Book: The Old New Weird

 Three Moments of an Explosion by China Miéville, Del Rey Books, an imprint of Random House, 2016

Provenance: I picked this up at the Page Turner in downtown Kent, when I was looking for a completely different book. And that's the nature of the Page Turner in that sort of thing happens quite often.

Review: OK, I'm a fan of China Miéville, but I haven't read everything that he's written. I started early with Perdido Street Station (published in 2000), and the two other books set in the same world, The Scar and The Iron Council. I enjoyed The City and City and Kraken (which I did not review - I don't review everything here), and really liked (and reviewed) October, a non-fiction book about the Russian Revolution. So I picked up this collection of his short fiction, adding it to the To Be Read pile, and finally getting into it in the past month or so. 

And, to my lack of surprise, I enjoyed it tremendously. There are a LOT of stories here, ranging from widely-published works to stuff that was used as handouts at a exhibition in Liverpool. As a result, though you get a good feeling for how and what Miéville writes over a number of different stories. 

When Miéville first showed up with Perdido Street Station, he quickly got folded into his own subgenre- the New Weird. This was over 25 years ago, so the patina of "new" may have gotten a bit threadbare since then, but there are not a lot of other books that fit neatly into that category. Annihilation by Jeff Vandermeer gets mentioned a bunch as a sister volume, and I could put The City We Became by N. K. Jemisin in that general category. Piranesi could elbow its way in as well with a good argument or two.

But genre is a slippery marketing term - it effectively says: If you liked THAT, you'll like THIS. But it also sets up it own set of walls - This is NOT magical realism. This is NOT urban fantasy. This is not old school or cozy or like a lot of other things you've seen. It is akin to all of that, but it is a thing of its own right. The Old Weird belongs to Clark Ashton Smith and Lovecraft, and it has a good linkage with that as well, but this is a different animal.

So what is Miéville's encampment of the New Weird? Well, it has strange doings - icebergs calving above the skies of London, animated oil rigs. card decks with suits that only appear once in a lifetime, or etchings on bones newly-pulled from cadavers. It has body horror, in addictive parasites to people who put on dead animal heads or medical actors who suddenly present with symptoms for future diseases.  Miévilles brand of the New Weird is very urban (usually) and Londonian (keep your wiki link open for when you hit something idiosyncratic).

Most of all (and I think this applies to the New Weird in general) - it is unexplained. No one steps forward in the story with a reason why animated oil rigs are blundering ashore like kaiju.  Even those seeking the truth discover nothing but dead ends and unsure resolutions. Miéville in his short fiction keeps his focus tight on his protagonists (who are also usually his victims), and they are awash in this unsurity as well. This may be a hallmark of the NW, or at least Miévilles patch of earth within it.

It is interesting and puzzling and amazing and horrible and wonderful. It's worth hunting down and reading.

More later, 

Book and a Movie: Kick in the Pance

 The Benson Murder Case by S.S. Van Dyne, Charles Scribener's Sons, 1926

The Benson Murder Case, Directed by Frank Tuttle, Paramount Pictures, 1930

Provenance: Picked this up at the Page Turner, Kent's expansive used and new bookstore. It particular book also happened to be of the collection of Sacnoth, who had been cleaning out his shelves over time. He in turn had purchased the book in 1996 in Madison, Wisconsin (he tends to annotate all his books). This book was one of my "waiting books" - read when I'm waiting for an appointment, or for friends to show up at a restaurant. As a result, I may get two or five pages in before I have to put it aside. So the "waiting books" will be carried around for a while in a deep-pocketed jacket before finally getting finished.

As for the movie version, Sacnoth and friends watch old movies on Saturdays when we are not playing Call of Cthulhu, and have gone through all four of the William Powell Vance movies. While the book is the first of the Vance Vance novels, the movie version was the third starring William Powell. 

Reviews: As the first Philo Vance novel, and it is interesting in what it shows and what drops away later in the series, as well as changes made for the movies. Philo Vance is one of the elite dilettante school of detectives (Lord Peter Wimsey beats him out, since he first showed up in 1923 and who, like Vance, has a friend in law enforcement that allows him access to ongoing cases. 

In the case of the book, Vance's bud, District Attorney Markham is approached by an old and respected friend to investigate the death of his brother, who was his partner in a stock firm. The brother was found seated in his chair in his living room, dressed in his smoking jacket, shoeless and without his toupee, shot through the head. There was a large amount of evidence cast about, and the DA and police go through several suspects, all of which get proven innocent in turn by Vance.

Vance rejects such trivialities as facts and evidence and concentrates on the psychological nature of the killer - what sort of person would kill Benson in this matter? He claims to know the murderer from the get-go, but dances about, demonstrating to the DA that the latest prime suspect fails the test for some reason or another. In fact, he seems to delight in proving the agents of law enforcement wrong, all the while concern trolling their predicament. He's a bit arrogant about the whole thing.

The Van Dyne who is the narrator claims that position as being Vance's lawyer, and is only telling the tale now because Vance has retired to Europe. In the book, he serves no purpose as a character but to declare Vance as being brilliant and noting the growing frustration of the DA as Vance shows off one blind alley after another. Vance in this initial book comes off as insufferable, such that the DA (and the reader) just wants to shout "give us the answer, already". He actually becomes more likeable in later novels, but still absolutely sure of himself.

The movie, on the other hand, junks about everything except the title, Vance, and some of the supporting cast. Our invisible narrator did not make the transfer. In addition, the movie version riffs off the recent stock market crash. Benson is confronted with a bunch of clients who have lost money and are fed up with his shenanigans. Benson then retires to his country house and is shot. And it turns out Benson lives right next door to his good friend DA Markham, who brings along Vance to investigate. And one of the suspects says that Vance just got lucky in a previous case and challenges him to find the real culprit.

Which of course, he does. But he does it with a bit more grace than his novel incarnation, and more attention to the little facts and clues. He uses less psychobabble in his  explanations (I swear, the last chapter of the book is filled with his explanation of why the killer HAD to be a certain suspect, in part because women are not cool-headed enough to shoot a man accurately in the head). The movie version really hinges of William Powell's performance, who makes Vance actually likable. You can see the bits and bemused  mannerisms that he will bring to the Thin Man movies (and yeah, he's more likeable there than in the original book version as well).

So yeah, the novel is a time capsule - Vance was incredibly popular in his time, and the line "Philo Vance needs a kick in the pance" from Ogden Nash (of limerick fame) in 1931 just underscores the both the character's popularity and division he presented to readers. The movie version is traditional for its era as well, but a lot easier to swallow and worth hunting down if you're a fan of old pre-code Hollywood.

So yeah, check out the movie if you have a spare afternoon. The book? Only if you have a deep interest.

More later,

Faceplant

You know, I don't talk a lot about my personal life around here, but this one was an adventure, so I'll share.

Last Saturday, the Lovely Bride and I went to Bainbridge Island, which is across the Sound from Seattle. We were invited to a friend's housewarming party and decided to make a day of it. So after our Saturday morning Tai Chi class we changed out of our uniforms and headed into downtown Seattle to catch the ferry. There was no FIFA soccer game that day, and the Pride parade was going to be Sunday, so it was a pretty straight shot, and after about an hour's wait on the Seattle side, we drove onto the Wenatchee ferry and headed to Bainbridge.

And Bainbridge was pretty classy, though we only saw a small fraction of it this time. We had lunch at poke place in a converted gas station not too far from the ferry docks, and took in the Bainbridge Island Art Museum, a small museum with very nice paper and fabric art.

And then ...

I missed stepping up onto a curb while crossing back to the parked car. I pitched forward, and had my hand in my pocket, fishing out the car keys so I could not catch myself. I went down like a sack of wet cement at the side of the road, my head bouncing off the asphalt and driving the frame of my now-broken glasses into my eyebrow. 

There was blood. A lot of blood. And a lot of concerned, helpful passers-by who helped me to my feet and suggested calling an ambulance. The LB and I got back to the car, and I ruined one of her handkerchiefs mopping up blood while she found the nearest urgent care on her phone. We went there, expecting to get cleaned up and maybe a few stitches for the eyebrow.

Instead ...

Due to my age and the fact that I had a bit of resistance turning my head to the right, they put me into an immobilizing collar and popped me into an ambulance bound for Silverdale, which was the closest ER. That took about twenty minutes, and was the first time I was conscious in an ambulance. Not bad. At the ER, they did a battery of tests on me - an MRI which showed I had no concussion, an x-ray that said I had extreme arthritis in my right hand, and an ultrasound that determined I had no blood clots in my right leg (though I still have a pain in the front quad muscle there, but I had that before I stage-dived on the road). And then they cleared the asphalt fragments out of my wounds, closed the eyebrow gash with some glue, bandaged me up and sent me on my way.

At this point, the shortest route home was south through Tacoma, so we stopped at the Lobster Shop for a pleasant meal (The LB had refitted my glasses together enough that I was presentable, though of course she was driving by that point). And since then, I've been at home, self-medicating on Tylenol and rum & colas and taking my meetings in on slack and zoom.

And that's about it. The only interesting note was that the Lovely B was really impressed with Bainbridge, and liked the idea of "island life", right up to the point that she found out the nearest hospital was a half-hour drive away. That cooled her ardor a bit.  But in the mean time, I'm still working from home and concentrating on healing up.

And that's my story, and I'm sticking to it. 

More later,