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Game of Thrones: Season 2, Episode 1. The North Remembers
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Game of Thrones is based on A Song of Ice and Fire by George R R Martin. The content of Season 2 in this television adaptation by HBO is drawn from A Clash of Kings. As before, the production is helmed by David Benioff and D B Weis. Here’s the link to my retrospective overview of Game of Thrones Season 1. This is a spoiler-rich discussion of what happens in each episode, so do not read this if you want to watch without prior knowledge.
It’s always interesting to see how television shows deal with the nature of political power. Looking back for a moment, our own William Shakespeare was not immune from the need to change history to suit the sensibilities and expectations of his audience. Perhaps more importantly, he also needed money from patrons to survive, so could not afford to upset the nobility by critiquing their use of power. It’s the same today because, with the exception of home-grown talent like the BBC or the Public Broadcasting Service in America which are not for-profit and so less dependent on advertising revenue, the folk who write and produce television shows have to consider the tastes of their audience very carefully. If viewership numbers fall and corporate advertisers will not pay top rates for their puffs to air, the producers and the networks take a big hit. That means, even at an allegorical level, writers and producers must be very careful what they say and show.
Peter-Dinklage getting his seat at the table of power
I’m starting the review of The North Remembers in this way because of one scene between Petyr Baelish aka Littlefinger (Aidan Gillen) and Cersei Lannister (Lena Headey). He plays the line that, as one of the spymasters, knowledge is power. As a response, she has a guard ready to cut his throat because power is power. The whole point of Season 2 is the collapse of the Kingdom of Westeros. Although Joffrey (Jack Gleeson) carries the Baratheon name and may appear to be the legitimate heir, the news of his true parentage will soon be spread through the marketplaces. Despite the Lannisters’ best efforts to kill all the bastard children Robert Baratheon left around the kingdom, claimants to the Iron Throne will come rapidly into view and civil war is unavoidable. We already have Robb Stark (Richard Madden) proclaimed as King of the North. Elsewhere, Stannis Baratheon (Stephen Dillane) has accepted Ned Stark’s invitation and steps into the ring to duke it out for the Crown. In such circumstances, the person-to-person physical power that Cersei wields is worth little, but a spymaster’s practical understanding of the “big picture” has great value, particularly if he’s also pulling some of the strings. Indeed, Cersei’s attempts to run the kingdom are ineffectual, while Joffrey’s reign is one of random sadism. One interesting figure on the horizon is Sandor Clegane (Rory McCann). As Joffrey’s bodyguard, he’s currently amusing himself by killing unwilling victims in unequal combat. We expect better things from him.
Lena Headey who’s intermittently in control of the situation
Fortunately, Tyrion Lannster (Peter Dinklage) is sent by his father to be the Hand. Since he’s not only intelligent but has also seen the world, he’s the right man in the right place with the right perspective to get things done. Although he can’t ignore Joffrey and Cersei, he has his hands on the levers of power. It’s a shame the same can’t be said of Jaime Lannister (Nikolaj Coster-Waldau). He’s still being held as a hostage by Robb Stark and his embarrassingly fake CGI direwolf. Ah yes, the Starks. What a dour northern bunch they are. Young Bran (Isaac Hempstead-Wright), of course, is the most interesting and we now have a proper view of him with Hodor (Kristian Nairn). It’s going to be interesting to watch him come to terms with his warg abilities. Arya (Maisie Williams) is briefly glimpsed on the King’s Road going north with Yoren (Francis Magee). We look for great things from her. Sansa (Sophie Turner) is in full survival mode, although we do notice a minor act of rebellion supported covertly by Tyrion. Out on military manoevres with her son, Catelyn Stark (Michelle Fairley) accepts the first commission to reach out to make alliances. Robb cannot win on his own. If he’s to realise his potential power, he must have allies.
Isaac Hempstead-Wright and Kristian Nairn moving around with more confidence
Although there were hints of magic in Season 1 through Bran Stark’s dreams, not counting the dragons, of course, this opening episode is the first opportunity to see the Red Princess “at work”. As Melisandre (Carice Van Houten), she demonstrates her power over poison administered by Maester Cressen (Oliver Ford Davies), a follower of the old religion. Stannis Baratheon seems suitably humourless and so is well equipped to succumb to Melisandre’s charms.
Jon Snow (Kit Harington) is making progress in the power game. He learns the vital lesson that to become an effective leader, he must first learn how to be a follower. Jeor Mormont (James Cosmo) commands a small force north of the Wall to gather intelligence. While visiting the home of Craster (Robert Pugh), a wildling patriarch who takes all his daughters as his wives as soon as they are old enough, they hear the name of Mance Rayder. He was a former Ranger who’s setting himself up as the King-Beyond-the -Wall. So far, there’s little sign of his power. Even further off the map is Daenerys Targaryen (Emilia Clarke). She may have the name, be the proud owner of three dragons and have the good-looking Ser Jorah Mormont (Iain Glen) in tow, but this counts for little when you’re in a desert without any provisions. At this point, it’s as well to remember that knowledge is power.
Emilia Clarke with one dragon to go
Overall, The North Remembers is a dark and brooding episode focusing on themes of knowledge and power. Many may find the killing of Robert’s bastards hard to take. Political expediency is rarely pretty in action. We see power in transition in the Westeros and power left behind in the land of the Dothraki. We hear of new power rising north of the Wall. We see a priestess of R’hilor seeking to consolidate her God’s power in the Westeros by supporting Stannis. So despite ranging from icy wastes to desert sands, the episode just about hangs together and moves us forward at a reasonable pace. I’m not sure Shakespeare would have appreciated it, but the advertisers have spoken and HBO has commissioned the third series. I guess this means David Benioff, D B Weis and George R R Martin have won this particular power battle.
For review of Season 2, see:
Game of Thrones: Season 2, Episode 2. The Night Lands
Game of Thrones: Season 2, Episode 3. What Is Dead May Never Die
Game of Thrones: Season 2, Episode 4. Garden of Bones
Game of Thrones: Season 2, Episode 5. The Ghost of Harrenhal
Game of Thrones: Season 2, Episode 6. The Old Gods and the New
Game of Thrones: Season 2, Episode 7. A Man Without Honor
Game of Thrones: Season 2, Episode 8. The Prince of Winterfell
Game of Thrones: Season 2, Episode 9. Blackwater
Game of Thrones: Season 2, Episode 10. Valar Morghulis
Game of Thrones: Season 2 — the HBO series considered
Dragon or Wu Xia (2011)
Dragon or Wu Xia is a fascinating film, underpinning the martial arts action with two major social themes: which is the stronger influence, nature or nurture? and whether at a society level through rehabilitation, or an individual level through redemption, can a wrongdoer reform?
Let’s take a central image. I plant an acorn and carefully watch the first green shoots grow into a strong tree. No matter what I might do to the tree during its formative period, it will always grow into an oak. It’s true that some radical surgery might produce a miniaturised bonsai version, but the seed determines the outcome. Translating this into a human context, we might take a view that all babies are born innocent of sin so, if they become wrongdoers, it’s because of their upbringing. Parents are the ones most often blamed for their children’s failures. Or we might stay with the idea of a bad seed and exonerate the parents. No matter what they tried, the child was born a wrongdoer and would always end up in jail.
In the opening frames we meet Li Jin-xi (Donnie Yen). Set in 1917, he’s living a peaceful life in rural Yunnan province. A clan member for some ten years, he married Ayu (Wei Tang), an abandoned wife with a son. They now have a son of their own. He works to make paper and is increasingly respected in the community. One day, two villains pass through the village and, because it amuses them, they try to extort money from the owner of the general store. There’s an extended fight and Jin-xi not only survives, but also leaves the two dead. Xu Bail-jiu (Takeshi Kaneshiro), a police inspector with forensic skills, takes over the investigation. He’s fascinated by the notion that an “ordinary” man could best two veteran kung fu exponents. Although I could have done without the CSI-style slow-motion recreations of what happens inside the body, the deconstruction and reconstruction of this initial fight is remarkable. I cannot recall seeing anything similar and, without anything more, this is a strong reason to see the film on a big screen so that you don’t miss any of the detail. Seeing where the feet were placed, how a tooth happened to end up inside the jar, how the ear was lost, and so on, is a tour de force. This initial evaluation triggers an investigative battle between the detective and the man with something to hide. It’s surprising they don’t kill each other.
Tang Wei as Ayu holding the disputed son
As the detective, Xu Bail-jiu is fighting his essential nature. He was a young, idealistic and empathetic man and, taking pity on a young boy, allowed him to return home. Unfortunately, the boy then killed his parents and permanently damaged Xu Bail-jiu with poison. The detective is left treating himself with acupuncture to prevent the poison from spreading and, sadly, to suppress his empathy. No-one can now be forgiven. When he married, he even handed over his father-in-law to the police for selling fake medicines. He’s chosen to believe the law is infallible and that his role is dispassionately to seek out wrongdoers. He can then wash his hands and leave it to the law to process the criminals. He’s not clear what the outcome of this process should be. The failure of his own decision to give a second chance convinces him rehabilitation is a waste of time. To him, the only good criminal is a criminal behind bars. So when he establishes a good prima facie case that Jin-xi was the second-in-command of the 72 Devils, a notoriously bloodthirsty Tangut tribe, he sets off to the local city to get a warrant for Jin-xi’s arrest. Having borrowed the money, he bribes a judge to get the warrant. In turn, the judge seeks to sell the information of Jin-xi’s whereabouts to the 72 Devils. The detective, with a few police officers in tow, and the 72 Devils therefore converge of the village where our hero has been hiding.
Takeshi Kaneshiro showing Xu Bail-jiu has a dark side
We hear Jin-xi talk about his father (Jimmy Wang Yu) and this prepares us for the family reunion when the main group of the 72 Devils arrives. Now we come to the heart of the film. As a child, Jin-xi missed his father when the gang went out on its raids, so he went along and saw exactly what was being done. After a time, he could no longer stand the excessiveness of the violence. Disgusted with himself and what he had become, he ran away and hid in this village. Both Jin-xi and Xu Bail-jiu therefore find themselves in the same position. As individuals, they have become the sum of their life’s experiences. So which side of their personality will win out? Is Jin-xi inevitably the brutal son of his brutal father? Can Xu Bail-jiu reform and become the empathetic man he once was?
Donnie Yen has the more difficult role if he’s to engage our attention. From the outset we know he cannot be an innocent villager. He’s therefore more of an enigma until we start to hear him talk about his past. Then we can more clearly identify with his struggle to stay true to his wife and family. Takeshi Kaneshiro does a wonderful job as Xu Bail-jiu. He’s a good man deceiving himself. Self-righteousness has blinded him to the harm he does. Even his police boss offers good advice in vain. Yet slowly we can watch the seeds of doubt take root. It’s a carefully measured performance and it carries the opening third of the film with Wei Tang’s Ayu. She sees the good in both men and has the courage to trust they will both eventually do the right thing. Finally, it’s a joy to see Jimmy Wang Yu back in Hong Kong. He’s marvellously malevolent as the father. Put simply, if the Master can no longer have his son, his grandson will do.
Jimmy Wang Yu as a wonderfully malevolent father
Let me finish this review with a mention of a line in this film’s marketing that suggests Dragon or Wu Xia is an adaptation of the One-Armed Swordsman or Dubei dao, a film made in Hong Kong in 1967. Giving credence to this story is the fact this early “classic” starred Jimmy Wang Yu. Well, it’s been my misfortune to sit through this epic drama. Essentially shot in a studio with cheesy sets, it tells the story of a put-upon orphan who’s adopted by a kung fu master. When he proves more skilled than the great man’s daughter and some jealous students, he’s maimed and barely escapes with his life. In due course, he returns to rescue this undeserving shower from a plot to exterminate the entire clan using a quite clever device to neutralise the famous sword fighting style. Our one-armed hero wins because he has learned to fight using his left arm and a shortened sword. Even allowing for the more naive times during which this film was made, it always was embarrassing, being yet another example of Hong Kong’s determination to churn out content regardless of quality. So be reassured. Dragon or Wu Xia is so completely different that I wonder at the decision to even mention One-Armed Swordsman. The problem is casting Jimmy Wang Yu as the father in Dragon or Wu Xia. This creates a link. The director, Peter Chan, should have said he cast Jimmy Wang Yu because he was the best man for the new film. If challenged, he could admit watching One-Armed Swordsman and, having resisted the temptation to commit suicide, learned all that was to be avoided in making kung fu films.
If you have the chance to see Dragon or Wu Xia on a big screen, don’t hesitate. Donnie Yen’s fight choreography is wonderful and the story mesmerising.
Sleight of Hand by Peter S Beagle
Sleight of Hand, another excellent collection from Peter S. Beagle (Tachyon Publications, 2011) sees us enter the world of love — not as portrayed on the pages of romantic fiction, you understand, for that would be a big turn-off for many readers. Without wanting to get into gender politics, the macho culture denies interest in the emotional side of the world, referring contemptuously to sentimentality in the more mawkish sense of the word. Even holding such a book in their hands has a tendency to make them feel nauseous. Allowing for this, Sleight of Hand is a book to help even the most prejudiced readers overcome their antipathies, being sincere in its desire to deal with every possible shade of love you could imagine, and then a few that never occurred to you. Here fantasy meets supernatural as gods debate with their children how many shades of love there are.
We start with “The Rock in the Park”, a pseudo-autobiographical story from Beagle’s youth, telling how he and a friend rescued three centaurs who had lost their way and ended up in Van Cortland Park in the Bronx. Magic is magic whether you tell it as fiction or truth.
“Sleight of Hand” (first appearing in Eclipse Three) is a story of love. What would we give up for the ones we love? Assuming it to be true love, of course? There’s no knowing how deeply selfishness may penetrate even the most apparently loving person until we are tested. Death tests us. When someone we love is taken from us in an accident. . . At first comes the grief. Later, if we are lucky, acceptance follows. But there may come a moment when a choice could be offered. It would appear like magic, like one of those tricks we call sleight of hand. Suppose we could take the place of the one who died. . . Would we? Could we?
“Children of the Shark God” is also a story of love, this time between an absent father and his family. Some men are faithful. They put down roots and stay with the women they love, take pride in the children as they grow. Others never want the commitment. They love in the abstract, afraid that, if they care too much, they will be hurt when their wives die before them. And the children? Well, in a way, watching them die would be worse than watching the wives die. Once they have invested the time and effort in watching these insensible lumps of flesh grow into images of themselves, it’s too late to stop caring what happens to them.
“The Best Worst Monster” takes a Frankenstein theme to heart, wondering whether the monster you create comes with a soul. What is a soul anyway? Perhaps it’s only a sense of what’s right and wrong. Perhaps it’s only a guilty conscience when you do wrong. Perhaps it’s the love and friendship you find in other people. Such are the things monsters are thinking about when they walk about the town.
Peter S Beagle demonstrates the idea of a fantasy forest
“What Tune the Enchantress Plays” takes us back to the Innkeeper’s World, this time considering the price to be paid for following your heart when it comes to love. In many civilisations, marriages are arranged to hold wealth in a family or transmit a status to the children. Some children are brought up to be submissive, to follow in the tradition handed down from one generation to the next. Other children rebel, innocently at first, not realising how much they are stepping outside the boxes their parents have constructed for them. But once they face the reality of the opposition and the extent of the manipulations some families will engage in to prevent a marriage deemed unsuitable, then they face the hard choice of submission or finding the courage to follow their own hearts.
“La Lune T’Attend” shows how deep flows the love of grandparents when they see their children threatened. Sometimes they must make sacrifices but, if they do, it will always be the youngest who will hold their memories most clearly in mind. As always, the magic will come from the way they choose to go. “Up the Down Beanstalk: A Wife Remembers” shows how the passion can disappear from a relationship to be replaced by the routine of the wife keeping the place tidy and her feckless husband fed. No matter how you try to deceive yourself, there comes a point when you just wish your husband would take a trip somewhere and leave you in peace.
“The Rabbi’s Hobby” (first appearing in Eclipse Two) wonders what happens to a family when a mother dies early. The tragedy might be worse than you know if a baby sister also dies but the father never tells the surviving daughter. To live in a house with such grief inevitably colours the rest of your life and, perhaps, leaves that life like a lock that has no key. Suppose such a daughter, now grown older, gets a telephone call from an unknown Rabbi with a bee in his bonnet about a photograph. By one of these fortuitous coincidences, perhaps that Rabbi also has a hobby of collecting keys. Bringing all the interested parties together as a young boy goes through his Bar Mitzvah could find the right place for the key to fit.
“Oakland Dragon Blues” is a simple and elegant metafictional piece about the unintended consequences of starting a story and then not finishing it. “The Bridge Partner” encourages us to think about the relationship between the hunter and the prey, a theme carried over into “Dirae” (first appearing in Warriors) that lets us watch our well-motivated, but bloodthirsty, heroine struggle with problems of identity and motivation. It’s classical mythology meets John 15:13 where a woman shows great love by laying down her life for unknown friends in danger. “Vanishing” is a kind of Twilight Zone episode in which the spirits of those traumatised by a death on the Berlin Wall gather together to find peace of mind if not redemption. And finally, “The Woman Who Married the Man In the Moon” is a bitter-sweet story of the magic in love. Two lost children may bring a man home with them, but their mother may not be prepared to lose her heart again if it means leaving the children behind. Such are the chains that bind us in our lonely roles.
As collections go, Sleight of Hand is one of the best by a master storyteller on top form. What makes Peter S Beagle so remarkable is the consistency of his work. Even when he fails to completely resolve everything to perfection, he’s still better than most other writers working in the fantasy field. The reason is easy to find. He always writes about people who feel real. Even when the context is a different world with supernatural creatures and magic that works, the characters are in the foreground, striving the best they can for their heart’s desire.
For reviews of other books by Peter S Beagle, see Return: An Innkeeper’s World Story, We Never Talk About My Brother, and Strange Roads.
For the record, Sleight of Hand was shortlisted for the 2012 Locus Award for Best Collection.
Hidden Cities by Daniel Fox
The first two volumes in the trilogy, Moshui, the Books of Stone and Water, were impressive. Indeed, the quality of both the narrative and the writing were, if anything, improving as the story moved towards a climax so nicely poised. So there was a moment of trepidation as I picked up the final volume. Would Hidden Cities maintain the momentum? Could Daniel Fox weave all the hanging threads together just so and leave us all satisfied?
Let’s just cast a brief glance back at Jade Man’s Skin. In a way, that’s all about the big stuff of people going to war and a dragon bringing destruction from the skies. It reaches a high point and then, because of the typhoon, everything finds an unexpected point of balance. It’s yin and yang between the earth and the sea, between the warring forces and the dragon. It’s time to hunker down and wait for the rain to stop. Only then can you review where you are in the campaign and decide what to do next.
Except the moment you stop running after the enemy, all the details come back into focus. What do you do with all the wounded? Can you feed all the surviving troops? Can you defend the city you so recently captured? What about the people who’ve been caught up in all the fighting? Even more importantly, the personal relationships intrude. There’s no time to think of your wife or lover while you’re fighting. Survival is all in the moment. So when Emperor can sit down with Mei Feng, and Jiao can observe Yu Shan with Siew Ren, the realities of pregnancy and of lost love become all too clear. Such recognitions change people’s emotions, perhaps even reshape them as individuals. Later, Tien can meet up with Han, that’s when Han is not riding the dragon and talking with her, of course. And then there’s Ma Lin and her daughters who now find themselves in service to Li-Goddess. Yes, it’s always important that people talk to each other, and with their gods and monsters.
As an aside, we should note a more general point about war. From time to time, there have been real attempts at total victory. Think about the destruction of Carthage where not only did the Romans pull down the city, but also salted the earth so no-one could farm there for generations. But few military campaigners have gone beyond the literal decimation, i.e. a reduction in the opposing forces by ten percent. You always need a core of competent people to till the land and run a range of manufacturing and service industries. There always comes a point when stability is more important than the egos of the leaders who would prefer to fight on. Except fighting is addictive, just like hunting. Addicts do not stop voluntarily. So the people have to save themselves. There’s a tipping point when enough of the people grow tired and hungry, where they run away or resist the call of the generals to attack or defend. If there are not enough soldiers, this forces an accommodation. The fighting stops.
In Hidden Cities, our interest must spread beyond the human. Think about a tiger who has lost his mother, but may have found another to take her place. Think about a dragon who had an agreement with the people but was betrayed by an Emperor and chained. These animals have a right to be angry, but how do you negotiate with them? What might they want or desire as the price of peace? Perhaps they might answer the question through a lesson for all of us: that every creature comes to a better understanding of the world and universe around it by coming to a better understanding of itself. What will that introspection produce? Will it keep a dragon or even a jade tiger happy enough to coexist with the people around them? And what of Li-Goddess? She has the endless power of the sea but no dominion over the land. Can a being so powerful have any interest in the ordinary run of humans, particularly when the majority has grown lax in worshipping her?
Chaz Brenchley being Daniel Fox in a thoughtfully minimalist way
Overall, this trilogy is rooted in Taoism, a belief system that aims to reconcile yin and yang whenever possible. This is action through inaction, a relativism of inherent flexibility. In nature, the reed bends before the wind and survives the typhoon. Scaled up, this is the way of the universe. Like water, it has a natural flow, finding a path of least resistance through the land. Our eyes may be caught by the excitement of rapids and waterfalls. Eddies and whirlpools may appear chaotic. But there’s always some level of order and purpose to the direction of the flow. It may only be gravity in untamed nature, but when humans organise, those who show the virtue of integrity will find a way through the chaos, identifying the potential harmonies and building on them to direct the flow. In Hidden Cities, it falls to the characters with humility, to those who are sufficiently self-sacrificing, to see a way of negotiating an accommodation between warring parties. Now it’s their turn gently to adjust the situations so that those with the trappings of power may see compromise as both achievable and desirable. And because the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, this may involve betrayal of long-held beliefs as individuals take sides and push for peace. Surely, it’s worth sacrificing some of your principles if peace is the prize you seek.
In the end, perhaps some of the “traitors” must perish so that the innocent may survive. So where does this leave the people? Well, in the hidden cities, the next generation is waiting to be born. Before, during and after wars, relationships flourish. Soon wombs fill with new life, confirming the cycle of destruction and renewal — the persistence of life.
Although there are some alarums and excursions as generals try out new technology to attack the dragon while keeping old knowledge as Plan B to restore the chains, the overall tone of this concluding volume is deliberately muted. There has already been too much death. Despite some new military skirmishes, the final resolutions must ultimately depend on the people deciding what they want and who they should follow. Daniel Fox continues to produce some fine prose and, in the end, there is peace. Perhaps that’s as much as anyone ever deserves.
Overall, Hidden Cities is the final volume in one of the best trilogies of the last few years, providing thoughtful fantasy against a background of war. Unlike other fantasy authors who leave bodies littering the landscape, this is unflinching when it comes to describing the conflict, but then considers the aftermath with empathy and constructive compassion. In the Taoist sense of the words, Moshui, the Books of Stone and Water is a well-balanced trilogy. So don’t even think of picking this up as a stand-alone. You will not know who anyone is nor understand their motivations. This is a book best savoured after first devouring the first two.
Jacket artwork by Robert Hunt.
The first two books in the trilogy are Dragon in Chains and Jade Man’s Skin. For a new series, see Desdaemona and Pandaemonium
Kings of the North by Elizabeth Moon
When you pitch into creating a world where magic works, there’s an immediate problem for the author. First you have you write a set of rules for the magic to work, and then you have to apply them consistently. There’s nothing more annoying than arbitrariness where, to enable a key player to achieve an objective or escape from danger, a previously unsuspected ability is revealed like a rabbit out of a hat. By this, I’m not talking about remembering a recipe for curing boils as opposed to a love filtre, or suddenly discovering a long-lost spell book. Let’s say we’ve started off with the magic based on the ability to manipulate the energy in the human body, e.g. permitting the creation of fireballs. We need to know how destructive this power is, how far the ball may be projected, whether using it tires the magician so limiting the number of uses per hour, and so on. What we don’t want is for a demon to wander into view and ask a tired magician if she needs some help with the next ball. Unless, that is, a religious or comparable framework has been established to establish the relationship between humans, demons, and any Gods that happen to be around and capable of interfering in the human realm.
Kings of the North by Elizabeth Moon continues the Paladin’s Legacy trilogy which started with Oath of Fealty. Both are set in the world first described in the Deed of Paksenarrion trilogy, but there’s a steady increase in the level of magic. The first trilogy to some extent underplays the practical side of magical abilities. We know the Paladins and God-touched have powers, but the primary focus is on getting things done without having to rely too much on supernatural forces. That’s all changing as the characters we are following learn more about the way magic is woven into the fabric of their world. In this, Elizabeth Moon is avoiding the trap of being authorially omniscient and infodumping to fill in any missing background as we go along. She’s maintaining the points of view, so we learn at the same pace as the characters. This is playing fair with the readers.
Elizabeth Moon pleased to be backed by books
So where are we in story terms? Having been identified as the rightful heir by Paksenarrion, Kieri Phelan is now established as the King Lyonya, a land of humans and elves he is supposed to rule jointly with his grandmother. His personal life is complicated because everyone wants him to marry and produce an heir. Politically, the elves are in stand-off mode and there are troubles with Pargun, the southern neighbour. Dorrin Verrakai continues to make progress as a Duke working for King Mikeli in Tsaia. Having defended the country against the blood magic of her relatives, she’s now trusted to take responsibility for the army and the general defence of the land. Janderlir Arcolin is on military manoeuvres against an enemy that’s looking increasingly well-organised. This is surprising since these mercenaries are supposed to be working for Alured the Black, a mere brigand of possible piratical origin. Worse, the “enemy” seems to be diversifying into economic warfare by undermining the common Guild currency. While Arvid Semminson rather unexpectedly finds himself in the thick of things when he visits Fin Panir but, as always, is well-prepared for all emergencies.
Elizabeth Moon strikes an interesting balance between the political, the military and the magical. There’s a tough-minded practicality to the detail of how to run a kingdom, get a noble’s house and estates up and running, and train, equip and provision an army for real work and not some idle sport. The magic is also increasingly relevant with the different levels of skill on display between both the different races, and the ordinary practitioner and a mage. Finally, the land force called the taig is becoming an issue.
The writing style is pleasing, managing to pack in an amazing amount of detail without getting boring. It’s obvious that an enormous amount of time and energy has been invested in the creation of this world — a fact evidenced by the presence of four earlier novels based in it. This always presents a danger because, if the author becomes too distracted by the delight of adding in yet more facts, it can derail the pacing of the novel. There are one or two times when the action slows, as in the inconvenience to Kieri Phelan occasioned by the unexpected arrival of the two princesses. But, for the most part, the narrative is pushing forward and the factual information does turn out to be useful.
Overall, this is a nicely judged fantasy, continuing the story arcs from the earlier books seamlessly, and contriving to build to an interesting climax where Gitres is more directly involved and we get our first clear view of dragons (note that a dragon from this world also appears in the excellent “Judgment” collected in Moon Flights). This all presages more active Gods, particularly because Achrya is trying to upset the balance of power. It’s also reassuring that some of the supernaturally-talented can be fallible. Too often authors want those with superpowers to be super decision-makers as well, whereas Kings of the North has everyone’s character and motivations nicely under control. In other circumstances this would be high fantasy but, as written, it’s more a “don’t stand there like a lump, if you need to go, dig a latrine” kinda fantasy and all the better for it. I found all this highly enjoyable and recommend it for those who have read at least some of the earlier books. Starting off in the middle of long-running series is never as satisfying.
A copy of this book was sent to me for review.
For a review of an excellent collection by Elizabeth Moon, see Moon Flights. Later books in this series are Crown of Renewal and Limits of Power
Chronicles of Narnia: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader (2010)
As is always the case when dealing with something potentially controversial, I will start by identifying factors that may influence my thinking. That will give all readers an opportunity to judge the extent to which my review is skewed by any of those elements feeding into my opinions. As an explicitly Christian film based on the novel written by a middle-class British man of Irish ancestry, I confirm that I am an atheist holding British nationality although my paternal grandmother was Irish. Like the author, I am a middle-class intellectual, now reaching old age.
This film is a fascinating recreation of the middle-class style of language and behaviour. The accents are very clipped (almost lovingly BBC in their Home Counties phrasing) and very much of the period. I am faintly surprised because this places an immediate cultural barrier between what we see and hear on the screen, and modern sensibilities. The writers and director could have allowed the children to be “modern”. Indeed, from a production point of view, it would have been so much easier to make the film. Just think how much time and effort had to go into vocal coaching to teach these children how to speak in this artificial way. If they had spoken in contemporary British English or in the mid-Western and somewhat anonymous American English so popular in today’s international cinema, it would have made them so much more accessible to the modern audience. Since the primary part of the narrative takes place in a fantasy world, there was no need to recreate C. S. Lewis’ England and its emotionally stunted behaviour. The issues faced by people today are exactly the same as those faced by these children out of time.
Over the decades, I have seen many different productions of Shakespeare. Some in traditional costume with “Elizabethan” accents. Some in contemporary or futuristic settings with any number of different vocal and behavioural styles, including one memorable version of Comedy of Errors as a West End musical. In the making of this and the two preceding films, there were no limits on the characterisation for the children. They could have been placed in any Earthly environment. Thus, the decision to frame the story in this way must be to distance the audience from the characters. The modern audience is not expected to empathise with these children, but rather to see them and understand them as symbols. We witness the processes they must go through, and appreciate their struggle at a more intellectual than emotional level.
So what are these processes? The key to understanding this film lies in one set of symbols. To defeat “evil”, the quest for those on the Dawn Treader is to acquire seven swords, one to slay each of the seven Cardinal Sins which, for these purposes, we can take as envy, gluttony, greed, lust, pride, sloth and wrath. At an individual level, we must defeat the evil that lies within us before we can defeat the evil in the world. This means each of the primary characters must be tempted and find the power to resist. For those who succumb to temptation, the road to redemption will be harder but, because this is a film about the resilience of the human spirit, those who find a greater truth about who they are as individuals are saved. Those that never doubt who they are go on to a better place.
The original novels in the Chronicles of Narnia are all very short by modern standards. I read them all in the 1950s when they first appeared in my local library. This film runs for 112 minutes. To produce content for this length has required everyone to slow things down and, wherever possible, embellish the original sketched narrative as full-blown action sequences. This is not in itself a criticism, but it does place a burden on the viewer. For example, in the first island sequence, we are asked to sit through an extended version of capture by slave traders, an offer of sale at market and a fight as the crew from the Dawn Treader stages a rescue. This is a significant rewrite. Instead of Lord Bern buying Caspian, he is a prisoner himself who also has to be rescued. There are more radical inventions later. Even if I forget everything I know about the original, the whole narrative is dragged out at every turn so that we can make the length. What could be deft, becomes cumbersome. Lucy is envious of her sister’s “beauty”. She covets what she sees in others rather than trusting herself to grow into a fine human being. This does not need spell books, complicated tricks with mirrors and an alternate universe peek into a different future. It is overcomplicating a simple idea. We should see the sins more clearly for what they are, and understand how and why the children are tempted.
If this had been thirty or more minutes shorter, it would have been vastly improved. The English evangelist Rowland Hill is credited with posing the question, “Why should the Devil have all the best tunes?” Over the decades, I have seen some very powerful Christian narratives in all the different media. Some are very beautiful as images or music or both. Authors have created inspiring texts. In other words, art can be harnessed in any cause to touch you no matter what your beliefs. Just as the foot taps to the drum beats summoning men to war, so any universal message can transcend intellectual barriers and make an emotional impact. We resonate in tune with stories of nobility and heroism, self-sacrifice and love.
Without the power of CGI to create sweeping seascapes and different islands, to show us a Britain at war or a sea monster at length, the director would have been forced into a simpler way of telling a story of great truth. No matter what your beliefs, you do first have to overcome your own weaknesses before you can find your own place in the world. As originally conceived, this is an elegant Christian allegory. In this version, we have an overblown and plodding story of a fantastic quest involving monsters. In charge are young folk who are sustained by the faith that a lion will save them. Sadly, the director has not given the Christian cause one of the best tunes. The cast are all adequate with Will Poulter‘s Eustace amusingly dense, Georgie Henley‘s Lucy suitably sure of herself, Skandar Keynes who is improving in acting credibility as he ages, and Ben Barnes who underplays Caspian. The dragon is quite well done and the use of 3D is slightly better in this film than in other recent efforts. So, for those of you who are Christian and have not read the original, you may find the story both exciting and uplifting even at this length (more minutes for your money). That will be for you to judge. The rest of you, if you are inclined to explore Narnia, should stay with the book which is probably the best of the series.
The Taborin Scale by Lucius Shepard
Those who have read some of these reviews will have detected my interest in semiotics which studies how meaning is communicated. The process depends on our ability to attribute meaning to signs. So, for example, a collector may hold an old coin in his hands and, by observing the surface detail and applying imagination, gain some insight into the time when people routinely handled the coin as money. Think of Sherlock Holmes who is able to make deductions about Watson’s father from a pocket-watch in The Sign of Four. There is meaning even in the slightest scratch if only you have eyes to see. For those who use symbols as a part of their faith, there can be multiple levels of meaning in, say, a statue of an elephant for someone who believes in Ganesh, to a cross for someone who believes in Christ. All such signifiers stand in the place of the originals. They trigger a recall of our stored beliefs and memories. Potentially, they give added meaning to our lives.
All this works well so long as you do not have access to the original. But imagine the loss of significance in the image of a godlike dragon, if you live in the shadow of its body. This is the position for inhabitants of Teocinte, a burgeoning city built on and around the body of the Dragon Griaule. Indeed, you can get an idea of how devalued the Dragon has become because, in a classic case of rampant capitalism, the city government has presold the Dragon’s skin and bones for traditional medicines, aphrodisiacs and more social purposes. Never has so much indignity been heaped upon this great Dragon, and all these scavenging merchants need now is evidence the dragon is dead. Obviously, it might not go down to well with the godlike animal if people start to dismantle it for parts while it is still alive.
Into Teocinte comes George Taborin, a coin dealer looking to buy new stock and planning on a little R&R while apart from his wife. In one transaction, he acquires a small scale, supposedly from a dragon. Shortly afterwards, he makes a deal with a prostitute, buying her services for the scale. However, just as handling a coin may evoke earlier times, so cleaning and rubbing the scale may also induce transport. In this case, George and the prostitute find themselves in an earlier time or, perhaps, a different dimension with no sign of Teocinte. Shortly after their arrival, a young Griaule herds them to pools fed by lazy streams where they are left to practice wilderness survival skills.
The fascination of this novella by Lucius Shepard is watching how George and the prostitute relate to each other. Both, it seems, have journeys to make as they adapt to differing circumstances. With Griaule as a catalyst, the best and worst of their characters come into view. When George encounters other abductees and rescues an abused young girl from them, a different balance comes into the relationship with the prostitute. Even in a wilderness, life can take on the mundane trappings of married life. Even in a mundane life, violence may be necessary in self-defence.
This work may see the end of the series of Dragon Griaule stories which would be a shame. It has been entrancing to watch the relationship between the Dragon and this world unfold. I hope for more.
A final word about the physical book. Quite often, books published by Subterranean Press are merely functional, but this has an additional design element with the front and end papers being a high gsm, coloured blue in honour of Griaule, and embossed in scale-like fashion. It’s a nice touch and doubly justifies the price — a good physical book to hold and excellent content to read.
For my other reviews of Lucius Shepard, see:
Beautiful Blood
The Dragon Griaule
Louisiana Breakdown
Two Trains Running
Vacancy and Ariel
and for a novelette in the anthology Other Earths.
Jade Man’s Skin by Daniel Fox
This is the second book in the trilogy Moshui, the Books of Stone and Water, behind the eyes of the characters introduced in Dragon in Chains by the pseudonymous Daniel Fox.
We wanted to see more of the same. We really did. But, as it turned out, there was a different path for them to follow.
The morning after the night before, as it were.
The results are just as good, but different.
Well, even in difference, there can be common themes.
I take the central concern of this second of a trilogy (Moshui: The Books of Stone and Water) to be captured in the elegant thought that,
“A city defended once can be defended again. Its reputation will speak through its stones; it has a memory of resistance, walls that say no, gates that refuse to yield.
A city that has fallen once will fall again. That is. . .inherent. Shame sinks to its foundations, weakness and loss and surrender lie like characters to be read in the very dust of its streets.”
We all struggle against the tendency of the world to label and, by that label, to define us. So, a city can be stereotyped by one loss to be a loser in all future conflicts. Passive people find such limitations comfortable. They never have to rise above the expectations of those who label them. But, for those more active personalities who have already set the bar high, it is easy to fail. So, where is the path to redemption?
Take a young Emperor as an example. He has fled across China and then across the sea to a craven last hiding place in the mountains of an island. This effectively demolishes all expectations of leadership. Indeed, his concubine may have risen to become an unexpected power behind what is left of the throne. Yet how can a girl who has grown up on a fishing boat expect to command loyalty and lead? Then there are the two generals who have come to radically different fortunes. One has been responsible for managing the retreat. The other is determined to confirm the legitimacy of his claim to the throne by eliminating the Emperor and all his family who might be a rallying point for future rebellion. It was all poised to reach the obvious conclusion with both generals conspiring to kill the Emperor. . .
. . and then everything was turned on its head by the release of the dragon.
What a magnificent beast, just as powerful underwater as in the air, commanding the elements with dramatic effect. It should be so easy for such a dominant creature, once free, to kill without limit.
Yet who or what is ever truly free? An animal, once chained, is forever enslaved! A city once defeated. . .
In Chinese philosophy, we have the notion of interdependence defined as yin and yang. Everything is opposites in a complementary relationship of balance. Think of the world as a meta-context. It begins as emptiness and then, as forces come into existence, there will be an ordering until the new environment is as calm as the previous emptiness. In a magic realm, a dragon would have to be balanced by a deity. Except, a dragon can emerge into the real world, so the deity must find human agents who can preserve the balance in both contexts. In the human realm, everything also has its own paired cycles. Generals will rise and fall in their fortunes. Even Emperors will find individuals who will balance and complete then.
So, in this second book, the cycle must turn again. The Emperor must come down from the mountain and lead again. Perhaps the courtesan’s path leads back to the boat she grew up on as her relationship with the Emperor may be in decline. Perhaps the generals will find the pursuer becomes the pursued.
So it is that the tone is different because we deal with the consequences of the first book, but it is the same because the equal and opposite qualities are complete in themselves.
This is a hugely enjoyable second outing, full of sharply economical writing and cleverly constructed character development. In tone, it starts off relatively subdued, but ends with muted triumph as character arcs, having diverged, converge to complete circles. Everything is now nicely poised for the final volume, Hidden Cities. Involuntarily, characters have been trapped or cajoled into living up to their labels. Now we have to see whether the Emperor really does have the intellect and emotional maturity to do more than lead from the front in a fight. Can he become the power in the land. While above him flies the dragon with the power to summon a typhoon to wash all life from the Emperor’s land. It is, as it should be, all left nicely balanced.
For the concluding volume, see Hidden Cities. For a new series, see Desdaemona and Pandaemonium.
Dragon in Chains by Daniel Fox
Many moons ago, there was a girl group somewhat improbably called The Cookies — presumably, they were sweet things on the musical casting couch. Anyway, as is the way of pop culture, their brief reign over the charts bequeathed us “Chains”, a haunting song, penned by Goffin and King, and later covered by The Beatles, which boasts the immortal refrain,
Chains, my baby’s got me locked up in chains
And they ain’t the kind that you can see.
Fast forward more than fifty years, and we find ourselves with the same leitmotif in the Dragon in Chains by Daniel Fox. In some systems of magic, there is an expectation that, if you know the true name of a thing, animal or person, you can command it. So it is with some ironic satisfaction that I confront a book about magic knowing that the real name of the pseudonymous author is Chaz Brenchley. He is currently a denizen of Newcastle which was the nearest city to where I lived in the earliest part of my life. At least he has the good sense to stay on the north bank of the Tyne — perhaps he has also had the good sense to read The Fire Worm, a book with autobiographical asides by author Ian Watson on life in Tynemouth, which deals with monstrous consequences to be found in the river dividing the true Geordies from the rest of England.
In this book, we are in the world of Chinese mythology. Yet again, the Son of Heaven (as Emperors liked to be known way back when) comes to the Imperial Throne under the regency of his mother and her flock of feuding generals. The book begins with the court in flight from a rebellion by a general who would not play the mother’s game, the young Emperor caught up in an undignified retreat to an island which is the principal source of jade. His arrival completely disrupts the life of the people whose main interests have lain in mining the jade and fishing. Those on the mainland have the worst of the bargain because the arrival of the pursuing army results in a mass slaughter among the coastal towns which involuntarily provided the men and boats to ferry the retreating imperial forces to the island. It is strange how often the lives of the innocent can be so rudely interrupted when their rulers fall out.
The book is therefore dealing with several well-worn themes. It’s a coming-of-age story for the young Emperor, the young woman he takes from the fishing fleet as his mistress, and a young jade miner who, like the Emperor, has had significant exposure to this stone for most of his life. It also reflects on the social and political forces that shape and constrain the lives of those both within the power structure and without. In theory, everyone including the Emperor is caught in cultural chains, restricting what they can do or the way in which they can do it. While under the sea, chained by sympathetic magic, a real dragon chafes against her intangible bonds and dreams of being free again.
At many levels, this is an unflinching story. It could have glossed over the casual brutality of life and death in early China, yet the author’s gaze is focussed on the use of power as a means of imposing order and discipline on the world. There would be no hegemony over the enormous land mass of China without an iron fist to hold its disparate parts together. There would be no crew of a ship without a captain unafraid to take a limb or the lives of those who offend him. Armies depend on a balance between loyalty and fear to maintain full ranks of motivated soldiers. Mothers need a ruthless streak in them to protect their children. Yet tip the balance too far and Emperors, captains and mothers may find themselves transformed from caring authority figures into monsters with no-one prepared to follow them. Balancing power and respect for, if not love of, others is a difficult art for all to learn.
The book (as the first in a trilogy called Moshui, the Books of Stone and Water) is also balancing social upheaval against the threatened upheaval of the dragon if she can free herself from the chains that bind her beneath the sea. This dragon is not some benign Westernised creature of Hollywood design, prepared to pull up a rock and chat amiably with a young hero in Sean Connery’s Scottish brogue. Rather it is a fierce creature waiting to savour a cold dish of revenge by laying waste to human settlements up and down her part of the coast, including the straits now separating the Son of Heaven from his pursuers. Indeed, as readers, we can ponder which would be worse for the local inhabitants: an army killing all in its path or a single dragon that can call up tsunamis or attack from the air.
All this is told in a most pleasing style. Too often magical fantasy descends into purple prose whose baroque extravagance weighs down threadbare plots. Here we have an intelligent plot with a restrained but evocative tone. The characterisation is allowed the time and space to give us a real insight into motivations. So long as we all suspend disbelief at the magic and forgive Mei Feng her unexpected sophistication as she rapidly changes from a deck hand on her grandfather’s boat to imperial mistress, this represents an auspicious start to the intended trilogy. I recommend it.
For the next volume in the trilogy, see Jade Man’s Skin. For the concluding volume, see Hidden Cities. For a new series, see Desdaemona and Pandaemonium.
Thinking about books 