Atlas Barfed

In Ayn Rand’s “Atlas Shrugged,” America’s billionaires go on strike. Their creative minds are the motor that runs the world. But the evil, incompetent socialist government taxes them and tells them what to do with their stuff. So, they all join forces with John Galt in his super-secret redoubt in Colorado. The corrupt capitalists everybody blames for everything are finally gone! Yay! In less than a year, the shit hits the fan. The pinko second-raters and takers can’t America work. (Seems they need those corrupt capitalists after all.)  So trains derail, electricity fails, it’s anarchy, total collapse, the end of civilization! Almost. The billionaires wait it out. One character sits in his cabin and rewrites the United States constitution …

“He had marked and crossed out the contradictions in its statements that had once been the cause of its destruction. He was now adding a new clause to its pages: ‘Congress shall make no law abridging the freedom of production and trade...’”

Then, when everything goes to hell, the billionaires at last emerge.

“They could not see the world beyond the mountains, there was only a void of darkness and rock, but the darkness was hiding the ruins of a continent: the roofless homes, the rusting tractors, the lightless streets, the abandoned rail. But far in the distance, on the edge of the earth, a small flame was waving in the wind, the defiantly stubborn flame of Wyatt's Torch, twisting, being torn and regaining its hold, not to be uprooted or extinguished. It seemed to be calling and waiting for the words John Galt was now to pronounce.

"The road is cleared," said Galt. "We are going back to the world."

He raised his hand and over the desolate earth he traced in space the sign of the dollar.”

I think “Atlas Shrugged” is the game plan for America’s oligarchs. To speed up the destruction, they’ve installed idiots in charge of the United States government. Thanks to this hand-picked wrecking crew, a Greater Depression will likely result — and possibly WWIII. After that, the oligarchs will kick off any remaining taxes or legal restraints.

The bullies don’t want any coaches on the playing field.

Interesting times, huh?

Tweedledumb and Tweedledamned

I think there’s a freaking tank of comatose psychics in Russia a la “Minority Report.” They’re broadcasting thoughts to America’s weak-mind liberals and leftists: "Don’t vote for Harris. Israel bad. Harris bad. I am a good person. I won’t vote for Harris." Their sleepy-headed targets mumble this call-to-action in hypnagogic half-sleep. "I am a good person. I won't vote for Harris."

Why not?

Here’s the reason the psychics project …

"Trump and Harris are Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Equivalents. Two evil sides of the same evil coin."

And that’s bullshit.

The truth is …

If Trump wins, the Iron Heel will stomp us all in the face. He’ll pack the Supreme Court (and federal judiciary) beyond any hope of future balance. Democratic victory won’t matter anymore. Liberal/progressive political philosophy will be declared unconstitutional. The Supreme Court will probably roll back previous decisions affirming LGBTQ rights. After that ...

 

Trump will pay back the people, organizations, cities and states that didn’t kiss his ass. McCarthy-era show trials will be the height of fashion. Along with blacklists and deportations. He’ll turn the Justice Department into the President’s blindly loyal squad. He’ll gut or eliminate the FBI and CIA — or turn them into his personal Gestapo. He’ll fire non-political government employees who might say “no” and replace them with pre-selected blind loyalists. He’ll build that freaking wall at the Mexican border at a cost that could probably create a domed city on Mars. For a few dollars more, he’ll build concentration camps to house undocumented immigrants — in a brief unpleasant stay, before kicking them out. He’ll wipe out any shred of independence in the educational system, kill liberal arts programs, and reduce American universities to trade schools. He’ll kill the Education Department and gut or kill the EPA. He’ll institute libel, treason and sedition laws that’ll silence annoying critics in the no-longer free press. He’ll give John Galt-style supermen like Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos the legal right to control, censor, own, and manipulate the flow of ideas. He’ll amp up extra-legal militias and death squads. He’ll legitimize the whack-job conspiracy theorists of Q-Anon. He’ll withdraw from NATO and other global alliances. He’ll stand by while Russia brutally absorbs Ukraine, and China does a fiery blitzkrieg on Taiwan. The Supreme Court will reverse its decisions on LGBTQ rights. No more gay marriages or trans people in bathrooms. They’ll revert to an absolutist state’s rights theory, including the elitist idea that state legislators and run elections (or select electors) any way they want. He’ll kill the independence of the Federal Reserve, cut all the taxes (for rich folks) he can, and kill all those pesky laws preventing America’s hard working entrepreneurs from working employees to death, selling deadly products, and pumping poisons in the air and water. The American economy will go down the toilet faster than you can say “Herbert Hoover.” He’ll attack the problem with the default authoritarian solution. We’ll go to war with somebody, probably Iran. Or maybe Samoa. Who the hell knows?

That’s the awful truth.

The Trump/Harris equivalency meme is disinformation.

It’s a lie. 

Otherwise known as bullshit.

Marty Fugate Critic Seminar Q+A

What’s the function of a critic?

On the level of the university or national publications, that’d be someone who analyzes the merits and faults of a literary or artistic work ­— or, for that matter, a fad, philosophy or social movement. In terms of popular media, you’re more like a professional poison taster. “’Avatar II’ sucks … aggghh! Don’t see it!” But most real critics (even that late Roger Ebert) hate that part of the job --- and only begrudgingly do it when they have to. Thumbs up, thumbs down. Pfft! I’m not the Emperor Nero.

What education should a competent critic have?

If you’re an English major or have a degree in journalism, if can’t hurt – but it doesn’t make you a critic. It’s not like the Wizard of Oz gives you a critic certificate. Plenty of writers without specialized degrees were (and still are) great critics. Plenty of credentialled critics don’t know what they’re talking about.

 A critic can make or break a show or an exhibit. Is that right?

That’s not been my experience, at least on the local level.

 Has criticism changed over the years? How?

The primary change is economic. If you’re considering a professional career in the 21st century, blacksmithing or buggy-whip manufacturing would be much more lucrative. From the standpoint of pure ideas, it’s gotten harder to confine yourself to the realm of pure ideas. Political gatekeepers have crashed the party – including PC gatekeepers on the left, and right-wing gatekeepers on the right. What you say CAN hurt you now … and that’s all I’m going to say on the subject.

Do personal biases interfere with a critic’s job?

I’d say they’re part of the job description … at least for now. Silicon Valley has created AI systems that generate amazing art. AI critics are probably on the horizon in the not-too-distant future. Until then critics are not robots. Critics are human and, by definition, not objective. I appreciate certain critics because of their unique points of view.

Should the critic of an opening take their time writing their review — to allow the performance to settle-in? Maybe even attend later performances?

Not usually. Your initial response is your most authentic response, Second-guessing yourself is a bad intellectual habit.

Some critics are also arts reporters. Does your arts coverage inform your reviews?

It can. The more you know, the better you write. Art reporting never hurts art criticism. On the other hand, going beyond the demands of a legitimate article — you can research something to death – to the point where it’s next to impossible to have a genuine response to what’s on stage or in the gallery. You already know the consensus of opinion on the show and the talent behind it. You know so much you’ve already written the review in your mind before you even see the show! When you get to that point, you’re just rehashing groupthink, not offering your unbiased opinion. That’s lazy, dishonest and the opposite of real criticism.

 Who are some critics whom you respect, and why?

Here are a few of the usual suspects from a very long list ,,, Dorothy Parker. Harlan Ellison. Roger Ebert, Robert Hughes, Joan Altabe, John Lahr, Frank Rich, Anthony Lane. My father. Su Byron. Kevin Dean. And everyone here, of course.

Without doing a specific breakdown, I’d say experience, knowledge, honesty, passion and curiosity makes each critic special. That said, it doesn’t mean they’re always right!. Just because I respect a critic, that doesn’t mean I always agree with them. Dorothy Parker hated “Winnie the Pooh.” Harlan Ellison hated “2001.” Pauline Kael hated “A Clockwork Orange.” I still respect those critics. I still love those books and movies.

Thanks to social media, everyone really is a critic. What impact does that have on contemporary criticism?

Free criticism kills the market for professional criticism. Who wants to buy a cow when they can get the milk for free? Few do. Increasingly, they’re at a national level. 

Is the whole concept of criticism outdated?

As an intellectual discipline, never. As a career? I’d need a time machine to answer that question.

Some random thoughts on Dune's latest film incarnation ...

Director Denis Villeneuve is a visionary — in a literal sense. When I saw the film's rendition of an Ornithopter, I thought, “Yes! That’s exactly what it should look like!” Same reaction to the Worm. This is the way it’s done. 

Frank Herbert’s SF novel, “Dune,” has an incredibly dense backstory. How can you explain it all in a film adaptation — without choking your movie with exposition? (c.f. David Lynch) Denis Villeneuve & Co. solved the problem by leaving out a ton of the exposition. There’s no explanation of the Mentats, the Butlerian Jihad. He doesn’t shoehorn in a scene where the Navigators explain how they fold space. He just drops you into the story, first from the oppressed Chani’s POV, then from Paul’s POV. He trusts you’re smart enough to figure it out as you go along.

In both David Lynch's adaptation and the TV miniseries

The screenwriters stick very close to the novel. They distill it, but change very little. The changes they make are smart and give the story more power. 

A few changes airbursh some of the novels un-PC blemishes. So, the “jihad”: becomes a”holy war.” “Mood is a thing for cattle and women,” gets clipped, too. 

Unlike the film or TV series adaptations, this film version doesn’t down play the precognitive horror of the holy war Paul’s going to ignite. In Frank Herbert’s world, Messiahs and their cults of personality get a lot of people killed. The other adaptations totally missed that. And pretty much sold Paul as Mr. White Savior Jesus from Space.

Pau’s trippy flash-forwards also keep the story moving. It’s also clear they’re glimpses of possible futures. (The other adaptations missed that, too.)

Drive-by Review: “James Cameron’s Story of Science Fiction.”

James Cameron has earned some grudging respect in the SF community. The man knows his SF. More importantly, he knows from whom to steal. Just ask Harlan Ellison, Ursula K. LeGuinn, Roger Dean … ah, but I digress.

Cameron has this online series. It’s packaged under the humble title, “James Cameron’s Story of Science Fiction.” Yeah. Slick as greased snot, but worth watching. 

And I get to the second ep. AKA … “Season 1, Ep. 2 Space.”

About 23 minutes in, James Cameron (in ass-kissing, I-defer-to-the-prophet’s-ego mode) is interviewing George Lucas …

James Cameron: You single-handedly revolutionized science-fiction and pop culture with “Star Wars” in 1977. ‘Cause it had been three decades of downer stuff — dystopian stuff, apocalyptic stuff — and science fiction was making less and less and less money every year, and all of a sudden, you came along with another vision. One of wonder and hope and empowerment — and boom!

George Lucas: “Star Wars” is a space opera. It’s not science fiction. 

OK, Lucas is (rightfully) self-deprecating and not claiming to have revolutionized a genre he has no claim too. Cameron on the other hand …

Grrrr. Argghh.

[Insert scene of projectile-vomiting here.]

OK, right. Let me get this straight …

Cameron, after offering a suck-up, tribute to George Lucas (the living filmgod!), dismissively pisses on “A Clockwork Orange,” “La Jetée,” “Quartermass and the Pit,” “Colossus: The Forbin Project,” "La Planète Sauvage,” “The Planet of the Apes,” “Dark Star,” "The Stepford Wives,” "Westworld,” “Silent Running,” “Zardoz,” “Soylent Green,” “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” (both versions), and (hardy-har) “THX-1138” …? Why? Because it’s “… downer stuff, dystopian stuff, apocalyptic stuff.” And even worse? Bad box office numbers! Said SF “was making less and less and less money every year!” 

[Insert scene of projectile-vomiting here.]

On top of his vicious disrespect to the dangerous visionaries of the 1960s and ’70s, Cameron is a hypocrite to boot. “The Terminator” was no shot of “wonder, hope and empowerment.” It was a grim, punk-rock, slap in the face. Downer stuff, dystopian stuff, apocalyptic stuff, one might say. The kind of thing Harlan Ellison, might write, you know? “Aliens” was just as alienating. My point …

[Insert scene of projectile-vomiting here.]

… just a visceral, Pavlovian revulsion to Cameron’s lack of class. I might mention Harlan Ellison’s “Luke Skywalker is a nerd and Darth Vader sucks runny eggs,” but that would seem classless on my part. Lucas never lied about his sources. Or pissed on other artists, either.

A post-modernist post-mortem

Sooner or later it had to happen. Post-modernist art is dead. Long live post-post modernism! Do I have a handle on the new flavor? I do not. I’m still catching up with the post-mods. Let’s start with my dim understanding of that …

Post-modernist art was all about self-conscious, thumb-in-your-eye artifice. Illusion of life? F*ck that shit. “Look, Ma! This is a painting! It ain’t real!” Post-mod novels, plays, and performance art were equally unreal. (Post-mod architecture was just really ugly.) 

 

Post-mod artists suspended the suspension of disbelief from the gallows, and replaced the author’s “voice” with a mechanical larynx box. But the voice was never there to begin with! Like God and Santa, the “author” doesn’t exist, so how could they have a voice? The “author” is a fiction! (Especially fiction authors!) Their “voice” is a clever ventriloquist’s trick. What you’re really hearing is the System talking. It’s the voice of capitalist mind control bending you to its all-consuming will! Oh you think that’s a painting of a pretty flower? Put on these post-mod sunglasses, pal.

 

CONSUME! OBEY! REPRODUCE!

 

Yeah. Now you get the picture.

 

A little post-mod trick called “deconstruction” exposed the hidden manipulation lurking behind the sappy bourgeoisie commodity of art and literature. “That story you just read. It would’ve been really sad if it actually happened, huh?” Shit like that. This gimmick was invented by cranky French art critics who pissed in every punchbowl they could find. Artists of all descriptions drank the Kool-Aid.

 

Novelists realized they had nothing to say. And said it in 900 pages.

 

Visual artists with nothing to paint, sculpt or draw captured the screaming emptiness across a range of mediums.

 

Hey, the post-mods weren’t all bad. (Thomas Pynchon and William Gibson flipped the one-sided Mobius strip of media and power. They took you into a funhouse mirror maze. But they still had stories to tell.)

 

Ah, but the bulk of post-mod art was sterile and boring. It was a one-trick pony. A dead end. A series of jokes with the same stale punchline that was old in Shakespeare’s time. “This play isn’t real.” How clever. What a clever artist you are.

 

That illusion-killing cleverness was the point—and the post-mod artist’s payoff. You chumps are trapped in a false narrative? The clever arteest will spoil the show and ruin the ride. That sounds mean, but it’s a victimless crime, people. It’s like attacking the audioanimatronic bears at Walt Disney World’s Country Bear Jamboree with a sledgehammer. The artist smashes them to bolts and bits. So what? They don’t feel anything. These “bears” are just stupid machines. They’re not even alive—so can tell your kid to stop crying, OK? And stop looking at me like that! F*ck you—you assholes should thank me! I just set you free from this corporate bullshit. Now go home and do your taxes.

 

This post-mod, bait-and-switch buzzkill got very old, very quickly—about the time it popped out of the womb, in fact. Like any intellectual fad, it wasn’t defeated by an opposing philosophy. The post-mod artists and critics just got old and started to die.

 

Now what?

 

Sigh.

Now ...

 

Like some shiny, polite beast, post-post modernist art struts to Bethlehem to be born. And there’s music, too! God … where's that repetitive beat coming from? Augggh … it’s a retro drum machine. And now the beast is singing. That warbling voice … Oh Christ. It’s autotuned!

Book Review: John Shirley's "Stormland"

A Hard Rain is Going to Fall

 We have met the future and it sucks. The forecast is brutal in John Shirley's "Stormland."

The hellish opening pages of John Shirley’s Stormland remind me of Escape from New York. Bang! Shirley’s protagonist is on the move to a very shitty place. How shitty? As shitty as it gets. Aye. It’s a sea voyage, matey. A murky, slime-streaked trip! A bad trip, obviously. Shirley's magical misery trip begins with no draggy exposition, just a few clues and offhand comments. But the character's destination is clear …

 

Welcome to hell. Contrary to popular opinion, it isn’t hot. It’s wet and soggy.

 

Stormland is set in an unspecified future. Maybe 25 years from now, maybe 75. The uninformed reader might think it's a scary "sci-fi" book about climate change. The novel's protagonist (Darryl Webb, an ex-US Marshal, turned bounty hunter) thinks he’s going to nab a shitty, mass-murdering fugitive hiding out in a shitty stretch of the South Carolina coast called “Stormland.” Webb arrives at his shitty destination in a shitty underwater vehicle called an “amphisub.” (By this point, attentive readers will have noticed the prevailing "shit" theme.) As Pvt. “Pyle” observed in Stanley Kubrick's Full Metal Jacket, “I am in a world of shit.” Webb knows exactly how the man feels. But changing this shitty world isn’t even an option for him. Abandon all hope ye who enter. Webb did, a long time ago. Along with everyone else who had a grain of sense.

 

That’s what you find out. In just the first few pages.

 

Shirley doesn’t lecture or preach in the pages that follow. He grabs you by the throat and drags you into his drowned hellworld. Webb and the other inhabitants of that world don’t find it particularly hellish. It’s just their world. Climate change isn’t an issue anymore, at least to them. The climate done changed a long time ago. 

 

By way of analogy, consider the Fertile Crescent. Thanks to the assaults of early human civilization, the Fertile Crescent. Isn’t. It’s a fucking desert now. The people who live there aren’t surprised. Oh fuck! Look at all this fucking sand! Nah. They just live with it. The inhabitants of Shirley’s soggy hell feel the same way about the fucking rain. And that rain has clearly washed away much of their humanity.

 

In clever synechdoche, Shirley tosses you the bones of brutal character details on the first leg of Webb's voyage. A callous remark about a dead brother. A captain who puts a gun in Webb’s face when the bounty hunter sneers at calling his shitty boat a “vessel.” Details like that. These people are damaged and hard. Survival mode is their default setting. It’s not even a choice anymore. 

 

You figure that out after a few more pages.

 

In a nasty bit of brilliance, Shirley then continues his ripping yarn as if he were writing for the people of this lousy time. Yeah, he’s not writing for you. This isn’t science fiction, baby. This is now. Shirley's readers are in 2117 (or whatever), and the drowned world is just background — and in the present tense. These future readers are here for the story — a manhunt, a police procedural, a detective story, whatever. Or so it seems …

 

Whatever you call it, Webb’s bounty hunter’s hunt goes on. Unlike John Carpenter’s Snake Plissken or William Gibson’s Case, Webb isn’t motivated by time-released toxin sacks in his bloodstream that will kill him if he doesn’t complete his task on time. Nobody’s forcing him to do the job. Webb needs the money.

 

Webb’s financially motivated manhunt unfolds with vivid description — always grounded in the character’s phenomenological experience of physical reality. Shirley interweaves this sense data with Webb’s stream of consciousness and expositional info bursts. All these threads come together effortlessly. (At least you might think so if “writer” isn’t your job description. Having fucked up a few verbal tapestries in my time, I can assure you it’s not.)

 

Webb’s brutal quest slogs on to its ineluctable end. Shirley being Shirley, he flips the script several times along the way. I’d be a right bastard to spoil the surprise, so I won’t. But here’s a hint …

 

Heartlessness is a defense mechanism. Hope is the cruelest gift of Pandora’s Box. Ernest Cline danced around the point in "Ready Player One," but let’s speak the plain truth. In a crapsack world, VR is a better rush than heroin. Reality sucks. But it’s the only dance there is. Human beings can adapt to anything! Don’t smile, idiot. That sucks, too.

 

Clear as mud, I know. But it all makes sense if you read Stormland. I highly recommend it.

 

Shirley's at the top of his game in this novel. Stormland is up there with his Eclipse trilogy and City Come a Walking. Simply put, Shirley’s story is great. The words that deliver his story are, too. But unforgiving. Shirley’s prose is as hard as a Dim Mak death punch. How shall I put it? 

 

Shirley can hit with both hands and move around and he will kill you if you are not awfully careful... Mr. Shirley, boy, you are good. 

 

Actually, to be honest, that’s what Hemingway said about Nelson Algren’s The Man with the Golden Arm. I figure it also applies to Stormland, and I couldn't find a better way to put it. And he’s Hemingway, right? I can’t improve on Hemingway, right? Anyway, he’s dead, so who cares? And where was I?

 

Book review. Right.

 

OK. Uh. Bruce Sterling covered some of the same soggy ground in Heavy Weather. Shirley’s novel is more like Heavy Weather, ten or twenty years later. As if the hard rain kept falling. And then got harder. J.G. Ballard took a similar plunge in The Drowned World — a novel he wrote for the money and ultimately disowned. A half-assed thought experiment, at best. But Shirley doesn’t play that. 

 

Stormland isn’t a glass bead game. In plain English, it’s not an intellectual exercise. Or a Waterworld variation of Mad Max for that matter. There’s no winking, no hint of camp. 

 

Shirley is dead serious. His characters are flesh and blood — and that’s the real strength of his writing. Abandon all hope. That’s what his characters do. Shirley gets you under their skin. He makes you feel their hopeless reality.

 

And then you know how it feels.