even suggests to Bel that they withdraw to their respective lands and ignore the prophecy.

That's Losara in a nutshell. Balance. Compromise. Coexistence.

Of course he'll murder your allies in an unholy ceremony and unleash an unkillable monster on your army if you insist on war. But the point is, he gave you an out. It's not his fault you didn't take it.

On the one hand this could imply the Jedi were right - lack of emotion is the way to go - but actually shows how wrong they were. Rejecting and demonising an entire aspect of one's self, religion, or country leads to ruin. The Jedi and Sith have been fighting the same war for millennia, in the same vicious cycle of retribution and counter-retribution. Bel and Losara's gods didn't do themselves any favours when they parted ways; they just made it possible to destroy each other.

Losara and Bel eventually both acknowledge this, that neither of them are whole and that a great wrong was done to them. Whatever you think of the ending (which I won't go into detail on) it's at least suggested that the cycle of violence has been broken. Whereas Luke Skywalker, who won by utterly rejecting the dark side, saw the same cycle start up again a few years down the road in Force Awakens.... Man, this article gone in a depressing direction.

Anyway, this leaves just one last question.

Is there a second version of Anakin Skywalker running around the Star Wars universe, maybe trying to fix everything his double broke?

Someone who encapsulates everything Anakin is not. Someone utterly brilliant, devious and genre savvy. Someone immune to manipulation and strategically unparalleled -

Holy crap. It's Admiral Thrawn.

Admit it. It's all starting to make sense now.

Silver Brumby by Elyne Mitchell

I just had a revelation. Specifically, about The Silver Brumby books that were a childhood obsession of mine. (And an adulthood obsession, going by my Ebay history.)

They were written between 1958 and 1979 by Elyne Mitchell, who was frustrated by her ten year old daughter's lack of interest in books. Taking inspiration from her daughter's interest in horses and her own love of the native landscape, she wrote a series of short novels around a lineage of wild horses in the Snowy Mountains.

The initial book follows the birth and early life of Thowra, a rare wild "creamy" brumby whose colouring is a disadvantage in the bush. He has to be smarter and faster than any other horse to survive and remain free. The sequels follow his descendants and later adventures.

These were some of the earliest Australian literature to really strike a cord with me, for reasons I struggled to articulate. It wasn't the narrative, as the plots were either simplistic or meandering. Nor was it the characters, as there's a limit to what you can do with non-anthropomorphic animal characters.

Then on the weekend while I was driving, thinking about nothing in particular, it suddenly hit me. The Silvery Brumby books aren't about the characters. Sure, the characters are there, but they're not the focus. The real soul and center of the books is the landscape. Or more specifically, the characters' relationship with the landscape.

For them the mountains are an enemy that can kill with flood, fire, starvation and a hundred other awful ways. But they are also a wondrous home, offering beauty, shelter and freedom. The flowing prose is almost worshipful, detailing sunsets, bird cries, and storms with almost poetic terms. The reader exists within the characters' reaction in a place where goals and motivations are almost superfluous. Everything is at the mercy of the world around them.

These aren't perfect books by any means. My housemate called Thowra a Mary Sue for entirely justified reasons and the female characters exist mostly as objectives to be obtained (based on real life horse behaviour). Not to mention, the series is very inconsistent on whether the horses can actually 'talk' with one another or not.

However it's one of those rare instances where the flaws are part of the magic. Like the mountains, their imperfection is what makes the books beautiful.

"Through the bush he went, a proud-stepping beautiful stallion, in the prime of his life, cream and silver, dappled by light and shade as pale shafts of sunlight from the cloudy sky fell on to him through the grey-green gum leaves." 

Sisters of Fire by Kim Wilkins

Last year I reviewed Daughters of the Storm, a compelling fusion of high fantasy and high tragedy by Kim Wilkins where there were no clear-cut heroes or villains. (I may or may not have been gushing like a giddy schoolgirl.)

So I'm very happy to report that Sisters of Fire is a worthy sequel, following the fallout of the characters' choices. Bluebell hunts down a magic sword rumored to bring about her death, Ivy takes desperate measures in an unhappy marriage, Rose struggles to save her daughter from an insidious threat, Willow follows the path of her religion, and Ash seeks to prevent a terrible future.

Given Ash's adventures it would be easy to argue the book is about the inevitability of fate and being doomed by our inherent failings. However that overlooks the characters' growth (or lack thereof) and how they respond to the consequences of their actions. At least one sister has learned from her mistakes, takes care not to repeat them, and earns a reasonably happy outcome. Another sister seems intent on repeating her past on an even more disastrous scale, and another seems tragically incapable of change.

Apparently the moral of the story is that fate can be challenged so long as we learn from our past and don't go repeating the same cycle. (Which was why a lot of of my time was spent going "Oh Ivy, no".)

Bluebell isn't quite as bad as her sister, but still isn't much better. She remains the same fascinatingly complex character that's a mix of both selfish and selfless. On the one hand, everything she does is with the good of the kingdom in mind. On the other, she demands sacrifices from others that she herself refuses to make, such as selling her sisters into unhappy marriages while ignoring her father's request she marry to produce an heir. This contradiction makes her the most compelling character of the series.

She's also one of the best written female warriors I've ever encountered in high fantasy. Many similar characters occupy a position of resistance, where they must earn the respect of the men around them (Eowyn, Brienne of Tarth, Alanna of Trebond, Princess Cassandra...I could go on) but Bluebell doesn't earn respect, she expects it. In fact, she encompasses many traits traditionally associated with men, including brutal practicality, single mindedness and a certain lack of empathy toward others. And none of this makes her a villain, just a person with flaws.

Speaking of villains, I won't name any names, but I found their evolution equally interesting. The lengths of their self-deception was a little frightening, as was their expanding influence. It was difficult, however, not to sympathise with someone so clearly insane. A lot of pain and death could have been averted by access to a good counselor and prescription medication.

Unless of course their delusions aren't delusions, in which case I'm terrified for the next book.

"Bluebell didn't like the idea of magic; she didn't like anything she couldn't see and smash."

The Sea and Summer by George Turner

One of the things I love about this blog project is that I keep discovering all these obscure, wonderful Aussie writers that have been forgotten or overlooked by the mainstream.

George Turner's The Sea and Summer (published in the US as The Drowning Towers) is a perfect example. This novel centers around a family during a time of social turmoil and uses this very personal setting to explore the consequences of climate change. It's a fascinatingly melancholy tale that richly deserves it's status of science fiction classic, and yet I'd never heard of it before now.

Despite being written by the seventies by a successful mainstream novelist and being one of the few Australian-written books on Gollancz's SF Masterworks, it seems almost unknown by my generation. Considering that I did a creative writing degree at an Australian university and all my friends are book-nerds or librarians, I'm bewildered that I haven't even heard of it before. Not even a passing mention
                                                            or a website review.

What I enjoyed about The Sea and Summer was the lack of an antagonist. Most dystopian books are stories of resistance, of little people against oppressive regimes like 1984 or the Hunger Games. For them there are terrible external enemies that must be vanquished for the world to right itself. 

But for George Turner's characters, the enemy is far more subtle than that. It comes from within. The family's downfall from 'Sweet' (financially self-sufficient) to 'Swill' (living on government subsidies) begins with the loss of the father's job. And as the burdens of poverty and social class press in on them, the entire family makes choices on how to deal with it; some selfish, some tragic. 

In a way their family is a metaphor for modern attitudes to environmental and economic disaster. That sense of "this problem's too big, I can't fix it, I can only save myself". That sense of abdicated responsibility as they make their own individual grabs for solvency. Yet - and this is very important - none of the family ever manage to escape the Swill. They each pay dearly for an illusion of freedom, but they all end up in the Swill one way or another. The problem is too big to be escaped, as is the inevitable creeping cultural shift. The only way to survive it (not stop it, there's no stopping what's been put into motion) is together.

It's the most oddly depressing and yet hopeful book I've ever read, with a pensive attitude towards climate change. It matter-of-factly dismisses the notion of  the end of the world, pointing out humanity's ability to adapt to much worse disasters with far less technology. But it also is very clear that adaptation will come with painful, difficult change. We don't get away without consequences.

Perhaps the subject matter is why this book isn't well known. With climate change and economic strife in the news, the last thing that readers want is reality tainting their escapism. Which is a shame, because of all the books on the subject, this is probably the most realistic and least hysterical. 

The Crucible by Sara Douglass

For some readers, the Axis and Wayfarer Trilogies were the peak of Sara Douglass' career. And more power to them; there's a special place in my heart for epic adventures viewed through a twisted lens, where the heroes' hands aren't clean and even the happiest of endings is bittersweet.

For me, however,  Sara Douglass' magnum opus was The Crucible.

This three-book trilogy is set in the Middle-Ages with a bitter, self-righteous monk chosen by Heaven and Hell to cast the deciding vote in their never-ending conflict. All Thomas has to do is choose who will get his soul; Heaven or a faithless prostitute. It seems like a no-brainer, which of course means it's not that simple. And to make matters worse, demons are strewing all sorts of temptations in Thomas' path...surely it won't matter if his soul is just a little tarnished...

Not many people have heard of this series, probably because it sounds like Christian propaganda. I'd have steered clear if I didn't trust Sara Douglass (replace 'trust' with 'addict looking for her next fix') and found it well worth the price of admission. Like Thomas' apparently simple choice, there's a lot more going on than is immediately apparent.

The first book The Nameless Day is the hardest to get through, because Thomas has his head firmly lodged up his arse for most of it. He's thoroughly unlikable character, utterly convinced of the sinful nature of mankind (especially women) and his own special status as God's Chosen One. It takes several gut-punches before he starts un-clenching and realises it's not a sin to give a damn about other people.

The Wounded Hawk is where everything really takes off, and Thomas (and the readers) start getting answers about what's really going on. It seems everyone has a secret and an agenda, even Thomas' closest friends. Whether they're scheming for England's throne or a heavenly one (or both), people are doing awful things to fulfill their goals. Yet he also finds grace in the most unlikely places.

Matters rockets to a conclusion in The Crippled Angel which is historical fiction on crack, including

Image by ChristinZakh.
This is not fanart - but it's an
accurate summation of how
everyone's day is going. 

Joan of Arc, sleazy angels, a scheming demon prince, Jesus breaking out of heaven, and an inanimate landmass that takes an extreme dislike to its would-be king. Thomas has done a complete one-eighty from his previous self and is a likable guy who just wants to save mankind. Unfortunately, his enemies have had thousands of years to prepare and have multiple layers of entrapment to ensure he chooses correctly.

This is Sara Douglass at the top of her game. It toys with expectations and there's as much squalor and brutality as there is sex and glory. Anyone with strong feelings about Christianity will definitely be offended by it's take on God and organised religion while historians will be tickled pink by its use of historical figures (though I'm told some events and dates were played fast and loose).

For me, it was a fantastic deconstruction of the politics of religion and helped articulate my own uneasiness about Christianity. The ideas and principles might be sound, just be wary of the people building a power base on them because they'll always have an agenda.

And it was just really nice to see Jesus get a happy ending for once. After two thousand years the guy deserves it.

Vigil by Angela Slatter

Angela Slatter is one of those writers I wish I'd discovered sooner. Her short stories have been nominated three times for Aurelis awards and despite being mostly fantasy, there's nothing sweet or trite about them. They go back to the dark heart of fairy tales, where trespassing children can and do end up in the witch's oven, and fair maidens only get out of their predicaments by being very resourceful and brave.

So imagine my glee at discovering Slatter's recent full-length novel Vigil!

This book is full-blown urban fantasy, delving into a rich underworld underlying Brisbane where the supernatural Weyrd live unseen among humankind. The half-human Verity Fassbinder must find a dangerous monster before it exposes the Weyrd while solving two disappearances that may or may not be related.

Verity is your standard urban fantasy protagonist. She stands between two cultures and occupies a role of protector/mediator that is thankless but necessary (for other examples, see Rachel Morgan, Anita Blake and Harry Dresden). She's smart, cynical and is quick with irreverent quips. However, repetition is not necessarily a bad thing, as this kind of character is traditional in urban fantasy for a reason. (For an example of this kind of character that doesn't work, see Faythe from Stray, who allegedly possesses all these qualities and demonstrates none).

That said, Verity does manage to distinguish herself from her cohorts in at least one important way: she doesn't have anyone telling her how special she is. This might sound cruel, but it's a recurring trope in urban fantasy I find blatantly manipulative. The Hollows, a series I otherwise adore, is particularly guilty of this sin, with characters continuously telling Rachel Morgan that everything about her is just incredible, from her sex life to her moral code.

Verity firmly defies this trope. Her divided heritage is not particularly unique and gives her an even balance of advantages and disadvantages just like any other Weyrd. In fact the entire book deconstructs the seductive fantasy of 'special'. Whether you are offered the chance to become special, or born that way, more often than not it's a crapshoot. 'Special' can also mean freak, which entails isolation, rejection and sometimes violence.

Before this review goes overboard praising Tall Poppy Syndrome, I will note that I was very uncomfortable with Verity's solution to the 'double-winged' problem. At the very least she was removing choices a person might want in the future. Being different might not always be wise, but it's still a valid choice. (There's a reason 'be yourself' is a powerful message). Granted the alternative was 'apocalypse' but the text shouldn't have tried to pass Verity's actions off as an unambiguously good act. She was doing something horrible to stop something worse and should have acknowledged that.

Other than that, I thoroughly enjoyed Vigil. Slatter's weaving of fantasy with the real-life Brisbane and Gold Coast landscape created a powerful mythology. Despite some occasionally shaky footing, she has crafted a neatly thought-out barb aimed at the heart of the urban fantasy genre. Hopefully it won't go unnoticed and we will get less 'special' protagonists in future.

Also, for fellow-natives, the mysterious Boatman apparently paddles the Brisbane river with the souls
of the dead in his canoe. Try catching the citycat at night and thinking about that.

Liquid Gold by Tansy Rayner Roberts

It's not often sequels can live up to the original. Fortunately for Tansy Rayner Roberts, Liquid Gold is one of them.

Her original novel Splashdance Silver gleefully embraced high fantasy tropes. Liquid Gold does the same, but starts to move ever so slightly into science fiction territory, adding a splash of time travel into the mix. I personally prefer the original, but it's like the difference between Tim-Tams and Maltesers - they're both chocolate so I'm hardly going to bitch about it.

The novel begins with the accidental (or not) death of Kassa Daggersharp. Her motley crew split off in separate directions, Aragorn to contemplate life not magically bound to a crazy pirate wench, Tippet to pursue his career as a bard, and Daggar to follow a scary blonde mercenary that has stolen something of world-destroying significance.

The real backbone of this story is Daggar and his blonde mercenary. She feels like she should be the main character of her own novel (Roberts, if you ever read this, yes that is a request) and has great chemistry with Daggar. As always, snark and banter is where Roberts' characters shine and there's a vast cast of quirky personas to love.

Where the story sags, unexpectedly, is Kassa and Aragorn. Aragorn's storyline has a touch too much angst and Kassa's is a touch too ridiculous. While both elements were always present in Splashdance Silver, Liquid Gold doesn't quite balance them properly. More importantly, the main villain doesn't quite live up to Talle's level of stylish evil, although to be scrupulously fair, no one could match that conniving glossy-haired gem of villainy.

I guess I was just hoping to learn more about Kassa and Talle's mutual grudge, so I can finish my smutty slash fanfic - I mean, um, get answers, about the mysterious grudge between these two fascinating characters. Still, despite the lack of Talle, Liquid Gold is still a fun romp through crazy world I love very much.

"The gods can cope with individual atheists, but they take it personally when they start forming committees."

Captive Prince & Prince's Gambit by C.S. Pacat

The impossible just happened.

I read a series that restored my faith in romance novels.

Yes, I know. I'm as shocked as you. I honestly never thought this would happen. I gave up years ago, burned out on poorly written supernatural romance or Mills and Boon that sacrificed characterization for sex and plot (always in that order) and thinly veiled rape scenes (yeah, you wish I was joking). I'll read it for the porn, obviously, but I gave up pretending there was anything like higher art to it.

Then I cracked open the Captive Prince... okay, so I pressed the button to turn my kindle on... and rediscovered hope.

The Captive Prince was sexy, it was imaginative, it didn't do the literary equivalent of throwing characterization out of a moving car. In fact it cradled characterization to its manly bosom and made sweet tender love to it.

Yes, I went there. I wrote that sentence. Because it happened.

The premise is your standard sexy slavery premise. (Been there, done that, hidden the books where no casual peruser of my bookshelf can ever find them.) The prince Damon is betrayed by his bastard half-brother and sold as a pleasure slave to a neighbouring enemy kingdom. Trapped in this decadent foreign culture, he has to survive a power struggle with his new owner, prince Laurent, and escape home to re-take his throne. You can already see the sexy questionably-consensual shenanigans coming, no pun intended.

But this book focuses on what romance novels usually ignore. The characters. Specifically, their motivations, their loyalties, their place in the world. These things aren't warped to shape the plot, they're what drives the plot. They're the reason the two leads despise one another, and the reason they eventually come to a grudging respect (pun intended). Despite there being very little sex, at least between the two leads, the delicious slow-winding tension proves what I've suspected all these years - good characterization can be sexy.

The world-building is no slouch either. In case you haven't figured it out, this is male-male romance and the author's taken an unusual tactic in normalizing it. Apparently in Laurent's culture there's a superstitious dread attached to bastards, so in order to safely engage in premarital sex, the upper classes openly keep same-sex 'pets'. Interestingly Damon's culture has no stigma against either kind of sex, and he accuses Laurent's people  of 'making things needlessly complicated for themselves'. In a way it's representative of the two cultures and two men; Laurent is all elaborate schemes and hidden agendas while Damon is bluntly straightforward and blind to nuance. It's one of the reasons they consistently misunderstand one another and also turn out to be very good for each other.

Readers should be aware that this is the first book of a trilogy. The first two have been released, but the third won't be out until February. Both are a decent length with self-contained stories and incredibly addictive. I hopped straight from the Captive Prince to Prince's Gambit, even though I had work the next day. On a more serious note, some readers may find certain subject matter disturbing. Sexual assault is threatened and depicted, and child abuse is discussed. I respect the author for actually addressing these issues instead of pretending slavery is all sunshine and rainbows, but some readers may want to steer clear.

If that doesn't bother you, I highly recommend these books. They're not going to win the next Miles Franklin Award but they perform spectacularly well inside their niche and aren't afraid to take chances. Brisbane fans also note that the author is going to be at Supanova this month so it's a great chance to get your stuff signed and thank her for her part in guiding the romance genre out of the dark place Twilight and Fifty Shades of Grey took it to in recent years.

It was a novel experience, reading romance without the shame or regret or bitter self-loathing, but I think I like it.

"A golden prince was easy to love if you did not have to watch him picking wings off flies."

Daughters of the Storm by Kim Wilkins

So I know I tend to come on here to bitch about books I don't like or am at best indifferent to... but not today! Today I talk about a book that blew me away.

I went in with relatively low expectations. I discovered Kim Wilkins years ago as part of a university course - she was a guest lecturer for the week covering gothic genre. My opinion back then was that she was a great lecturer (from her I learned the term 'brain-explosion') but I wasn't that impressed with The Ressurrectionists. I went on to read others, like Angel of Ruin and Giants of the Frost, but I never came away feeling really satisfied. Clearly there was something good about them because I kept reading them, but there was an odd depressing after-taste I didn't like.

Then I went to the library last week, intent on picking out Australian authors, and found Daughters of the Storm. I don't know whether my tastes have changed, or Wilkins has become more nuanced, but I loved this book.

The premise is that the King of the Thyrsland is dying, and his five daughters set out on a quest to cure him. Each of them hide secrets that could be the doom of their land, and as their quest unfolds, their secrets begin to be revealed. What really makes this book is the absence of any particular good or evil characters. All of them perform terrible actions, but also good ones. There's only a hair's difference between the protagonists and the antagonists, both sides capable of great selfishness and great selflessness. I genuinely didn't know where some of these characters were going, and found myself surprised several times.

The recurring theme is family. All of the characters are keenly aware of who they are connected to and how they fit into the world, whether they resent it or embrace it. Whether connected by marriage, blood or adoption, family is an immensely powerful force. Betrayal of it has terrible consequences, neglect just as terrible; one could argue that none of this would have happened if the eldest daughter Bluebell had put more effort into forging positive relationships within her family, or had at least paid more attention as to what was going on inside it. Then again, all tragedies require a fatal flaw in their lead, and this is in many ways a tragedy.

I really can't go into any more detail than that without giving things away. All I'll say is this; each character is fully realized in their motivation. They didn't bend to the shape of the plot; they shaped the plot, and when the final scene came, you suddenly see the horrible inevitability of what's been building all along. I cannot wait for the sequel.

"Wild happiness, which had veered so close, now fluttered off on its mad wings. Always beyond her fingertips." 

Enchanter by Sara Douglas

And so continues my Sara Douglass obsession. Today I'll be reviewing the second book in the Axis trilogy (or Wayfarer Redemption if you're in America) Enchanter. Note this is the second book in the Axis Trilogy, so there will be SPOILERS.

In my Battleaxe review, I remarked that book was all about subverting expectations. Success depended on the heroine marrying the wrong man, the hero was a first class dick, and the forbidden army had a legitimate grudge. In comparison, Enchanter is easier to predict; its foundations were already set up in the previous book so it takes that traction and goes with it.

Axis, the main character, has finally been reunited with his people and is learning the ways of an Enchanter. However war is swiftly coming to Tencendor, and he will need to act quickly to forge humans and Forbidden into an alliance against the horrific Gorgrael. Meanwhile, Faraday suffers in her marriage, her only joy the secret worship of a pagan goddess. Azhure becomes a warrior, but there are things that don't add up about her, and there will be a bloody reckoning before the end. 

The fun in this book is watching the characters grow into their own. All the potential that was hinted at in the first book is now fulfilled tenfold. If Battleaxe was about them tentatively accepting their role in the Prophecy, then Enchanter is about actively embracing it. It's also where we see them start to sow the seeds of their downfall (some of which won't come to fruition until several books down the line). Many of these are easily foreseeable problems, and are even called out by other characters, but this book functions like the first half of the tragedy, in which the characters' fatal flaws are set up that will be their doom. Axis' arrogance and Faraday's self-sacrifice for example will cost them heavily, but their mistakes makes sense for who they are and how they perceive themselves.

Also enjoyable was the in-depth exploration of the culture of the Avar and the Icarri, which is one of the most fun examples of world-building I've ever encountered. No, they're not perfect; all three races are deeply flawed and secretly convinced they're superior. Some of them have traditions that the others find repellent (I'm not even going to get into the Icarri incest) or bitter history that makes co-existence difficult. But all of it makes their relationships way more interesting than the stagnant perfection of Tolkien's elves or similar.

Readers should keep in mind this book doesn't shy away from the gore - Faraday's husband gets perhaps the worst of it, though other characters don't do so well either. There are also some seriously questionable actions taken to achieve the protagonists' goals. Lets just say that George R. Martin didn't invent morally flexible characters and leave it at that. The characters' taste for the melodramatic can also get tiring at times, but what the heck, it's all part of Douglass' style.

Ultimately this is a good read and a very worthy installation in one of Australia's fantasy classics. It's easy to find, just head to your local bookshop.

"They were both so young and both so sure life would work out exactly as they hoped. Well, already plans and vows lay shattered across the floor. Could they not see that?"

Myrren's Gift by Fiona McIntosh

You know how you can hear good things about an author, then read one of their books and find it totally ordinary? That was my crushingly disappointing experience of Royal Exile by Fiona MciIntosh. I really wasn't looking forward to reading her other work, but I'd promised myself I'd give her another chance, so I finally bit the bullet and bought a copy of Myrren's Gift.

And boy am I glad I did! Myrren's Gift managed to surprise me, and that barely ever happens anymore. 

The premise is that a witch bestows a gift upon the honourable but unfavoured companion to the Prince, and this gift will later come into play during the deadly political struggle for the throne. The very nature of the gift - and no, I'm not telling because that would spoil the plot - is brilliantly simple, working consistently but throwing a monkey wrench into the standard high fantasy story. You almost feel bad for the antagonists who can sense something is off but never manage to put their finger on the true problem. And fair enough; why should they? I'm the mostly-omniscient reader and it still threw me for a loop. 

The setting is usual medieval fare but who cares. The plot is so interesting that I barely even noticed. The characters are both engaging and sympathetic, even characters like the king who perform ethically questionable actions for political expediency. The main character Wyl has the potential to be extremely dull, but his steadiness is actually the perfect offset to the insanity of his situation. Anyone else would have gone mad, but he manages to be as clear-headed and logical about it as it's possible to be. The tragic aspect of it is that in any other story he'd be the loyal background second-in-command and content with that, but is forced to assume a position of resistance.

I'd like to talk about the character Romen, but it's difficult to do so without spoiling anything. Suffice to say, the connection between him and Wyl is powerful, compelling, unexpectedly tragic, and extraordinarily original.  This is the kind of imagination I like to see in my speculative fiction and barely ever find. I won't mention other characters, because Mcintosh has a way of developing apparently one-shot characters into ongoing ones, and taking out others that you'd swear were in for the long haul.

I highly recommend Myrren's Gift. I enjoyed it so much I'm having second thoughts about not reading the sequel to Royal Exile. That is how good this book is. 

Battleaxe by Sara Douglas

Battleaxe is the first book of Sara Douglas' Axis trilogy. It also is - or was - a brilliant innovation in high fantasy.

Prior to this book, my experience of the swords and sorcery genre was very black and white; David Eddings, Robert Jordon, Tolkien. They were all innovative in their own ways, but otherwise stayed true to a certain formula. A great evil looms, idealistic innocent rises to the challenge, and princesses are in need of saving and/or marrying.

In Battleaxe, the characters certainly start off believing they are in this kind of story. Axis, the unacknowledged prince, is charged with escorting his hated half-brother's fiance to her wedding, while rumors spread of the return of the horrifying Forbidden. Very quickly though, appearances prove deceptive. Axis is no innocent idealist but an arrogant, ambitious jerk. The fair maiden, Faraday, cannot avoid disaster by marrying the right man, but the wrong one. The Forbidden turn out to be very different from myth and harboring a very legitimate grudge against humankind.

These types of twists are a dime a dozen nowadays, but back then - at least to me - it was a game changer. The hero doesn't have to be a good guy, grand quests don't always turn out how you want them to, and authority figures that are supposedly good and trustworthy can be lying through their teeth. Add in a sensual immediacy and a dash of gruesome horror, and you have Sara Douglas at her finest.

Battleaxe is definitely for older teens and above. I'm not exaggerating the horror aspect; there's some fairly disturbing violence in this book. The protagonists' extremely questionable morality might also be difficult for children to deal with; adultery and fratricide are discussed in a positive light, while a good deal of the plot revolves around religious and racial genocide.

However, it contains some of the most imaginative world-building I've ever encountered, with the most interesting racial tensions since Legolas and Gimli started sniping at one another. The characters' moral gray makes for intriguing reading, and even when the antagonists slip into two-dimensional villainy, there's a tragically pathetic edge to them that keeps them sympathetic.

Battleaxe can be found on Booktopia, Amazon.com, Book Depository, and just about any bookstore in Australia.