I finished The Road by Cormac McCarthy on the weekend and to be honest, I didn’t think a whole lot of it.

The Road is McCarthy’s nihilistic take on the post apocalyptic novel and follows two characters, the man and the boy, as they walk along the road, heading to the shore, heading forward without much hope. The landscape is raw, burnt, filled with ash, cannibalism, and despair. The book is almost a tour of the landscape, given how little narrative there is in it, with McCarthy’s prose stripped back to its most minimalistic, and providing fine lines such as, “sketched upon the pall of soot downstream the outline of a burnt city like a black paper scrim.” Unfortunately, however, this is pretty much all the book has going for it, as the characters, by the necessity of McCarthy’s stripped back world, are nameless, defined by the few traits of their survival and, in their conversations especially, uninteresting. After about twenty to thirty pages into the book, you pretty much have the take on the world that is being presented to you, and while you might wait for McCarthy to give you a new insight, or to twist it, there’s nothing. What it is in the start, it is in the end.

Well, not the end entirely. The book could have been decent if McCarthy had written a more deserving end for the book, but instead, it feels as if he hasn’t been true to the vision he has put forward, and the ending that is in place feels as if it comes from a different novel entirely. Perhaps the sunny post apocalyptic child’s novel he is working on, I don’t know, but it pretty much flat out sucked and felt as if he purposefully drew away from the dark, hopeless ending that he had been building to before.

Despite the fact that the intention of The Road’s minimalism is set out from the start, one of the things that disappointed me most about the book was how simple it felt. At times it really did feel as if McCarthy had written the first draft of a novel, enjoyed all the scenery, and then thought, well, that’s enough of that, and then moved on to something that would engage him more. He offers the briefest explanation of how the world has become the wreckage that it has, conveying it mostly through the descriptions around the man and the boy, but there’s no attempt to connect it either the real world, or the narrative that is unfolding before you. Mostly, that wouldn’t be a huge problem, except that because what is happening is so light, the reader has time to wonder, to ask him or herself how did this happen, what was this like, and so forth–eventually, somewhere between the third or fourth time the boy freaks out about going into a house, you start to ask yourself why McCarthy is giving you such a repetitive set of scenes, when there’s so much unexplored within the novel.

Ah well.

A lot of people liked The Road, but I’ve had better McCarthy experiences.

I just flipped past some show on TV, talking about a reality TV show staring Steven Seagal:

There are no words.

A man stops you on the street. He’s an older man, straight, grey haired, glasses, an attaché case in his hand. He tells you he knows that your life is on the downward. You’re just released from prison; a gambler; a junkie; an ice cream man. You’re down, you’re trying to make it better, but it’s hard, and it is probably not going to work out. This man, he tells you who is responsible for you being where you are, and that inside the case is a evidence to prove this, and a gun, with a hundred untraceable bullets.

You get a choice, he says.

Such is the basic premise of Brian Azzarello and Eduardo Risso’s 100 Bullets, of which I just finished reading the final collection of. After the high concept, the main narrative of the story revolved around a group of killers, called the Minutemen, who are led by Agent Graves, and who are responsible for keeping the peace in a collection of rich families with a lot of pull. The kind of pull that changes the world. After a bad job in Atlantic City before the series begins, the seven members of the Minutemen were hidden, and said to be dead, but now, years later, Agent Graves and Mr. Shepard have a plan to enact their revenge, and are reactivating them, one by one. They are, also, slowly turning the Trust, the aforementioned families, against each other, and slowly killing them, too. Over the one hundred issues of the series, the storyline of this reveneg twists and turns and takes its time to settle into cohesive whole, but it’s a fine journey, with Azzarello’s script working nicely from page to page, and often weaving two narratives together for juxtaposition, while Risso’s art provides the moody, multi layered noir sensibility that defines the entire run. It is a shame, then, a true shame, that when it comes to the climax, that Azzarello’s script, having juggled his many plot lines for so long, has no idea how to bring it together.

Wilt, the final book in the series, exists to show the failure in Azzarello’s narrative. Until this point, the reader believes that everything will come together. The late introduction of the final Minuteman, Remi, is still hoped to work, though his narrative feels to have no true cohesive element, much like the character does in the series. Dizzy, the very first character we meet, suffers in the final book from not having enough space for her final characterisation to be completed–much, sadly, as Victor Ray, Cole, Loop, and Jack similarly suffer. It is perhaps most telling with Jack and Victor Ray, who, in the final chapter, are given exits that are so below par with their place in the entire series that you can only feel that Azzarello, in laying it out, believed he had to end it after 100 issues, to somehow connect to the title and high concept of the series. Indeed, you would be forgiven for thinking that another ten or so issues were truly needed for Azzarello’s script to be given enough breath to take his characters to their ends, and to tie up his narrative.

But, that said, it is nearly impossible for me to no recommend the series as a whole to you. The ride to the last collection is nothing but groovy. The storyline of Loop, who is given an attaché case with his father’s photo in it, only to be reunited with him before his death, and Loop’s later imprisonment, is worth the series alone. The emergence of Wylie, lost in Mexico as a drunk gas station attendant, and feeling the remorse for a killing he cannot remember, is probably my favourite, to be followed by Milo’s awakening, and Lono’s rise as the warlord for the Trust. Indeed, Victor Ray’s short treatment in the final volume is particularly sad, given how his slow drift from loyal soldier to someone who is losing faith and the combination of his violent, almost unstoppable nature is set up. His introduction, in the middle of the series–but actually the first of the Minutemen to be reactivated–is one of my favourite chapters, and one of the best examples of Azzarello and Riso juxtaposing two separate narratives against each other.

So, indeed, while I am disappointed in this final volume, I have to be honest and say that I rather view the series as a whole as a success, and an excellent one at that.

You know, I just realised, the word ’sekrit’ annoys me.

Perhaps it’s just me, but there’s just something elitist, condescending and misspelt about the word. Maybe I think there ought to be a law against it. There should be, however, a law against men who, in public toilets, stand at the trough, push their pants down to their thighs, and stand their showing a hairy ass while taking a piss.

I really should be able to make laws.

It appears that you’re either going to love or hate District 9 based on your ability to get behind the pseudo documentary narrative device that is used in the film, or not. Personally, I liked the style, though I thought it dropped off in the last half a little sadly. Still, I quite enjoyed the film.

From the outset, however, it is worth noting that District 9 is not the intelligent, cutting examination of the refugee/migrant that the trailer suggests, or that I hoped it would be. It is about immigration and refugee status, to a degree, but the film largely steps away from making an real connections, and instead focuses on the plight of Wikus Van De Merwe, a somewhat naive and bumbling employee of MNU, who is given the task of moving the alien refugees (referred to as Prawns throughout the film) from their slum of District 9, to the new, but located firmly away from the city, area that is District 10. During the process of serving the aliens eviction notices, of which the majority cannot read nor understand, Wikus comes into contact with an alien fluid and begins, slowly, to alter. With his body becoming a prawn, and he being able to now operate the alien technology, the decision is made to harvest him for science. As you might imagine, this doesn’t sit to well with poor Wikus, who goes on the run.

The first half of the film weaves between the drama and action various commentaries from ‘experts’ on the day. They talk about Wikus, give a brief introduction to the prawns, and touch on a number of issues that arise. At times, you wonder how the writer who wrote that, ‘Prawn symbolises a scavenger, a bottom feeder,’ and discusses it’s unpleasant racial tones can then turn around and introduce the criminal element as Nigerians involved in voodoo, and not feel that some poor racial representation is going on there. Well, perhaps it’s okay to demonise real people and make nice with fake visitors from another planet. For the most part, however, it works well, and director Neill Blomkamp (who was also responsible with Terri Tatchell for the script) slips in a lot of back story and information in a fairly entertaining way. In fact, my one complaint is that Blomkamp didn’t take the idea a little further, and use it to explore such questions as to why the aliens were there, the terrible status they were in when they arrived, the difference between them and Christopher, the prawn that Wikus is befriended by in the film. Indeed, he might also have chosen to introduce people who disagree with the treatment of the aliens. Of course, saying that kind of suggests that what I was looking for was a different film, and while I think addressing these issues would have made a stronger film, I don’t need it changed.

Working for it in its favour, Blomkamp and Sharlto Copley, who plays Wikus, have a main character that evokes the sympathy of the audience. Wikus’ relationship with his wife is the backbone of this: sketched out in only one scene with them in the same room, and then in a few brief interviews and two phone calls, it manages to skirt hysterics, and provides a strong foundation for the character’s desire to change, and his later actions in the film. Indeed, Blimkamp manages to create a second relationship in the film, that between the prawn Christopher and his son, in a similar manner that it manages to–for lack of a better term–humanise the alien and allow for his actions and reactions to impact on the film well. Of course, Christopher does suffer from being so different from the other prawns that there is some need for him to be further explained, as just how and why he has what he does (note how I move around the spoilers so delicately) is not addressed within the film at all.

Ultimately, the film slips towards the end when Wikus and Christopher join forces, and the documentary style narrative is lost for the big explosions and chase scenes. If, like me, you enjoyed the first half where that was stronger, you’ll find that the second half was a lighter, and slightly disappointing half to the film–but if you didn’t like the style, it’s entirely likely that this worked for you, as did the sudden ability of Wikus and Christopher to blow up buildings, take out soldiers, and catch a rocket.

Me, I thought the opportunity was lost to do something really neat.

However, as films are going these days, District 9 is a flick that’s actually worth the cost of a cinema ticket. In addition to that, it’s free of stars whose only positive attribute is that they’re hot, music that ages five minutes from now, and remakes you saw a long (or short) time ago.

Jeff and Ann Vandermeer have put together a collection of flash fiction for charity, entitled Last Drink Bird Head. It will be available, I believe, at the World Fantasy Convention, and looks like it’ll be a neat little thing in content and object. Below is the cover and a list of contributors.

Daniel Abraham
Michael Arnzen
Steve Aylett
KJ Bishop
Michael Bishop
Desirina Boskovich
Keith Brooke
Jesse Bullington
Richard Butner
Catherine Cheek
Matthew Cheney
Michael Cisco
Gio Clairval
Alan M. Clark
Brendan Connell
Paul Di Filippo
Stephen R. Donaldson
Rikki Ducornet
Clare Dudman
Alistair Duncan
Scott Eagle
Brian Evenson
Eliot Fintushel
Jeffrey Ford
Richard Gehr
Felix Gilman
John Courtney Grimwood
Rhys Hughes
Paul Jessup
Antony Johnston
John Kaiine
Henry Kaiser
Caitlin R. Kiernan
Tessa Kum
Ellen Kushner
Jay Lake
Tanith Lee
Stina Leicht
Therese Littleton
Beth Adele Long
Dustin Long
Nick Mamatas
JM McDermott
Sarah Monette
Kari O’Connor
Ben Peek
Holly Phillips
Louis Phillips
Tim Pratt
Cat Rambo
Mark Rich
Bruce Holland Rogers
Nicholas Royle
G Eric Schaller
Ekaterina Sedia
Ramsey Shehadeh
Peter Straub
Victoria Strauss
Michael Swanwick
Mark Swartz
Alan Swirsky
Rachel Swirsky
Sonya Taaffe
Justin Taylor
Steve Rasnic Tem
Jeffrey Thomas
Scott Thomas
John Urbancik
Genevieve Valentine
Kim Westwood
Leslie What
Andrew Steiger White
Conrad Williams
Liz Williams
Neil Williamson
Caleb Wilson
Gene Wolfe
Jonathan Wood
Marly Youmans
Catherine Zeidler

Link.

I’ve always had a bit of a love hate with Terry Gilliam. On one hand, I don’t get the hype, and a lot of his films I simply haven’t enjoyed. On the other hand, there’s the imagery, and the set designs, and I really dig those.

12 Monkeys, a film from the mid nineties most memorable for Brad Pitt’s chewing on the scenery, has a destroyed, ravaged future that Willis’ John Cole is thrown back in time from. He has been tasked with the job of stopping a pandemic erupting, and along the way, Gilliam plays with the whole idea of what is real or real, and Brad Pitt frees animals. Or something like that. It’s actually not a bad film, for all that I couldn’t stand the latter on screen, but the parts I liked and which stuck in my memory, of course, were those of the ravaged future. I always always disappointed when the film went to the ‘now’.

Here’s the film in two minutes:

I saw Luc Besson’s Le Dernier Combat years ago, shortly after Leon was released, and he was enjoying a moment of respectability (before the Fifth Element and Joan of Arc did away with that, and he went on to write such films as the Transporter). Black and white and mostly silent–no words are uttered, if I remember correctly, until the end–it deals with men in a post apocalyptic environment, fighting over what the audience presumes is one of the last, or the last, women.

On youtube, someone mixed scenes of it against Start to Melt by Peter Bjorn and John.

The first thing that I noticed about Jehovah’s witnesses on Saturday was that they were all well dressed. Buttoned shirts, ties, vests, skirts, suits. You were hard pressed to find someone who was not in what I’ll refer to as their Sunday best, unless, of course, you looked at me and S.

“Have you noticed that none of the women are wearing pants?”

She, of course, was. We were walking down the main drag of Olympic Park, having been unable to park in the Acer Arena carpark due to it being sold out.

“You’re a harlot,” I said. “Its been difficult to bring up over the years.”

“That four year old is better dressed than you.”

“It’s the vest.”

Indeed, the four year old was better dressed than I had ever been in my life. Neat, straight, as if he’d been pulled from a box, he walked past with his parents, heading out of the Acer Arena as the lunch break began. A swarm of people were behind him and his family, the majority of them the nuclear unit, ranging from the young, new ones, to the middle aged, teenage bearing ones. There were prams, which only women pushed. The clothes had this strange sense of community about them, and as we drew closer to the doors of Acer Arena, there began to emerge a realisation that there were a lot of them.

A whole lot.

“I saw the wrestling here, once,” S said. “Back when the American thing was popular. I got a parking spot in that lot.”

Me, I had been to the Arena to see the Foo Fighters, a few years back. It had been busy, but I’d parked there without any real problems. “Maybe it sold out during the Olympics.”

“So, the Olympics and the Jehovah’s Witness End of the World Symposium are sharing the same audiences in Sydney?”

“Well, I don’t go to either.”

And I wouldn’t go to this one, either.

Security was referred to as Attendants, and as S and I entered the Arena, intent on having a look around, and maybe sitting in on one of their discussions, we were picked up very quickly. He was a neatly dressed man, Spanish, or so he told us later, and with an ear piece on. He managed to stop us five steps into the compound, asking if he could help us, but with the firm, no nonsense approach that clearly stated that he wasn’t going to be letting us past. The word that I am looking for is professional. He was very professional.

“There’s over fifteen thousand of us here today,” he said. “Last week we had the Spanish Community out here, next week Perth. We try to split everyone up, keep everyone in their communities, avoid any kind of hassles. Here, have a program.”

The truth was, I was out of my depth.

I had planned (and planned is, I assure you, not the word you’d describe the five seconds I thought, ‘Yeah, why not go?’) to walk in, sit down, walk out, do as I please stuff. The Jehovah’s Witness security, however, was much more organised, and if S and I wanted to stay, then we would be seated. Something about the way that had both S and I a little wary. We couldn’t help but notice that we were being directed out of the door, for example. In hindsight, it was rather like being herded in a polite, but firm matter, and given a program afterwards. Before leaving, we were told that we would have to come back after the break. Outside, in the oddly warm Winter, Jehovah’s Witness sat around, chatting, eating, and having a good time. You would never guess that they were involved in an offshoot of Christianity that believed the world was ending around them. But perhaps the morning baptism of people in ‘modest’ bathing suits had gone some ways to alleviating that.

The pamphlets that we had been given informed us of what we had missed, and what was to come in the afternoon. There was singing. There was conversation about Satan. If I had done any research before I left, I would have realised that surviving the End of the World wasn’t really up for discussion, given that the general thrust of Jehovah’s Witnesses is that the world is ending as we speak. I did, however, learn from the pamphlet that once the world did end, that 144 000 of the faithful would be resurrected with Jesus, and allowed, well, whatever it is you’re allowed when that kind of thing goes on. Also, apparently the faithful believe that when you die, you indeed die, until Jesus decides to resurrect you in the future, and if he does not, then you are, honestly, quite dead.

Eventually, S and I decided that we wouldn’t try for being ’seated’ in Acer Arena. It was a little too controlled for us, and I guess in the end, the sheer size of the people there, and the way that we stuck out was enough to put us on the back foot, and decide that we would be better served leaving. There was one last image, however, that stuck in my head as we left, having spent our time discussing the clothes, and the ideas from the pamphlet, and that was of a hill, at the end of Olympic Park. It wasn’t too large, or small, but it was enough that you could walk up it and stand on it, over looking the arena. It looked rather like those religious pictures you see of a happy, well dressed bunch of people standing on a hill, basking in the glory of God or whatever it is you wish to subscribe too.

Out of my depth, like I said.

In the last couple of days I’ve been hearing stories about women’s boxing become recognised in the Olympic Games. When I first heard of it, I thought, that’s cool: another small step in equality. Sweet. I didn’t think there would be anything beyond that to say about the matter.

It’s been strange, to say the least, to see the interviews with prominent male figures (a boxer, the Australian Prime Minister) who have expressed their dislike in the decision because women boxing is ‘unlady’ like. I saw Kevin Rudd tonight further reinforce the idea that he’s no different from any previous leader by saying, “I guess I’m old fashioned,” about the subject, and having a touch of pride in his voice when he said it. It was if he was saying, I’m old fashioned. I know what I like my women doing. I like them at home. With children. With bare feet. Thank you. I know you do too. Please vote again. Well, perhaps all that was just my cynicism, but I was still surprised to hear anyone objecting on the decision to allow female boxing into the Olympics based on whether or not they thought grown adults should be doing it.

Perhaps the world isn’t as progressive as I had begun to believe it to be. The other night I saw piece on the youth group that is championing the sanctity of marriage and good Christian morales, but who apparently didn’t have enough sense not to call their organisation <a href=”http://www.riseyouthministry.com/” target=”_blank”>Rise</a>. I thought it fairly impressive that the small end piece in the SBS news made it a whole five minutes without someone asking, “So, really, for a group campaigning against sex in advertising, did you really think the name through?” but I was also curious as to why they were giving these people any air space. There’s really no place in the world for people who want to take the rights away from other people, or to deny someone else simple, basic recognition based off the fact that you disagree with their partner choice–and I wondered why people who were like that were getting air time. I’ve half convinced myself that the people involved in SBS broadcasting are becoming more and more conservative, given the space they gave on air to the organisation who were saying that global warming was, in fact, a huge conspiracy put forward by scientists who wanted juicy grant money and politicians who wanted to control us all.

I don’t know. Some days, I like to think society is moving forward, aiming for the day when we can clone ourselves in our kitchen, but most days, it feels like I should be looking at how much it’ll cost to rent a cave and take up telling stories on the walls within.