Jack Glass, by Adam Roberts: A genre experiment in three parts

This is a whodunit. Only you know exactly whodunit at the outset; all that is left to find out is how they dun it and why. And what they dun. We are told at the outset that there will be three mysteries: a prison break, a locked-room mystery and a conventional whodunit. In each case, the perpetrator is Jack Glass, the solar system's greatest criminal mastermind, a vicious murderer but surprisingly nice guy.

The action is set in a world a thousand years in the future, when the human population has swelled to fill the solar system with Perspex bubbles, where people live in zero gravity and eat 'gunk', some sort of fungus which presumably doesn't taste very nice. The descriptions of the effects of zero gravity on the human body and the prevalence of skin cancers create a sense of an alien but believable environment. In the novel, only the super-rich can afford the experience of gravity, because they are the only ones who have access to the Earth.

This book is a genre experiment in two ways: on the one hand, the juxtaposition of different types of murder mystery makes the overall text a reflection on the genre. On the other hand, the author's intent, which is stated in the prefatory material, is to fuse elements of golden age detective fiction with golden age science fiction. To some extent, he is successful: there are moments when intricacies of the mystery plot hinge on the realities of the science fiction universe. Problems which have a simple solution when presented directly become more complicated when filtered through the gaze of characters who are unfamiliar with the tendency of dust to settle on surfaces, because they perceive gravity as something which you do on holiday, but you wouldn't want to live with.

However, sometimes the focus on genre games seems like an attempt to distract the reader from the fact that the stories themselves are kind of boring. Of the three mysteries, the first is by far the most striking, the weirdest, and the most morbidly satisfying in its solution. In it, Jack Glass must escape from an asteroid prison thousands of miles from anywhere else, with no spaceship, and no tools except a 'window' the size of a coin and some shards of glass. The following two are to some extent let down because the first is too hard an act to follow. The characters are also not entirely lifelike. Part II features the genetically manufactured MO-sisters Diana and Eva, each with their particular restrictive set of skills: Eva studies supernovae, and Diana solves virtual mysteries. The slight uncanniness of the sisters combined with Diana's tendency to exclaim 'no wavy-way!' makes it believable that they are from the future, and moves the plotline along nicely. However, it is not as easy to relate to them as to the Jack Glass of Part I. In Part III, Diana falls on hard times and must flee into the rebellious underworld of 'the sump', the thousands of bubbles full of poor people floating around the sun. Her character sort of develops, but if anything the loss of her slightly fluffy personality combined with her tendency to solve problems by sleeping leaves a somewhat depressed young woman who is not entirely believable.

On the other hand, the representation of life in the solar system of the future is very believable, if somewhat chilling. Roberts imagines a future where space and food have become abundant, but the gap between the rich and the poor has become even more pronounced. His construction of the power relations within this universe is engaging, interesting, and highly politicised.

Overall, this is an engaging and interesting novel, which does innovative things with the genres employed. However, the author's strength definitely lies in the exploration of power structures rather than the development of individual characters. A thought-provoking read.

The Rook, Daniel O'Malley

This is a novel about a secret organization that protects the world from supernatural threats and for some reason names its agents after chess pieces (the organization as a whole is called ‘The Chequy’). The Rook in question is Myfanwy Thomas, or so she is told by a letter she wrote herself before losing her memory.  She wakes up in a park with a circle of unconscious people around her and two black eyes, and no memory of how she arrived there, or, indeed, of having existed before that moment.  There is a letter in her pocket from her previous self, explaining that there are lots of people trying to kill her, and telling her what to do. There is an interesting contrast between Myfanwy the protagonist and Myfanwy the letter writer, hereafter referred to as Amnesiac Myfanwy and Absent Myfanwy respectively; it seems that between losing her memory and waking up she has acquired a whole lot of attitude and a desire to kick people.

The memory loss trope is dealt with reasonably well – the moments of uncanny dislocation between Amnesiac Myfanwy’s expectations and the life she has found herself living are mostly believable, and it allows the author to present the Chequy and supernatural elements of the story through the eyes of the uninitiated. However, there is no plausible explanation as to how or why Amnesiac Myfanwy acquires this different character. There seems to be a naïve faith in the existence of ‘normal’ people, so that Amnesiac Myfanwy is obviously horrified by the weirdness of the stuff she encounters as a Rook, but is not surprised by the fact that she is a woman, or speaks English, or is human and sentient.

Speaking of women, O’Malley is not very good at women. The presentation of the main character seems to be saying ‘oh, and by the way, SHE IS A WOMAN!’ at every available opportunity. One notable occasion is when she tries to make a male colleague uncomfortable by talking about going to the gynaecologist, only to remember that said male colleague has three other bodies, of which one is female (more about that later). But what I found more irritating is that Amnesiac Myffanwy arises from nothingness with the ability to make aesthetic judgements about Absent Myfanwy’s wardrobe choices and grooming regimen; to quote her reaction upon looking at herself in a mirror for the first time: 

I think I could do better, she thought. I won’t be able to hit the level of Hot, but I think I might be able to manage Cute. If I have a big enough budget. Or at least some makeup to work with. 

So somehow between waking up in a park with no idea who she is and getting herself to a hotel room, Amnesiac Myfanwy has managed to absorb the cultural expectations of what constitutes an attractive woman and to objectify her own body, using the descriptors ‘Hot’ and ‘Cute’ as classifications of attractiveness. Aside from the fact that it is irritating that a woman is expected to judge herself based on unattainable and artificial standards of beauty, the fact that she is thinking about this at the time simply does not ring true. She has no memory of who she is and no idea who is trying to kill her or why (obviously loads of people are trying to kill her). The last thing one would expect to worry about in those circumstances is how much one could resemble Barbie if one tried. However, having said all that, perhaps the one redeeming feature of O’Malley’s treatment of gender is that there is no ‘love interest’. Myffanwy is entirely motivated by her own opinions and desires, when she finds out what those are.

Another thing O’Malley isn't great at is Britishness. The story is set in London, with the main character described as an Anglicised person of Welsh descent, but he often slips up and uses Americanisms where they don’t fit – for example, he refers to a character ‘going back to school’ when she is going to university. He also uses the same words over and over again – for example, he talks about ‘weeping’ an awful lot (presumably because this is something WOMEN do…), and Myffanwy often says ‘fuck’, or variants thereof. Some synonyms may have been nice. Or a broader variety of swearwords… As it is, the use of language doesn’t really help to position the narrative in Britain.

Aside from his troubles with femininity and Britishness, O’ Malley does quite well. The plot moves at a suitably breathless pace, the bad guys are really bad, the good guys are really weird, and by the end you have a definite idea of who is which. The supernatural elements are generally well-presented and more-or-less believable – I was particularly fond of the house full of purple mould that ate people. But I think the greatest achievement is Gestalt, Myffanwy’s fellow-Rook, who has four bodies (three male and one female) but one consciousness and identity. The Gestalt (as Myffanwy refers to him/her) is both uncanny and intriguing, and perhaps more importantly, imaginable. The presence of the four bodies has interesting implications for plot development as well, so it’s not just a supernatural gimmick.

Overall, it was a fun and engaging read, and I’ll definitely read whatever he writes next, even if his attempts to see the world from a woman’s point-of-view have somewhat bizarre results on occasion.

The Mortal Instruments, Cassandra Clare

I can't quite decide if this series of books is disgustingly pious or pure heresy. Either way, I would describe it as the guiltiest of guilty pleasures. I've decided to write about it as a series, as the first book has an annoying ending that encouraged me to read the next four - I haven't read the fifth one yet, because someone has taken it out the library and I refuse to actually pay for it... The sixth one comes out in 2014.

Clare is very good at creating attractive characters, and similarly good at evoking the sense of unsophisticated teenage desire. (All the evidence you need is in the book covers - by the end of the series they look like Mills&Boon novels). The plot of each novel centres on a coming-of-age narrative, with characters seeking to understand themselves as well as the world that they live in, in the face of situations that appear incomprehensible - because they have demons in them. And blood all over the place. And really, really mean people.

The necessity of killing demons and generally saving the world from eternal darkness and ruin is a sort of backdrop to a sappy teenage love drama. It is a typical young persons' story in that the teenage characters are constantly facing disastrous perils while the adults who are allegedly responsible for them are otherwise engaged. The excuses for the absence of the adult characters vary in quality, and are often less than entirely credible, but the pace of the action allows the reader to ignore that. If anything, I found that the maturity and behaviour of the characters jarred with their alleged age - these are twenty-five-year-olds masquerading as high school students. It reminds me of the latest Spiderman film, where the actors look way too old for their parts. Then again, one could argue that these are the characters we wished we could be like at seventeen: mature, muscular and impeccably witty, at least in the eyes of our peers.

The story focuses on Clary, an artistically-inclined sixteen-year-old New Yorker. As female leads go, she is actually not too irritating. She is not entirely incompetent, and appears to have a sense of humour. Anyway, in book one she discovers that she can see people who her best friend, the thoroughly friend-zoned Simon, cannot. This leads to the revelation that there is something supernaturally special about her, and that her mother has been lying to her for years, something that most teenagers at least suspect. But Clary is a good girl, so it all comes as quite a shock.

At the same time, she falls in love with Jace, the smooth loner who can make himself disappear and stab things in the neck with alarming speed, both good qualities to look for in a potential mate. He is also blonde and a year older than her, which guarantees his attractiveness. The Guardian summarises him well, in a review of the upcoming movie trailer (obviously there is an upcoming movie): 'Onscreen his character is all brood and depth, but in actuality he'd probably be the sort of person likely to borrow money from you, never pay it back and then get off with one of your friends at a party.' I found him enormously entertaining, because, after all, it was not me that he was borrowing money for, and unlikely to be my friends he would make out with, seeing as we are all too old. Disappointingly, in the later novels it becomes necessary that Jace acquire some depth, including a terribly sad back-story which manifests itself in strange habits, such as obsessive-compulsive tidiness.

But the main thing that makes the series hilarious and exasperating in equal measures is the ludicrous nature of the plot twists. Most of the revelations in the first three books are focused on the teenage main cast's parents. This in itself is really interesting: it is unusual for children's books to draw attention to parents as people with past histories and regrets, and throughout the Mortal Instruments series we watch Clary and Jace come to terms with decisions (and mistakes) their parents made before either of them were born. But the twists themselves are often just daft. For instance, a twist is required at the end of book one to prevent Clary and Jace from 'being together', because otherwise there would be no point in reading the remaining five books in the series. Do their parents disapprove? Does one of them go to boarding school in Lithuania? Does the world actually end? No. They discover that they are brother and sister. Freud must be hyperventilating in his grave.

So, one tries to take the incestuous desire in one's stride, assuming that a new love interest will be introduced in the next book, and having challenged the taboo of incest the author will move on. Because surely finding out that the object of your desire is your sibling would be a deal breaker, right? Wrong. The third book's blurb says:

'Amid the chaos of war, the Shadowhunters must decide to fight with the vampires, werewolves and other Downworlders - or against them. Meanwhile, Jace and Clary have their own decision to make: should they pursue the love they know is forbidden?'

Obviously one always suspects that there will be a larger, more dramatic twist later that will show that they are not brother and sister after all, but the use of incest as a plot device is bizarre, not to mention naive. The argument seems to be that love should be accepted and understood no matter what the circumstances, which is an admirable sentiment, but I still think incest is gross. Not that they actually do anything, they just think forbidden thoughts.

My final issue with this series is the treatment of death, grief and mortality. While it is generally a good thing that these issues are engaged with, the approach is even more naive than the series' treatment of incestuous desire. Grieving characters don't ring true, because their grief is not sufficiently pervasive. It does not dominate the narrative the way it dominates in real life. The horror of death and shock of loss function purely as a backdrop to an insincere teenage melodrama, and are quickly pushed aside in favour of more pressing issues, like what to wear, or who likes whom and whether they could be related. While it is totally unrealistic, you can't accuse it of being manipulative. It just seems like the deaths of the characters killed off are not really vital for the progress of the story, and therefore a bit gratuitous, like the quantities of blood that seem to regularly spatter every exposed surface.

 

Overall, you could not accuse these books of having literary pretensions. They were great fun to read, and I was even laughing at the lame jokes by the end. I'm just glad I didn't read them as a teenager; I don't think they would have helped me much with understanding the world at large.