Reclaimed SF Site Review: Deep Secret, by Diana Wynne Jones

Here's another review I did for the late great science fiction site SF Site, which gave me a huge leg up in my book reviewing career. This was one of my earlier reviews for them, from 1999, when Tor published the first US edition of Deep Secret, which first appeared in the UK in 1997. The review is as it appeared then, reflecting my relative newness back then to her work, and failing to note that she died in 2011 after a remarkable career.

Seldom recently have I simply enjoyed reading a book as much as I enjoyed Diana Wynne Jones' Deep Secret. Jones employs a mixture of engaging characters, interesting fantasy concepts, and a light touch with serious undertones, to create a novel that is infectious and absorbing. This is not new with her: I just discovered her work last year, and the YA novels Howl's Moving Castle and Charmed Life (which has certain similarities to Deep Secret) affected me in similar ways. Deep Secret, I should say, was marketed in the US as an adult novel, although I would imagine it would be appreciated by younger readers. (And to be sure, Jones' YA novels are certainly good fare for adults, and I have seen Deep Secret called YA anyway.)

Right from the beginning we know something is up, as narrator Rupert Venables is called away to the Koryfonic Empire, to give his stamp of approval as a Magid to a legal proceeding there. Koryfonic Empire? Magid? We are told that the Multiverse consists of worlds arranged in a sort of infinity figure, with one half (including Earth), negative magically (this is the Naywards half). These worlds tend not to believe in magic, and magic is harder to do there. The other (Ayewards) half are positive magically: for instance, creatures such as centaurs can exist there. The Koryfonic Empire is very important, as it occupies the exact middle of the infinity sign. And Magids are a variety of wizard, with the duty to subtly influence events on whatever worlds they are responsible for in the appropriate direction. Rupert is Earth's junior Magid, and he is fresh from helping out in Yugoslavia and Northern Ireland, when he gets sent to the Empire.

Rupert is soon engaged in two succession problems. His mentor has died, and he must select a new Magid from among several human candidates. In addition, the Koryfonic Emperor is assassinated, and Rupert has to try to track down the proper heir -- a process complicated by the previous Emperor's paranoia, which caused him to hide away his heirs so they wouldn't try to take over before their time. Even so, Rupert has an unexpectedly hard time tracking down the various Magid candidates. Even the young Englishwoman, Maree Mallory, who should be easy to find, is surprisingly difficult to get in touch with. And when Rupert finally does meet her, he doesn't like her at all, and crosses her off his list.

An alternate narrative path starts to follow Maree, which ought to be a clue to any reader that Rupert may have a harder time avoiding her in the long run than he thinks. Maree's father has cancer, and she's gone to live with her Uncle, a fantasy writer. But her Aunt and she don't get along at all. Plus her boyfriend has dumped her, which complicates her veterinary studies. (He's another student.) And then she gets these annoying letters from Rupert...

Rupert finally decides to weave a spell (a working) to bring the various candidates (except Maree, whom he thinks he's already rejected) together, where he can find and interview them. The real world result of this is that they are all brought to a Science Fiction convention. (It seems to be an Eastercon, actually.) A convention at which (you guessed it), Maree's uncle is to be Guest-of-Honour.

As we should expect, the convention, the interviewing of the Magid candidates, and the question of the Koryfonic succession are all intertwined. Much of the action is superficially light in tone, including some funny bits involving the difficulty of navigating the hotel's corridors. But at the same time the concerns are deadly serious, and Jones doesn't cheat us there: real mistakes are made, people are really hurt and killed. So it's not just a light-hearted romp, and though it's often funny, Deep Secret is not a comedy.

What it is, is a thoroughly involving book. Jones is one of those natural storytellers: her books compel reading. The characters are real, and very likable. The plot is exciting, and resolved logically. The magical system is lightly sketched, but what we see is interesting and well drawn. The resolution is largely what we expect, but it also involves satisfying surprises. This book kept me up late at night, and made me eager for each chance to read another chapter.

It's not perfect: the overall setup, although interesting, is a bit strained, and a bit too lightly sketched, which reduced the immediacy of some of the events. And structurally there is a slight burp: the book ends, more or less, followed by an odd sort of coda, which fills us in on an earlier event that was missed in the main narrative. But Jones finds a way to round up that coda nicely, without causing too muffled an end to things. And I came away from this book a satisfied customer. Highly recommended. And hopefully, the publication of this novel in the United States is a harbinger of more Diana Wynne Jones to come, since her earlier works are not so easy to find in the New World.

Rescued Review: Uncle Bones, by Damien Broderick

Here is another review I first wrote for SF Site, back in 2010. With the demise of SF Site, I am slowly reprinting some of those reviews at this blog.

Uncle Bones, by Damien Broderick

a review by Rich Horton

Damien Broderick died this past April, three days shy of his 81st birthday. He was born in Melbourne, and late in his life lived for some time in Texas and for a couple of years in Portugal. He had an impressive career, as novelist, short story writer, editor, anthologist, and writer of popular science, that lasted over 50 years. I corresponded with him extensively for about a quarter century, and though we only met once in person I considered him a friend.

Broderick gained admiring attention for novels like The Dreaming Dragons (revised as The Dreaming), The Judas Mandala, and The White Abacus; and for nonfiction like The Spike. But to my mind he never received quite the notice, at least in the US, that he deserved. In 2009 he made a rather dramatic return to short fiction with a series of outstanding stories, mostly in Asimov's. In that year he published this book, Uncle Bones, which collected four novellas, one from both the beginning of his career but newly revised, another from 2009, and two from the early 80s, a particularly productive period for Broderick.

The title story was the first to appear in his late flood of new work. "Uncle Bones" is arguably a Young Adult story, and also a zombie story as well as pure Science Fiction: not at all the tiresome cliché zombie stuff we see altogether too much of these days. Jim lives with his mother and his uncle, but his uncle is dead. However, he has been reanimated by nanotechnology: he was lucky enough -- for certain values of "lucky" -- to get an experimental and not wholly successful treatment. Side effects include a terrible smell and flaky skin and worse. Jim knows another "Stinky," the sister of one of his friends. He's not sure what to think about the whole thing, but when it seems his Uncle might be involved in something shady, he tries to find out what's going on, with unfortunate results. It's an enjoyable story, if just a bit predictable and perhaps too convenient in its resolution.

The other new story is actually a very old one, though it appears in this book for the first time in this form. "A Game of Stars and Souls" is an expanded version of his first story, which appeared as "The Sea's Furthest End" in the first of John Carnell's famous UK original anthology series New Writings in SF, way back in 1964. (Broderick was just a kid at the time.) It was much expanded, with a contemporary subplot added, as a YA novel in 1993, also called The Sea's Furthest End. "A Game of Stars and Souls" extracts from the novel the expanded version of the original story, with some revisions: a 40,000 word novella, pure wild space opera, reminiscent (to me) of Charles Harness. (Though Broderick, in his afterword, cites Friedrich Schiller's Don Carlos as his inspiration.) The story deals with the evil Galactic Emperor Jagannatha, in what seems to be the very far future. He has arranged for his weak son Chakravalin to marry Adriel Corydon, the beautiful daughter of the leader of an independent planet. Adriel has been genetically altered to be very beautiful, very smart, and to be able to control the emotions of others. She and Chakravalin fall in love, which is the plan, in order to motivate Jagannatha to spare Adriel's planet. But Jagannatha lusts after Adriel, and steals her from his son. Which sets in motion his son's rebellion... Tied in with this is a mysterious alien race, resident in the Singularity at the heart of the Galaxy, which has its own mystical motivations. It's not Broderick's best work, but it's fun and highly imaginative.

The best two stories are those from the 1980s. "The Ballad of Bowsprit Bear's Stead" appeared in 1980 in Ursula K. Le Guin and Virginia Kidd's original anthology Edges. (Le Guin is not thought of as an anthologist, but she and Kidd edited two impressive books around that time: Edges and Interfaces.) This is a bravura performance, spectacularly written and stuffed with SFnal ideas. The title character is an historian from the future, and an Ainu, sent back in time to observe the fall of the "Old Galactics," an empire of Neanderthals. It's often provocative -- incest is a major theme, for instance, and so is personal hygiene, and so is genocide. (Neither the Ainu depicted here nor the Neanderthals have attitudes much in sympathy with 21st Century Western attitudes.) As I mentioned, the writing is arresting, often quite funny (as with the depiction of the Emperor's robots, modelled on Karl Marx and Adam Smith), sometimes punny, sometimes bawdy. I think it rather a discovery.

The other piece may be somewhat better known, but even so I don't think it has got quite the recognition it deserves. This is "The Magi," from Alan Ryan's 1982 anthology of religious SF, Perpetual Light. Broderick has said of this story: "Arguably the best story I ever wrote, and maybe the one I'll be remembered for, if I'm remembered for anything." Here Father Raphael Silverman, born a Jew, now a Jesuit, discovers a mysteriously beautiful but empty city on a distant planet. Meanwhile he is wracked by guilt, some of it survival guilt -- his family are all dead, mostly as a result of Greater Islam invading Israel, and some of it related to a shocking discovery he made on a rescue mission to the first human starship. The story is in dialogue with a much more famous SF story about a Jesuit, Arthur C. Clarke's "The Star," and the closing revelation about the aliens who abandoned the city Silverman discovers is lovely.

Review: A Christmas Carol and Other Holiday Treasures, by Charles Dickens

Review: A Christmas Carol and Other Holiday Treasures, by Charles Dickens

by Rich Horton

Charles Dickens wrote five novellas, of almost equal length (about 30,000 words) in the 1840s. The most famous of these by far is of course A Christmas Carol (1843). It was followed, one a year except 1847, by The Chimes, The Cricket on the Hearth, The Battle of Life, and The Haunted Man. Each novella was published as a slim illustrated book, the first two by Chapman and Hall, the latter three by Bradbury and Evans. The illustrators were a varied lot, often several to a given volume. (The most famous of them might be John Tenniel and Edwin Landseer.) 

I read A Christmas Carol first in my teens, and have reread it since plus seen many film and TV adaptations. (My personal favorite is The Muppet Christmas Carol, with Michael Caine as Scrooge, though many of the others are very good too, perhaps especially the Alastair Sim movie from 1951.) I had never read any of the other novellas, however, and so I went looking for them. But I found that most of the collections I saw were confusingly assembled. Some included only a couple of the novellas besides A Christmas Carol; others included some of Dickens' other Christmas writings, such as extracts from The Pickwick Papers, or other shorter stories Dickens wrote about the season -- "The Holly-Tree" and "A Christmas Tree" seem the most famous of those. I was feeling stubborn: I felt like there ought to be a collection of the main five holiday novellas! (Though, mind you, I do plan eventually to read some of these other stories!) So I gave up for a while and then by happenstance ran across a book called A Christmas Carol and Other Holiday Treasures, in a Half-Price Books. It was very reasonably priced, and attractive enough, so I bought it.

This book is published by Canterbury Classics, located in San Diego, though the book itself was
produced in China. It is part of a series of reprints called "Word Cloud Classics". As I said above, it's not bad looking -- bound in green faux leather, with the title embossed in red on the cover, and a number of quotes in smaller print (presumably the "Word Cloud"). It is barely edited at all -- there are a number of minor typographical errors throughout, and the introduction consists of a single page very briefly recounting the publishing history of these stories. But it does reproduce exactly the five "holiday" novellas I was looking for, in the order they were first published.

I read the book on purpose just as Christmas was approaching. It turns out, however, that the only story truly "about" Christmas is A Christmas Carol. The Chimes is about the New Year, quite explicitly. The Cricket on the Hearth is not really a holiday story at all, and neither is The Battle of Life, though one scene is set at Christmas. And The Haunted Man is indeed set at Christmas, but the story doesn't really concern that holiday, except that the winter setting and the proximity of the new year are important.

Thomas Parker told me that the Christmas novellas, while all worth reading, are each worse than their predecessor, and I'd agree that that's roughly true, though I think I'd rank The Cricket on the Hearth ahead of The Chimes, and The Haunted Man ahead of The Battle of Life. One thing the stories do have in common, save The Battle of Life, is the central importance of ghosts, fairies, or goblins to the plot, and a theme of regret for mistakes made in one's past, tied to a deep concern for the plight of poor people.

I'll very briefly discuss each story. I don't actually think I need say much about A Christmas Carol. It is subtitled "In Prose, being a Ghost Story of Christmas". It obviously deserves its enduring popularity. I won't bother to summarize the plot -- everyone knows it, I trust -- I'll only say that it's written with Dickens' customary exuberance, and his customary (but generally earned) sentimentality. It's a delight to read, its message is powerful, and its effects are affecting. It survives very well its adaptations, even those that make twists on the story, such as the Bill Murray vehicle Scrooged! I'd recommend anyone who hasn't read the original story to be sure to do so -- but don't be ashamed to have enjoyed the films!

The Chimes, subtitled "A Goblin Story of Some Bells that Rang an Old Year Out and a New Year In", centers on a very poor man name "Trotty" Veck, who works near an old church with great chimes that ring out periodically. Trotty's daughter Meg is ready to marry her similarly poor fiancé Richard. Trotty meets Will Fern, a man from the country charged with vagrancy, even as he cares for his young niece.. And despite his sympathy for his daughter's poverty, and for Will Fern's even more desperate straits (and political fervor), he begins to be affected by the lectures he gets from the sanctimonious Alderman Cute, who is certain that poor people are responsible for their misfortunes, and the hypocritical MP Joseph Bowley, who eagerly dispenses charity, but with conditions. Trotty climbs into the belltower and falls, and as the chimes ring out, he is transported to the future, and as a ghost sees the fate of Meg, convinced by arguments that she should not marry Richard because they are poor, and the fates of Will and his niece. The resolution -- as the New Year arrives heralded by the chimes -- is hopeful, much as with A Christmas Carol, as Trotty's vision of the future allows him to help.

A Cricket on the Hearth seems to be the best-known of these novellas besides A Christmas Carol. It is subtitled "A Fairytale of Home". (Vladimir Lenin reportedly hated it, which I'll take as a recommendation.) The title comes from John Milton's poem "Il Penseroso", and reflects a legend that to a cricket chirping on your hearth was good luck. (It is somewhat annoying to try to search for the source of Dickens' title and have AI and such confidently tell you it's from a Charles Dickens novella!)

The story is about John Peerybingle, a steady and hardworking carrier, but not learned, who has a very pretty but much younger wife, Dot. They have a child, and employ a rather silly nurse, Tilly. They are poor but not desperately so, and seem quite happy. One of their friends is Caleb Plummer, a talented but very poor toymaker, whose daughter Bertha is blind. Caleb's son Edward had been going to marry Dot's school friend May, but Edmund had gone to South America and not return, presumed dead. The miserly owner of the toy company where Caleb works now wishes to marry May, and her mother insists she do so. Meanwhile a strange elderly man comes and asks to stay with the Peerybingles. Dot eagerly allows him to stay, somewhat to John's surprise, and later distress, when he notices a young man (the elderly man out of his diguise) spending time with Dot. John gets very angry, but, influenced by the cricket on their hearth, refrains from violence and vows to set Dot free to be with a younger man if she so wishes. There is a secret here, of course, and one soon resolved to most everyone's satisfaction. It's a fine story, enlivened by the comic antics of Tilly, and the moving care Caleb Plummer gives to his Bertha, including describing their poor dwelling as a place of luxury.

The Battle of Life is simply subtitled "A Love Story". It's set in a small village built upon the site of a centuries past battle -- a ground once thought haunted, though now that old battle has passed out of memory. Grace and Marion are the daughters of Doctor Jeddler, who thinks the whole of life a joke. The older sister, Grace, is very solicitous of her pretty younger sister, regarding her as almost a daughter (their mother is dead.) And Grace believes that Marion loves a young man named Alfred, and she has determined that they will marry. But the reader perceives immediately that Marion is not so enthusiastic. Alfred does feel for Marion, but first he will spend a couple of years studying in France, hoping to marry her upon his return. But when he does return, Marion suddenly vanishes, at the same time as Michael Warden, a dissolute young man who has run through his inheritance and must flee England. The mystery of Marion's actions is explained several years later, when Michael Warden returns, his debts have been worked off, but without Marion. I'll leave the revelation for the reader to find, but I will say that I found the conclusion, though the general outline of it was easy to see in advance, a bit disappointingly handled in detail.

The best parts of The Battle of Life involve a few secondary characters: Doctor Jeddler's servants Mr. Britain and Clemency Newcome; and the local lawyers, Snitchey and Craggs, along with their wives. All are generally good people*, and very amusingly depicted, in the best Dickensian fashion. Unfortunately the plot of the story is a bit too routinely worked out. (*Of course the lawyers are Dickensian lawyers, so they have their shortcomings, but they are overall pretty honest.)

The Haunted Man's full title is The Haunted Man and the Ghost's Bargain. (Some sources give "A Fancy for Christmas-Time" as the subtitle, and that does appear to have been the case in the 1849 Harper Brothers edition. It's not clear to me that that subtitle was included in the English first edition.) The title character is Mr. Redlaw, a highly-respected Chemist and a sort of professor of his science. But he's an old and rather bitter man, due to having lost the woman he loved to a fellow student back in their college days. A ghost shows up -- apparently a spirit formed somehow from the Chemist's bitterness -- and offers him a bargain -- he can have the memory of all the ills done him removed, which should make him less bitter. But if he does so, anyone he touches will also have those memories removed. The Chemist accepts, and begins wandering the town, soon accompanied by an almost savage young child. He encounters his servant William Swidger, Mr. Swidger's father Philip, and William's wife Millie ("Mrs. William"), plus William's brother George, who is about to die after a life of ruin. One of Mr. Redwall's students, Mr. Denham, has abandoned his studies, and has taken ill. He's staying at the house of Mr. Tetterby, a not very successful newspaper seller who has several children. Millie is nursing Mr. Denham. But on each of these people (except Millie) meeting Mr. Redwall, they lose their memory of past troubles -- and somehow this makes their present situation seem worse, and they treat their fellows harshly. Mr. Redwall realizes what a plague he has become, and begs for a cure ... The moral is simple -- that our memory of ills as well as joys is important to deal with. As with so much Dickens, including other stories in this collection, the plight of the poorest people, especially children, is also highlighted.

I'm glad to have read this collection -- it's Dickens, so it can hardly be a waste of time. As noted, none of this stories besides A Christmas Carol is truly Dickens at his best, but all have their good points.

Resurrected Review: The End of Eternity, by Isaac Asimov

I call some of my reviews "Resurrected Review", typically when I grab something from my old blog or SFF Net newsgroup and republish it here. This one is even more truly resurrected -- it's one of very many reviews I did for the pioneering website SF Site, which was founded by Rodger Turner and John O'Neill back in 1997. John recruited me to write reviews for the site, and he soon became -- and remains -- a very close friend. John left to found the magazine Black Gate, which survives as a first rate website. Rodger Turner maintained SF Site for quite a while, but the changing nature of the internet eventually led to its end -- it was mostly finished by 2013, and formally closed in 2018, but the site remained until very recently. Rodger died in October of 2025, and SF Site left the internet not long after. I've been saving some of the best work I did, and some of that will migrate here.

This review dates to 2000, on the occasion of the Victor Gallancz SF Collectors Edition of the novel.

Resurrected Review: The End of Eternity, by Isaac Asimov

I've long been of the slightly heterodox (though far from rare) opinion that The End of Eternity is Isaac Asimov's best novel. It benefits partly from being unconnected to his various series (though there are hints, both within this book and in some of the later books, that there could be a tenuous connection). In addition, Asimov is interested in a significant, and resonant, theme, in a way the central theme of 50s SF: the human desire for exploration, and the concomitant link between risk-taking and expansion of the human spirit. This still works now, nearly at the turn of the millennium, though inevitably the theme needs to be viewed with a touch of irony. Finally, the story is cleverly constructed, and really quite well-written in spots, within the constraints of Asimov's goals and style.

There are weaknesses, to be sure. The central love story is awkwardly handled, and the treatment of women in general is creaky, while the characterization of heroine Noÿs Lambent in particular is uneven. And as with almost any time travel story, the clever structure of the plot tends to wobble on close examination: but that is a fault endemic to the form, and, I think, excusable here. I was a bit concerned about rereading this book now, not having read it in 20 years, though I read it multiple times as a teen. Would it hold up? With the one caveat that I couldn't quite buy his portrayal of women and romance (which I think I did pretty much accept as a callow teen), I think the book holds up fine.

The End of Eternity concerns Andrew Harlan, a Technician for the organization called Eternity. As a Technician, Harlan is an expert at determining and executing the Minimum Necessary Change in a timeline to attain a desired Change in history. For the Eternals, men who live "outside Time," monitor human history from the 27th century to about the 70,000th century, trying to maintain a stable society, with reasonable prosperity. They allow some trade between centuries, but for the most part they work at eliminating worrisome trends: excessively unusual social mores, dangerous technology such as atomic weapons, and, to be sure, excessive curiosity about the nature of Eternity.

As the book opens Harlan is shown committing a crime: in exchange for concealing a minor error by a functionary of one of the Eternity bases, he arranges to have the Life Plot of a certain woman tracked through a change. For, you see, when Reality Changes, everybody changes with it. And a woman you loved might suddenly be married, or have suffered an accident, or be altered in personality.

Flashbacks then show Harlan's history: his recruitment from a somewhat conservative century, his early career as an Eternal, his interest in Primitive history (from before the invention of time travel, thus before Eternity can manipulate history). Finally he encounters the alluring Noÿs Lambent, a woman from a sexually loose century, and the stiff, inexperienced Harlan falls in love, and before long is ready to risk the very existence of Eternity to keep his woman.

Asimov resolves his story, as I've said, fairly cleverly, in the process giving us a look at the creation of Eternity, and at the Hidden Centuries so far in the future that the Eternals can't penetrate, or aren't allowed to penetrate. He makes use of time paradoxes worthy of Charles Harness, but Asimov's presentation is so deadpan and rationalistic that he almost makes them believable. And in the end, he asks whether stability and general happiness is the most worthwhile goal. His answer is the expected answer for a Campbell-nurtured writer of the 50s, but it's still the answer I'd give, with modifications. (After all, Asimov's ideal vision, as presented in this book and elaborated in his Foundation/Empire books, is of a human-dominated galaxy. In essence, he suggests, we need to get to the stars before They -- the aliens -- do. Surely it's better that we get to the stars along with Them?)

Upon rereading The End of Eternity I'd still call it Asimov's best novel. If his picture of an all-male Eternity (admittedly given at least nominal justification in the book) seems risible from a contemporary perspective, so does much 50s SF fail in treatment of women. So too his sex scenes and love scenes are awkward (and the book does have a sex scene, albeit a very discreet one, despite Asimov's habit of joking that he didn't write about sex until he wrote about alien sex in The Gods Themselves): but 50s SF writers were rarely allowed much practice in that area. The ideas presented in the book are still compelling: the meta-society of Eternity is nicely worked out, with many cute details, and the overarching theme is well-argued, and still merits thought. And Asimov's prose, so often denigrated, is here, as ever, well-wielded in service of his goals. It's not beautiful, but it's well-constructed, and the occasional telling line (as a character's soft sentence about a spaceport wiped out in a Change: "It had been very beautiful") really works. This is the kind of book that made me an SF fan, and it's still worth reading.

Review: The Horse Without a Head, by Paul Berna

Review: The Horse Without a Head, by Paul Berna

by Rich Horton

At an estate sale recently, whose deceased owner clearly had interesting taste, I saw a copy of The Horse Without a Head, for 50 cents (about what it cost in the first place) and it was just intriguing enough to buy. It was a Scholastic edition, so a children's book (really what we'd now call Young Adult though the primary characters are between about 10 and 13.) And the writer was French. And, as I quickly learned, the book became a Disney movie for television -- Disney's Wonderful World of Color series -- in 1963. The movie -- called The Horse Without a Head -- appears to be fairly well regarded, though it's not well known at all.

Paul Berna was the pseudonym used for his fiction by Jean-Marie-Edmond Sabran (1908-1994), a French journalist who wrote novels mostly for children. He did publish a few science fiction novels, the best known probably a diptych published in 1954 and 1955: Threshold of the Stars and Continent in the Sky. The Horse Without a Head was published in French in 1955 as Le Cheval Sans Tête, which actually does mean The Horse Without a Head. The English translation, by John Buchanan-Brown, was first titled One Hundred Million Francs in 1957, but my Scholastic edition, presumably in response to the movie, is called The Horse Without a Head. My copy is the first Scholastic edition, from 1964. It is illustrated by Jon Nielsen.

The title horse is a play horse, stretched over a sort of tricycle frame, the head of which has fallen off. A group of ten children from a grubby Paris suburb called Louvigny play with with -- riding dangerously down a steep street, heedless of traffic and pedestrians. It is shortly after the end of the Second World War, and there is evidence of the war around -- bomb craters and such. The kids are poor, but seem pretty happy, though it's clear their parents are struggling to get by. Most of the adults tolerate the kids, but the police sometimes harass them, and a couple of merchants object to the occasional upsetting of their products.

The most prominent kids are Gaby, the oldest, and the gang's leader; Fernand; and Marion, a girl of about 12 who is beloved by all the dogs in the town. Berna lightly sketches these kids in a believable way, and the portrayal of their lives and their parents is down to Earth and seems a quite honest look at working class life in postwar France. 

One day the horse crashes, and the frame is broken. Fernand's father has a friend who can fix it, and shortly after it is fixed, some suspicious characters begin to ask the children to sell it to them for a fairly exhorbitant price. But they aren't interested, and things turn more threatening. Eventually the horse is stolen. The kids complain to the police, who don't take them too seriously, and they also find another place to play -- an abandoned factory.

Meanwhile the police are complaining that they never get any action, or chance for promotion, even though there was recently a robbery of the train that runs through the town, in which 100,000,000 francs* were stolen. It seems clear that the suspicious folks hanging around are probably the criminals, and they must be looking for the the loot. Could the horse be involved somehow? And then Fernand realizes that in the junk recovered from the horse's hollow frame when it was recovered, there was a key. 

No need to detail the ending. It involves the key, of course, and some bumbling thieves, and the mildly bumbling police, and the kids' new hiding place, and Marion's dogs. It's really quite nicely done. As I said -- a believable portrayal of life in a Paris slum (for want of a nicer word), and a bunch of decent kids making their childhood special. The actual details of the crime and the way the children thwart it may not be wholly plausible, but that doesn't really matter. Worth the time.

*100,000,000 francs is stated to be worth about $200,000, which seemed awfully small to me -- but it turns out that that is about right for the exchange rate between francs and dollars around 1950.

Old Bestseller Review: The Feathered Serpent, by Edgar Wallace

Old Bestseller Review: The Feathered Serpent, by Edgar Wallace

by Rich Horton

Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace was born in 1875 in London. He was illegitimate, and grew up in poverty. He left school at age 12, joined the Army at 21, and acted as a war correspondent in the second Boer War. He turned to writing in 1905, beginning with stories based on his journalistic work (among other things, he investigated Belgian atrocities in the Congo.) His writing proved very successful, and he was very prolific, writing over 150 novels, and nearly a thousand short stories, as well as plays, poetry, non-fiction and screenplays. He moved to the US in 1931 to write screen plays for RKO, and he wrote the first draft of the screenplay for King Kong, but died rather suddenly in 1932. (Perhaps he could be called the "Leigh Brackett" of King Kong!)

He is not widely read now, and I had not read anything by him. But I found a copy of The Feathered Serpent at an estate sale, and figured I'd give it a try. The novel was serialized in the Weekly Telegraph in 1926 and 1927, and published by Hodder and Stoughton in 1927, with a US edition from Doubleday Doran. My copy is from Grossett and Dunlap in 1928. 

Many sources claim that the novel was later reprinted as Inspector Wade and the Feathered Serpent. This is not really true. There was a comic strip based (very loosely) on the stories of Wallace, some time after his death. They seem to have decided to unify the different stories by using the same name for the Inspector character in each story, so for The Feathered Serpent, the character Inspector Clarke (a somewhat minor character in the original book) became Inspector Wade. The comic strips seem to have been "renovelized" for republication as a Big Little Book. Three Inspector Wade books were published beginning in 1939. Inspector Wade and the Feathered Serpent came out in 1940. Based on snippets of that book I could find, the plot was radically changed from the original novel, and the book completely rewritten (in much worse style.) It seems to have been much shorter -- and after all Big Little Books were for children.

Back to the actual novel. It's fairly good fun -- no lasting masterpiece, but a nice readable novel with an interesting if implausible central mystery. The two central characters -- the "detectives" if you will -- are Peter Dewin, a reporter, and Daphne Olroyd, a young woman trying to make her way in London -- at first she is an assistant to the very wealthy Leicester Crewe, but when he decides to go overseas she gets a new job with another wealthy man, the scientist and philanthropist Geoffrey Beale. A side plot, of course, is the quickly developing relationship between Dewin and Olroyd.

The primary mystery concerns some threatening messages that some people receive featuring an illustration of a "Feathered Serpent" -- a Central American quasi-religious figure. The vulgar but popular actress Ella Creed gets one, Leicester Crewe, who seems to be perhaps her sugar daddy. And then there is a murder, of a man named Joe Farmer, who seemed to have some connection to both Creed and Crewe. There are rumors that a criminal named William Lane, thought to be dead, has been seen alive. Daphne Olroyd is briefly kidnapped at one point, while Peter Dewin keeps figuring out bits and pieces of the mystery without quite understanding it. And Geoffrey Beale's scientific knowledge -- he had been doing anthropological studies in Central America -- offers some hints. A past counterfeiting scheme, involving at least the mysterious William Lane as well as Joe Farmer, and a woman named Paula Staines, might have some bearing on things ...

The conclusion involves yet another murder, sort of an "impossible" crime, and a convoluted but reasonably interesting explanation for just what has been going on. All in all, as I said, by no means a great mystery, but not bad -- worth your time if you like classical mysteries with a soupçon of sensationalism. I don't think I'll actively seek out more of Edgar Wallace's work, but if another novel comes my way I might go ahead and read it.

Review: Ladies Whose Bright Eyes, by Ford Madox Ford

In 2022 I had a Curiosities feature in the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction on Ford Madox Ford's time travel novel Ladies Whose Bright Eyes. Curiosities is a long running feature of the magazine highlighting relatively obscure science fiction and fantasy, and I've contributed several such features to F&SF. It's been a while since that issue appeared, and F&SF's website seems to have disappeared for now, so I thought I'd post about that novel here. My process for writing a Curiosities piece is to write an extensive review and cut, cut, cut -- Curiosities are limited to about 250 words. So I have reproduced the whole initial piece I wrote, with revisions based in part on improvements that resulted from the cutting process. 

Ladies Whose Bright Eyes, by Ford Madox Ford

A review by Rich Horton

Ford Madox Ford was born Joseph Leopold Ford Herman Madox Hueffer in Surrey, England, in 1873, the son of a German immigrant. His mother was the daughter of painter Ford Madox Brown, and Hueffer styled himself Ford Madox Hueffer for much of his life, and most of his earlier books were first published under that name. He legally changed his name to Ford Madox Ford in 1919 (partly in reaction to anti-German sentiment), and his later work, as well as reissues of the earlier work, was generally as by Ford Madox Ford, the name by which he is now remembered. (It is sometimes called a pseudonym, which is incorrect.) He died in 1939.

He is the author of one of my favorite novels, The Good Soldier (1915, first published as by Ford Madox Hueffer), a bleakly comic novel of a man with a “heart condition” (in more ways than one). It is widely featured on lists of the 100 best novels of the 20th Century, a laurel it surely deserves

Ford was particularly close friends (and a sometime collaborator) with Joseph Conrad (until they fell out), and was also close to the likes of Henry James, Stephen Crane, H. G. Wells, and Ezra Pound. He founded a key literary review of the Modernist period, the English Review. He fought in the First World War and suffered major injuries, from shellfire and poison gas. Later he was a founder of the Transatlantic Review, another major Modernist publication, supporting James Joyce, Gertrude Stein, Jean Rhys, and Ernest Hemingway among others. Besides The Good Soldier he is best known for a quartet of novels about the War, collectively called Parade's End. His earlier Fifth Queen trilogy is also well-regarded. All in all, a major career, but scandal involving his fraught relationships with a series of wives and mistresses, and perhaps just the normal shifts in literary fashion, led to a temporary eclipse of his reputation, though it has been long since restored.

He was certainly by inclination a Modernist/realist writer, so Ladies Whose Bright Eyes stands out to some extent as having a science-fictional theme. It is the story of William Sorrell, a somewhat humbuggish publisher, who has an accident on a train while returning from a trip to the United States, where he got involved with a Mrs. Lee-Egerton. She gives him a gold cross that has been in her family for centuries as security for a loan in assistance of her rackety son … and then there is a crash.

Sorrell finds himself wandering across a plain, strangely dressed, clutching the gold cross. Before long he realizes he's in some sort of medieval situation, complete with hanged men on gibbets. He tries to convince himself that it's all a play of some sort, but eventually he arrives at a castle, and is taken in by a certain Lady Blanche, mistress of the castle while her husband is away fighting in Scotland. Sorrell soon realizes that his cross is regarded as an important relic, and it is battled over between the Lady Blanche, her rival Lady Dionissia, the betrothed wife of her husband's cousin Sir Egerton of Tamville, and the local order of nuns.

As Sorrell realizes he really does seem to be in the Middle Ages (about 1326, it seems), he hatches schemes to, Connecticut Yankee-like, use modern technology to make his way in the past. But he soon realizes that he really knows nothing valuable about how to make, say, an aeroplane. But he still finds some degree of success, mostly by accident, managing for example to subdue a group of bandits, and to improve the sanitation of the nuns' chickens. But the story turns rather more on the actions of the women, especially the combative, vain, and grasping Lady Blanche, and the rather more calm Lady Dionissia. We learn a lot about their positions and attitudes, and about everyday life in that time, and the politics of the day. All comes to a head when the two women, in the absence of their husbands, decide to joust for possession of the coveted gold cross.

This leads to a somewhat striking conclusion, as Sorrell seems to waver between two worlds, the present and the past. Is Lady Dionissia his nurse, and is he a delirious patient? Or are they both truly inhabiting the bodies of ancestors (perhaps)? Or is the time travel real? It hardly matters – Sorrell for certain is a radically changed (and improved) man; and he reaches the end valuing people and things much differently than he began.

The novel has an interesting publishing history. It first appeared in 1911, as by Ford Madox Hueffer. It was extensively revised and reissued in 1935, as by Ford Madox Ford. I've read both versions (the earlier one can be found at Project Gutenberg), and on the whole I prefer the revision. It gives us a bit more of Sorrell's personal history (and projects it a couple of decades in the future), shows us a bit more of the medieval ladies' positions, and has a better ending (including more interesting speculations and images of Sorrell's cross-time situation): Ford, revising following a terrible war and just preceding another, takes a darker view of the 20th Century, and Sorrell's hopes to be a better man, though real, are not celebrated so optimistically.

Review: Lies and Weddings, by Kevin Kwan

Review: Lies and Weddings, by Kevin Kwan

by Rich Horton

Kevin Kwan is likely best known for his first novel, Crazy Rich Asians (2013), which became a successful film in 2018. I haven't read that novel, but I did see and quite enjoy the movie, though I will say I thought another rom com featuring Chinese-American characters, Always Be My Maybe (2019), rather better. Kwan followed up his first novel with two more in the same milieu, and has published two unrelated novels since then: Sex and Vanity (2020) and the novel at hand, Lies and Weddings, from 2024. Besides the vaguely similar titles, these more recent books share another feature that I will not reveal until later.

Kevin Kwan was born in Singapore, to a family of Chinese descent. (I had a friend in college from Singapore, who was of Thai descent, and who was rather resentful of the Chinese Singaporeans, who apparently were dismissive of other ethnicities.) Kwan's family was pretty prominent, and so he surely had connections to the very wealthy people he writes about in his novels -- I don't know that his family was all that well off, though they seem to have been comfortable. His family moved to the US, to Texas, when he was 11. Aspects of his autobiography show up in Crazy Rich Asians, and also in Lies and Weddings, and I suspect in his other novels as well -- which is not to say that they are truly autobiographical novels.

(I mostly read this novel as an audiobook, and I'll note that I wasn't entirely happy with the narration, by Jing Lusi. The main issue is a matter of taste -- some of the voices the narrator adopted for the characters were downright annoying, and not the ones that were supposed to be annoying. (That is to say, the main antagonist, Lady Arabella, has an annoying voice that I thought worked very well.))

Lies and Weddings opens in the 1990s in Hong Kong, at a wild party. A young man, flush with money after a gambling trip to Macau, proposes to the beautiful Gabrielle Soong -- only to be confronted by one of his friends, Reggie Gao -- resulting in the accidental death of the first man in the ensuing scuffle. It's soon clear that Reggie was defending the honor of his sister, who had been the first man's girlfriend and who was pregnant by him.

Focus shifts a couple of decades into the future, to England. Eden Tong is a young doctor, of Chinese descent, living with her father in a small house on the estate of her father's friend Francis Gresham, the Earl of Greshamsbury. Eden is close friends with the Earl's three children, Rufus, Augusta, and Beatrice. But for some reason she has not been invited to Augusta's upcoming wedding in Hawaii. Eden doesn't much mind -- her medical schedule is demanding, and a trip to Hawaii would be expensive. But we soon realize that she hasn't been invited because the Countess of Greshamsbury, Lady Arabella, who is also of Chinese descent, doesn't quite approve of Eden, for snobbish reasons: in essence, she isn't good enough to be real friends with the children of an Earl.

But Augusta and Bea conspire to get Eden and her father, Dr. Thomas Tong, invited anyway. And we get to witness an absurdly extravagant wedding -- for the ambitious Lady Arabella, a former model and now a hotel entrepreneur, wants to outshine all her super wealthy friends, and has planned a fabulous party at a resort she owns on the Big Island. But amidst all the glorious meals and remarkable spectacles, Mother Nature has her way with things: a fissure opens up complete with lava and the wedding party is ruined, along with Arabella's resort. Beyond that, the time Eden has spent with Rufus on this trip makes it clear the two, friends since childhood, are truly in love -- and what's worse, Rufus's declaration of love is accidentally broadcast -- and Arabella hears it. Much worse still, the loss of her resort, which it turns out is uninsured, lays bare the fact that the Greshamsbury fortune has been entirely wasted. The Earl's indulgence of Arabella's dreams has caused him to take out numerous loans -- to the tune of hundreds of millions of pounds -- many of which are held by the rapacious Filipino billionaire Rene Tan.

The novel continues rather giddily on what seems almost a world tour. Eden, who has convinced herself that she has no future with Rufus anyway, is slandered by the furious Lady Arabella, and as a result loses her job and basically also her home. Lady Arabella plots to marry Rufus -- an aspiring artist -- off to a successful artist who is also, of course, an aristocrat. The financial issues of the Greshams, however, lead to the quick end of Augusta's marriage, and to, in Arabella's mind, the need for Rufus to marry someone fabulously rich, and it so happens that her aunt knows just the woman, a Hong Kong tycoon named Martha Dung. Eden, meanwhile, heads to Los Angeles at the behest of a pleasant but rather silly young Persian-American who is infatuated with her -- and there she encounters Rene Tan's profoundly dissolute son Luis Felipe. Eden's father, it turns out, is Rene Tan's personal physician -- he's been working heroically to keep Tan alive, but his efforts may soon fail. There are trips to Paris, Marrakech, Houston, Venice, and elsewhere, in every case accompanied by lush descriptions of fabulous meals, extravagant houses, expensive cars (and boats, and aircraft), and a great deal of appalling waste. And there are mysteries -- in particular about Thomas Tong's obligations to Rene Tan and about Eden's own history. 

All of this is resolved in satisfying (if somewhat predictable and perhaps a bit hasty) fashion. The novel is slickly written, fun to read. Kevin Kwan is overtly aware of the enormous privilege, and accompanying grotesque unfairness, that all of his characters enjoy. The book comes off a bit uneasy about this -- the descriptions of luxury are often quite alluring, and the way the approved characters (mostly Eden, Rufus, and Martha) portray their moral goodness frankly comes off almost perfunctory, and sometimes a bit oblivious, as when Eden refuses to wear the spectacularly expensive gown Bea gives her at Augusta's wedding and instead hurries to buy something off the rack which of course is amazingly perfect, and by a famous designer, and probably not exactly cheap, and fits her perfectly so she can throw it on just in time for the wedding. All the characters are extremely beautiful -- for example Eden, the hardworking comparatively poor NHS doctor, reveals that she had been approached to be a model, but refused because she knew Arabella would be mad if she outshone Augusta or Beatrice (or even Arabella herself), and Rufus is presented as having had more or less every woman in the world (including Eden and Martha) have a crush on him due to a shirtless photo taken when he was 16.

By which I mean, really, that this is a confection -- a work of popular fiction that is there mostly to entertain, and that does so quite nicely -- with a side serving of satire of the idle rich -- and by rich I don't just mean comfortable, I mean obscenely so. Kwan also deals with anti-Asian racism, as might be expected. But -- I've left out a key aspect of the novel, an aspect that was probably missed by a good many readers, but which is quite obvious -- and overtly signaled -- to a certain set of readers. For Lies and Weddings is a contemporary retelling of Anthony Trollope's novel Doctor Thorne. (And I understand that his previous novel, Sex and Vanity, is a retelling of E. M. Forster's A Room with a View.)

Contemporary retellings can sometimes be tedious, sometimes lame, sometimes tendentious. But sometimes they can work, and I think Lies and Weddings works. It's not that Kwan is as good a writer as Trollope, nor that Lies and Weddings is as good as Doctor Thorne. But Lies and Weddings is a fun read, and it's also fun for an admirer of Doctor Thorne to read. It's interesting to follow the ways in which Kwan uses the trellis provided by Doctor Thorne -- the ways he maps Trollope's characters to contemporary people, the tweaks he makes to the plot, even the structural changes he makes. 

The reader of Doctor Thorne will immediately unravel a key mystery in Lies and Weddings, though the funny thing is that this mystery really isn't a mystery at all in the original novel. (Kwan's restructuring of the novel's timeline is aimed at hiding this secret -- I do wonder, though, if non-Trollopean readers of Kwan's novel will still figure things out -- I suspect they may. (My wife might read the book and I'll ask her.)) Trollope's readers will also notice the similar names -- all the Greshams except Rufus have the same name they had in Doctor Thorne. There are other namedrops that aren't terribly important but work as gracenotes -- there's a Palliser mention, and a minor character named Courcy, and even a Doctor Fillgrave. 

Status in Doctor Thorne was more closely tied to family position than to money, though money certainly counted. (Money always counts in Trollope.) But no one in that novel is so absurdly rich as the people in Lies and Weddings (except perhaps the Duke of Omnium.) Money counts first by far in Kwan's novel, and ethnicity counts next -- in England, Asians face distinct obstacles, which goes a good way towards explaining Lady Arabella's awfulness. Dr. Thomas Thorne in Doctor Thorne comes from a minor family in what might be called the Squirearchy, and as such is "below" the Greshams and far below the de Courcys. So Dr. Thomas Tong in Lies and Marriages is disrespected not just because he's not as rich as the Greshams, but because he's Chinese in origin. The novel is pretty clear that while Thomas and Eden and Arabella all encounter racism, it has a somewhat minor effect on them, given that they are pretty well off. The novel does show one or two examples of poorer people (hotel maids, one aspiring artist) who are more directly impacted.

The specific plot turns are also fun to follow for a reader of Doctor Thorne. The stain of illegitimacy is less important in Kwan's novel, but he finds a way to make it make sense. There is a particular character in Doctor Thorne who is a favorite with many readers, and looking for that character-equivalent is also fun. (She's quite amusing in Lies and Marriage, though I'll confess not as satisfying for me as in Trollope's novel.) Lady Arabella in Trollope is awful in a different way to Lady Arabella in Kwan, but Kwan makes her machinations work in the present day. One way in which Kwan's novel may be superior is in the two main characters. Mary Thorne is a lovely and virtuous young woman, but Eden Tong is given more agency than Mary, and I really liked her -- lots of this is of course due to social change. Likewise Rufus is far more active and determined than the rather dithering Frank Gresham Jr. Kwan is not as engaging a writer as Trollope, and not a master like the Victorian was in control of the omniscient point of view, but he does some nice stuff, notably with sardonic footnotes, which seem like a clever way to do something similar to the way Trollope as narrator talks to his readers. (Even if the one footnote in which he sort of mansplains to us how Spam became popular in Hawaii and elsewhere in the Pacific due to World War II struck me as unnecessary.)

Bottom line -- Lies and Weddings is good fun, and it's not necessary to know its antecedent to enjoy it, but knowing Doctor Thorne may make it even better. I don't know how well Sex and Vanity does in echoing A Room with a View, but I am fine with Kevin Kwan using this strategy. 

Old Bestseller Review: The Love of Monsieur, by George Gibbs

Old Bestseller Review: The Love of Monsieur, by George Gibbs

by Rich Horton

My original focus on this blog was popular fiction of the first half of the 20th Century -- at best, obscure popular fiction that yet was successful in its time. I've definitely broadened my scope a good deal, but I still have an abiding interest in that sort of fiction -- rarely truly excellent but often interesting.

George Fort Gibbs (1870-1942) was an American novelist, screenwriter and illustrator. His father was a Naval surgeon, and a veteran of the Civil War. The father took suddenly ill in 1882, in Europe, and soon died. George's mother, despondent at her husband's death, committed suicide a year later (in the Anna Karenina manner.) George Gibbs was 13. He entered the Naval Academy, but soon left -- he doesn't seem to have been a good student. He turned to art, and also eventually to real estate, and had some success in both fields. He also began to write for magazines. In 1898 he moved to Philadelphia to work for Curtis Publishing, whose magazines included the Saturday Evening Post and the Ladies' Home Journal. Gibbs did cover and interior illustrations for the magazines, and published fiction. He married a Philadelphia Main Line woman in 1901, about the same time he started publishing novels. His novels were generally quite popular, and about a dozen of them became movies (all silents.) He and his wife had three children, all successful to one degree or another. Their eldest son, George F. Gibbs, Jr., was a playwright and amateur musician, but best known as a real estate developer. Their second son, Theodore Harrison Gibbs (called by his middle name) was a sculptor of some note, and he died in the Battle of the Bulge. His daughter, Sally Gibbs McClure, was a dancer, singer, songwriter, and a writer of poetry, novels, and a memoir.

The Love of Monsieur, from 1903, was Gibbs' second novel. I found a copy in an antique store, several years ago, and misplaced it in my garage, where my wife found it looking for something else the other day. I figured I might as well read it -- it's quite short (about 45,000 words) and it promised to be enjoyable romance/adventure fiction -- which turned out to be the case. My copy is possibly a first edition, published in May 1903 by Harper and Brothers. The copyright is shared by J. B. Lippincott -- so I assume the novel first appeared in Lippincott's Monthly Magazine. My edition has a frontispiece by Gibbs himself, signed with his mirrored GG. The book is dedicated to M. H. G. -- surely his wife, Maud Stovell Harrison Gibbs.

I've reproduced the cover of my edition (there is no dust jacket, and I don't know if there ever was one) as well as the frontispiece and title page. And I have to say, I do wish we could have novels these days presented as nicely.

There's really not too much to say about the novel. The Monsieur of the title is Monsieur Mornay, a Frenchman of low (illegitimate) birth who is close to King Charles II, and is as the novel opens spending his time in London, gaming and flirting and fighting. He encounters a noble Englishwoman, Barbara Clerke, a wealthy orphan, whom he saves from crashing her carriage. He is intrigued, but she is disgusted, not so much by his ignoble birth as by his dissipated ways. When he manages to gain the favor of a dance and conversation with her, she expresses her disdain.

But -- no surprise! -- she finds herself a bit puzzled that she is having second thoughts. And when her guardian provokes a duel with Monsieur Mornay, she is even angrier ... and then a revelation is made. It turns out that Monsieur Mornay is not in fact illegitimate -- his mother had actually married his father -- who was actually Barbara Clerke's uncle. And her guardian had papers proving that Mornay was actually the rightful heir to the properties he has been holding in trust for Barbara. But Mornay is now wanted for murder -- and is also out of favor with the French King -- so he must flee to America.

The rest of the novel concerns Mornay's time as a "pirato" -- or, officially, a privateer. He never plans to return to England or France, but Barbara Clerke, once she realizes that her claim for her riches is false, and all her wealth is owed to M. Mornay, decides she must renounce it, and attempt somehow to find him and convince him to claim his inheritance. She, of course still hates him as a libertine, but is willing to live in poverty instead of falsely claiming his rightful inheritance. 

The resolution is never in doubt, though the book does offer some piratical adventures, some implausible coincidences, a mutiny and a marooning. (But no worries about the marriage of first cousins!) What can I say? It's popular fiction of its era, and not badly executed. Nothing that really deserves revival -- but I was able to enjoy the book, which amuses and occasionally excites -- and does not outstay its welcome.

Two Classic Movies: My Man Godfrey and The River

Two Classic Movies: My Man Godfrey and The River

by Rich Horton

Here's an informal look at two movies I watched recently, both classics. These are My Man Godfrey, from 1936, and The River, from 1951. Both are very highly regarded films -- for example, both are featured on Roger Ebert's "Great Movies" list. 

My Man Godfrey is based on a 1935 novel by Eric Hatch, 1101 Park Avenue. The timeline from book publication to movie release was awfully quick in those days! In fact, the novel was quickly rereleased under the movie title. (Alas, copies of the novel run from $475 to $3000 on Abebooks! There was a 1950s paperback release but I couldn't find a copy of that online.) There was a color remake of the movie in 1957, starring David Niven and June Allyson.

The movie is directed by Gregory LaCava and stars William Powell and Carole Lombard -- and I'll always watch a William Powell movie. (I'm less familiar with Lombard, who died tragically early in a plane crash flying home from a War benefit event in 1942.) Both leads were nominated for Oscars, and they are both good, but I also really liked Gail Patrick, who played the nasty sister of Carole Lombard's character. (Patrick apparently became typecast as the mean rival to the top-billed women -- she said she was so afraid on the set that it came out as haughtiness or meanness. (Her sister in this movie is named Irene, mildly ironic in that she played a rival to another Irene (Dunne) in My Favorite Wife.) She also became a significant television producer (notably for Perry Mason) after retiring from acting.) 

My Man Godfrey is very explicitly a Depression film. We meet Powell's character, Godfrey Smith, while he's living in the city dump. Both Cornelia Bullock (Patrick) and her sister Irene (Lombard) try to hire him to help them win a Scavenger Hunt. He picks Irene, who is immediately intrigued by him, and who hires him as a butler for her family -- herself, Cornelia, her mother Angelica, and her father Alexander are each in their very different ways extremely hard to deal with so servants are leaving all the time. 

The plot is predictable -- it's obvious that Godfrey knows too much about how to act in a fashionable home to be of the social class they think, so he's actually wholly eligible (except for his age) for Irene, and she doesn't care anyway. (Though he does.) He puts up with the family's eccentricities, helps the much put upon maid/housekeeper, tries to help Alexander with his business (which is in serious jeopardy), and is fiercely opposed by Cornelia, who both wants to mess with her sister's life and (I believe) is also very attracted to Godfrey.

Godfrey quits once he realizes that Irene is getting too attached to him, at the same time as Mr. Bullock's business finally collapses. The resolution is economically a fairy tale, with Godfrey not only saving the Bullock family but lifting dozens of destitute men from poverty. But it's a screwball comedy, not a serious movie of social criticism, and the screwball and comedy aspects really work. It's a true ensemble -- all the lead characters are funny in very different ways. It's really a delight, one of the great comedies of the 1930s.

I saw one other classic movie recently -- The River, Jean Renoir's 1951 movie based on Rumer Godden's lovely novella of the same title, from 1946. I liked the movie a good deal -- it's visually beautiful and the characters are involving and convincing. 

It was something of a lesson for me in watching an adaptation, however. Having just read Godden's novel a couple of weeks ago, I was looking for a pretty straight adaptation. But there are really significant differences, which distracted me for a while. I finally had to accept the obvious -- both pieces need to be appreciated on their own.

Both the movie and novel are about a young woman, Harriet, on the cusp of adolescence. Harriet is the son of an English man who runs a jute factory on the shores of a very large river in what is now Bangladesh. (I'm pretty sure the river is the Padma -- which is called the Ganges in India. Bangladesh was part of India at the time of the action in both the novel and movie, though in 1948 it became East Pakistan.) In both book and film Harriet has sisters and a brother, and her mother is pregnant. She has a frenemy named Valerie, from another slightly richer English family. The action takes place over a few months, and key aspects are one shocking death, and Harriet's attraction to a wounded soldier, Captain John, complicated by a feeling of rivalry with two slightly older girls.

But the film does make significant changes. Harriet is the second child in the novel, and her older sister Bea is a rival (along with Valerie) for Captain John's attention. In the movie, Harriet is the eldest, and the "Bea" character is sort of replaced by Melanie, the biracial daughter of their neighbor Mr. John (another new character, presented as the much older cousin of Captain John, who had married a local woman, since deceased.) Melanie is a fascinating character, and to be honest I think the movie could have done a bit more with her. Along with this, the whole plot surrounding Captain John is a greater focus in the movie, and the romance of sorts that he has with all three girls (Harriet, Valerie, and Melanie) is more significant, and more serious. (Harriet is clearly too young for him -- and he acts appropriately in both book and movie -- and my sense was that both Valerie (in book and movie) and Bea (in book) were a bit on the young side -- 16 maybe? -- but Melanie in the movie is probably of age (maybe 20?) for a man in his mid 20s (I assume?) to be with.) Captain John is also an American in the movie -- I'm honestly not sure why -- while he seemed likely to be English in the book. And the movie seems to be set during World War II, while the time frame of the novella is more ambiguous -- possibly purposely so, though I myself lean towards WWI.

Having said all that, both the book and movie really work. They are lovely and honest portrays of a near-adolescent girl coming of age. India is (to my ignorant eyes) honestly portrayed. The lovely prose of the book is parallelled in a sense by the beautiful color portrayal of the setting of the movie. (The color palette is remarkable, very bright, very striking.) It's not a plot-centric story, in either version, but that's OK with me. Both are recommended -- though, perhaps not surprisingly, I prefer the novella. (I review it here.)

(I should note that Rumer Godden collaborated on the movie's screenplay with Renoir, so it should be assumed she approved of the changes to her story. And apparently she did like this movie -- she famously hated the adaptation of her novel Black Narcissus, though that movie too is considered a classic.)

Resurrected Review: The Dramaturges of Yan, by John Brunner

Here's another review of John Brunner, who is really one of my favorite SF writers of his era, but oddly more due to his less well-known works. These books, typically fairly short, clearly written somewhat quickly, are not nearly as serious or powerful as his most famous novels, but they are, well, more fun. At least the ones that work! -- he wrote some really weak stuff too.

This is a short review I did for my SFF Net newsgroup back in 2001. It's about a late Brunner novel, from 1972 (though it was serialized in Fantastic in 1971 -- I'm not sure if the book version is longer or not. The magazine cover, by Vaughn Bodé and Larry Todd, is much better than Chris Foss's book cover though!) I haven't made any changes to what I wrote then.

The Dramaturges of Yan, by John Brunner

a review by Rich Horton

Just this past week [back in April of 2001], I read a short John Brunner book I've had sitting around, The Dramaturges of Yan, from 1972.  Ace bills it, rather sillily, as a "worthy successor to Stand on Zanzibar".  Stand on Zanzibar does have worthy successors, but they are The Sheep Look Up, The Jagged Orbit, and The Shockwave Rider.  This book seems a bit tossed-off, maybe for relaxation.  Still, it's not too bad -- much better, for instance, than the other short Brunner book I read a few months ago: The Infinitive of Go, which I thought quite poor.

The Dramaturges of Yan is a very Jack Vance-like book.  It's set on the planet Yan, inhabited by the Yanfolk, who once had a high civilization, which crashed when some disaster, of their own doing, caused their moon to explode and become a ring.  The ensuing (somewhat implausible) rain of meteors made much of the planet uninhabitable. Some 10,000 years later, a small contingent of Earthfolk live in a city on Yan.  Earthmen have a significant interstellar society, built around a matter transmission device called the go-board.  The Yanfolk are the most intelligent aliens they have encountered.  More significantly, they are humanoid and sexually compatible with humans -- it is said that almost every human has tried sex with a Yanfolk, and two long-term relationships are ongoing, particularly that of the poet Marc Simon, translator into humanish of the Yan Mutine epics, and Shyalee.

The story revolves around the arrival of the artist Gregory Chart, whose art consists of, somehow, hypnotizing a whole society into acting out his visions for a few months, perhaps leading to a permanent change.  The conflict is between the humans who desire to welcome Chart, believing that this will enhance the position of Yan in the human galaxy, and those who fear the changes that will result.  It turns out, though, that the major players are the Yan, who have their own purposes with Chart -- they hope to rediscover the ancient powers of their "dramaturges" via Chart's efforts.

It all works out a bit unexpectedly, rather refreshingly so.  This isn't really all that good a book, but it's a nice entertainment, and rather original in some ways, despite the overt debt to Vance.

Review: A Royal Pain, by Rhys Bowen

A Royal Pain, by Rhys Bowen

a review by Rich Horton

I came across this book in an antique store near Rolla, MO, a few weeks ago. It looked like a book my daughter might enjoy -- it's an historical mystery set in England in the 1930s, and my daughter regularly reads English-set historical mysteries. I suppose it was a good choice in a sense -- as my daughter told me when I tried to give it to her that she'd already read it! So my wife read it, and then I figured I'd read it, as sort of a palate cleanser after several more serious novels. 

Rhys Bowen is a pseudonym for Janet Quin-Harkin, who was born in 1941 in Bath, England, but has been in the US for some decades now. She was educated at London University, worked for the BBC and as a dance teacher, and wrote children's books, YA books, and category romances under her own name. As Rhys Bowen, she has written three long series, set in Wales, England, and the US: respectively the Constable Evan Evans series, the Her Royal Spyness series, and the Mollie Murphy series.

A Royal Pain, from 2008, is the second book, following Her Royal Spyness, in that series. The first-person protagonist is Lady Georgiana Rannoch, thirty-fourth in line to the English throne. Alas, she is quite poor -- her late father was a spendthrift Scottish peer, her mother an actress. Lady Georgiana, or Georgie, is living in London, secretly working as a house cleaner, while remaining fairly chummy with the Queen. It's 1932, and Queen Mary's primary concern is that the Crown Prince is having an affair with a married American, Wallis Simpson. The Queen wants Georgie to host a Bavarian princess, Hannelore, and to take her to society parties at which the Crown Prince will be -- in the hopes that the very beautiful princess will attract his attention.

Georgie isn't happy about this -- for one thing, due to her poverty, she's really not that much a part of society. But you can't say no to the Queen. So she takes in Hannelore, who turns out to be very pretty indeed, and also very interested in boys -- it seems she feels deprived of sexual experience after a convent education. Hanni, as she is called, also speaks English in an exaggerated American gangster accent. But Georgie agrees to try, getting help from her actress mother's father, an ex-cop, who agrees to act as butler while his lady friend will cook. 

Hanni is a problem indeed, with a habit of shoplifting, and of flirting with anyone male. Worse, one of the males who interests her is Sidney Roberts, a young firebrand of a Communist, and another is Darcy O'Mara, who was a character in Her Royal Spyness, and on whom the virginal Georgie has a major crush. Alas, the Crown Prince isn't interested in Hanni -- Mrs. Simpson has her claws in him for sure. And there are other problems -- at a wild party, complete with cocaine, an acquaintance of Georgie's falls to his death.

Not long after, Sidney Roberts is murdered -- and Hannelore is an obvious suspect, as she found the body and the murder weapon. Georgie must deal with the police, while trying to avoid a scandal or an international incident -- how would it look if a prominent German royal was arrested for murder? And would that play into a certain rising politician named Hitler's hands? The Queen wants Georgie to investigate the murder to allow her to stay ahead of the police. But Georgie doesn't really have those skills. And why does Darcy keep turning up? And when two more people end up dead ...

The reader will not really be fooled as to the identities of the baddies, though their specific motivations do take a while to come clear. The novel really takes a while to get around to resolving things -- I'd say the mystery is worth perhaps 20,000 words of story. Granted, there is a lot of time taken up with Georgie and her friends and her slow-burning not quite a romance, and Hanni's intrigues, and those of Georgie's eagerly bedhopping friend Belinda.

It's really not a very good novel. But Bowen writes engagingly enough, though not elegantly. Her characters seem transplanted from perhaps the 1990s to the 1930s, and it's pretty clear that historical verisimilitude is by no means a goal. I'll just say that I'm not tempted to read any more of her books, but I can see how they could be popular with readers looking for very light entertainment with a less than convincing veneer of a historical setting. 

Resurrected Review: The Armies of Memory, by John Barnes

Here's something I wrote back in 2006 about the concluding novel in John Barnes' Thousand Cultures series. Barnes' work has never, it seems to me, got quite the attention it deserves -- he's a fascinating pure science fiction writer, and some of his stories are among my favorites of the past few decades. Alas, he has fallen somewhat silent of late: no novels since 2012, no short fiction since 2019.

Review: The Armies of Memory, by John Barnes

by Rich Horton

In The Armies of Memory John Barnes concludes his Thousand Cultures series that began with a lovely novelette, "Canso de Fis de Jovent", in Analog in 1991. This story, which tells of the experience of a group of friends including the narrator, Giraut Leones, when their world, Wilson, and their culture, Nou Occitan, a synthetic recreation of Occitan, an historical area of France (in the Provence, and associated with the Cathars) at the time of the troubadors, is perturbed by the arrival of Springer technology: instantaneous jump gates, that serve to relink the "Thousand Cultures" that Earth has planted on a number of worlds. The other key technologies are powerful Artificial Intelligence (restricted in human space by Human Supremacy laws) and a means of reincarnation by installing recorded brain states ("pyspyxes") into cloned bodies. That story became the first section of A Million Open Doors, which was followed by Earth Made of Glass and The Merchants of Souls. In these novels Giraut became an agent for humanity's OSP, which tries to keep the various cultures from becoming overly oppressive and from bothering their neighbour cultures. He married a woman named Margaret, then underwent a painful divorce. He discovered remains of mysteriously vanished aliens, the Predecessors. He was present at the founding of a new religion, Ixism, and simultaneously at the mutual destruction of two cultures. And he dealt with the crisis on Earth, where a majority of the population has chosen to "go into the box": permanent VR life.

As this novel opens, Margaret is now Giraut's boss, and Giraut is the head of a small team of agents including his new lover, his reincarnated 8-year old (physically) father and his reincarnated friend, Raimbault, from his youth back on Wilson. Giraut is also a spectacularly successful musician, playing Nou Occitan trobador-tradition music. Now he is premiering a new song cycle based on the life and beliefs of Ix, the founder of an important new religion. But this has made him a target, perhaps of Occitan traditionalists, or perhaps of enemies of Ixism -- or who knows?: at any rate, he is the subject of repeated assassination attempts. After a while it becomes clear that the assassination attempts are a curious mixture of brilliance and incompetence. And finally, more scarily, that they are being carried out by force grown clone bodies implanted with "chimera" brains: that is, the combination of two or more recorded human brains, an obscenity in Council culture.

All signs lead to planets of the "Union", a little-understood group of illegally colonized planets outside of Council space, in particular Aurenga, the planet colonized by the "Lost Legion", a group of Nou Occitan war criminals. This is interesting because there are indications that the lost psypyx of Margaret's predecessor Shan is also there. What's more, they learn that not only are human "chimeras" involved, but some chimera's might have AI components.

The novel quite intriguingly spirals from an important but smallish mystery to bigger and more important mysteries. Eventually it is in great part about the meaning of intelligence, and of humanity, and the place and rights of AIs. And this is in the context of extremely scary revelations about the fate of the Predecessors, and a threat of alien invasion. Barnes treats these issues very intelligently, and the novel is always interesting: full of action, full of neat science-fictional ideas that have interesting philosophical ramifications, and full of fine and engaging characters. A weakness is that the closing sections seem rushed, and are full of long (and still fairly interesting) passages in which we and the main characters are baldly told the situation, rather than having the situation organically revealed. And the unwinding of things towards the end has an air of patness, convenience, about it, even as it leads to a dramatic setpiece of a series conclusion. But even with this shortcoming, this remains one of the must-read SF novels of 2006.

Resurrected Review: Fool Me Twice, by Matthew Hughes

I wrote the review below back in 2004. I should add some detail -- Matthew Hughes (born in England but in Canada from age 5) has continued to write a variety of stories in roughly the same milieu -- an acknowledged variation of Jack Vance's Dying Earth setting, featuring a wide variety of differing heroes and antiheroes. As with many writers of his age (a decade older than me) he has lately turned to small presses and self-publishing for his books, though his stories can still be found in places like Lightspeed. The stories remain reliably entertaining and I recommend them. He has also written crime fiction (as Matt Hughes) and other work as by Hugh Matthews.

Review: Fool Me Twice, by Matthew Hughes

by Rich Horton

Canadian writer Matthew Hughes published Fools Errant, his first SF novel, in 1994. His second, Fool Me Twice, followed in 2001. Beginning last year he began to publish (mostly in F&SF) a number of short stories set in the same milieu. Another novel, Black Brillion, followed in 2004. All these works are set in the far future of Earth, just prior to the era of Jack Vance's Dying Earth. Hughes captured Vance's style pretty well, and did a pretty good job of imagining odd societies in the Vancean manner as well. His first novel, however, while quite enjoyable, was probably a bit too overtly a Vance pastiche. However his own voice has become increasingly developed in his more recent stories.

Fool Me Twice is a direct sequel to Fools Errant. In the first novel, the hero, Filidor Vesh, nephew to the Archon of Old Earth, was brought to some understanding of his potential responsibilities, and his capabilities. In this novel, he has become the Archon's apprentice, but despite some additional duties, he does not really seem to have fully taken up his role. Indeed, he seems all to willing to let his aide direct his actions, saving all the more time for his favored pursuits: eating, drinking, chasing women. 

As the novel opens, he more or less simultaneously makes a careless decision to allow exploitation of a remote rural area by some local nobles (named, transparently, Maguffyne); and falls in love with a girl he sees out his window. Not at all surprisingly, upon tracking down the girl he learns that she had come to petition him to protect her land from exploitation by the very nobles he has just supported. Soon he find himself stripped of his seal of office and effectively without an identity. 

He ends up chasing the girl in an attempt to make amends (and recover his sigil). He falls in with a travelling acting troupe, and later ends up thrown off a ship in the middle of an ocean. Luckily -- to an extent -- he is rescued by a sea creature -- unluckily the creature tows him to slavery on a remote island. Filidor is once again forced to take real responsibility for his life, and for the good of others as well ...

The end is never in real doubt, but the journey is very enjoyable. The influence of Vance is very much in view -- fortunately Vance is an author well worth being influenced by. Fool Me Twice isn't a great book, but it's a very diverting read.