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octavia_cade's Reviews (2.64k)
Not quite as awful as the previous volume, Into the Void, but still not very good either. The thing that's making it marginally more tolerable is that there's a lot less focus on Calhoun, who remains remarkably eyeroll-worthy. There's one point where he even refers to himself as "childish" and I thought, "Yep, that's you" - except it isn't really, and that's when I realised the bottom of the many, many reasons I don't like him. He's not childish. He is, however, a childish perception of what a Starfleet captain should be. If a 14 year old boy were to write Star Trek fanfiction, this is what I would expect to result. Perhaps the New Frontier series is targeted at adolescents, I don't really know, but all of it - from the edgy, unlikeable captain, to the supposedly UST relationships between some of the crew (which in one case frankly seems like it borders on harassment) to the one-note snarky tone, to the fridging of a younger sister... everything about it screams juvenile. Including the editing. God knows who signed off on this, but a single example should suffice to show why they shouldn't have. Following an attack on his ship, Si Cwan damages him arm so severely that he screams in agony when another character simply touches it. In his next scene he's in the middle of a fight and literally swinging from gratings and there's absolutely no mention of the arm. In the scene after that, the damage is back, but at a much milder level. It's sloppy, absolutely sloppy.
I think what most irritates me here, though, is that while Calhoun is shoved off centre stage, what we get instead is a series of aliens who are pretty much presented as lurid spectacle for the reader. There are two Vulcan women aboard, and you know, I would love to have seen the beginnings of a friendship between two individuals who simply don't relate to other people as humans do. How challenging would it be to build an interesting relationship between characters who both deliberately eschew emotion? But we can't have that, because one is going through Pon Farr (which, of course she is), and the other is weeping to her about being the result of sexual assault. It's low-hanging fruit, all of it. And this is not even to mention the gender neutral character Burgoyne, who comes out with this piece of thoughtlessness: "We Hermats have our … unusual anatomical quirks" (which David is quick to exploit, with one of the Vulcan women essentially having a wet dream about Burgoyne in an outfit which clearly outlines their female breasts and male genitalia), but why would a Hermat think themselves unusual? For them, raised in a society where everyone is this way, such a thing would be the norm. They wouldn't go around thinking of themselves as having unusual anatomical quirks... that is the perspective of an outside observer, not a Hermat individual themselves. Again, it's sloppy - sloppy, thoughtless characterisation, in a series that never moves beyond it.
You know, I'm really beginning to regret giving myself the bucket list challenge of reading through all the Star Trek novels. Some have been great, but this particular run is a disaster from start to finish. Still, three more of New Frontier and I can move onto the Captain's Table books. They can't come soon enough.
I think what most irritates me here, though, is that while Calhoun is shoved off centre stage, what we get instead is a series of aliens who are pretty much presented as lurid spectacle for the reader. There are two Vulcan women aboard, and you know, I would love to have seen the beginnings of a friendship between two individuals who simply don't relate to other people as humans do. How challenging would it be to build an interesting relationship between characters who both deliberately eschew emotion? But we can't have that, because one is going through Pon Farr (which, of course she is), and the other is weeping to her about being the result of sexual assault. It's low-hanging fruit, all of it. And this is not even to mention the gender neutral character Burgoyne, who comes out with this piece of thoughtlessness: "We Hermats have our … unusual anatomical quirks" (which David is quick to exploit, with one of the Vulcan women essentially having a wet dream about Burgoyne in an outfit which clearly outlines their female breasts and male genitalia), but why would a Hermat think themselves unusual? For them, raised in a society where everyone is this way, such a thing would be the norm. They wouldn't go around thinking of themselves as having unusual anatomical quirks... that is the perspective of an outside observer, not a Hermat individual themselves. Again, it's sloppy - sloppy, thoughtless characterisation, in a series that never moves beyond it.
You know, I'm really beginning to regret giving myself the bucket list challenge of reading through all the Star Trek novels. Some have been great, but this particular run is a disaster from start to finish. Still, three more of New Frontier and I can move onto the Captain's Table books. They can't come soon enough.
A re-imagining of Cinderella, told from the point of view of the prince. In this case, the prince is a gumshoe detective - this is a fairy tale/noir mash-up - who finds the bloody slipper of his dance partner and goes investigating. In perfect honesty, the whole gumshoe mystery sub-genre doesn't really appeal to me. Maybe it's the language, maybe it's the style, but it's not my thing. Here, though, it's not that bad - although that may be partly because this is a short story. I think I'd have more trouble sticking with this if it were a novel, for instance. No blame to St. George, though - I think she does a great job mixing together two very different genres, and it's hardly her fault that I came into the story not caring for one of them.
I will say, though, that I'm interested in reading the other short stories in the series. Basically because the most interesting parts of this story, for me, were the setting and background. Spindle City is subject to a spreading disease known as Pins and Needles, and the profit-driven pharmaceutical companies are in a long covert war with drug runners who want a more egalitarian approach to medicine. Underlying this conflict is a 20 year old piece of history, wherein the (impoverished) infected were sometimes burned alive to keep the contagion from spreading. This is awful, really deeply awful (and creepy), so naturally I was riveted. More of that, please!
I will say, though, that I'm interested in reading the other short stories in the series. Basically because the most interesting parts of this story, for me, were the setting and background. Spindle City is subject to a spreading disease known as Pins and Needles, and the profit-driven pharmaceutical companies are in a long covert war with drug runners who want a more egalitarian approach to medicine. Underlying this conflict is a 20 year old piece of history, wherein the (impoverished) infected were sometimes burned alive to keep the contagion from spreading. This is awful, really deeply awful (and creepy), so naturally I was riveted. More of that, please!
I enjoyed reading this, and there's no doubt that Furlong is a talented, thoughtful writer. As a prequel, however - Juniper features as its young protagonist the mentor figure of Wise Child - I'm not sure it's an unqualified success. I mean, these books both have the exact same story. A well-loved, well-spoiled little girl goes to live with a good but unsympathetic witch, where she learns practical skills, an awareness of nature, and basic magical abilities. There is a pivotal friendship with a young boy her own age - in both cases a cousin. Finally, she undergoes an initiation where her own suitability for witchiness is assessed through a dream of flying. Once aware of her own potential, the child then faces down a magical threat from a close female relative (in Juniper it's an aunt, in the previous volume a mother) who the child defeats but does not kill, before said child leaves her community to establish a new life elsewhere.
And honestly, Wise Child did it better.
And honestly, Wise Child did it better.
This is sort of but not really alternative history (alternative present?) - in the same way as a lot of urban fantasy is, for instance, and it's almost urban fantasy but not quite that either. I mean, it's set in London, but London here is not the character that it is in Neverwhere or the Rivers of London series, so straight fantasy it is I guess.
Basically, an orphan kid with magical powers is apprenticed to an older magician, and things turn to custard, largely because all magicians are dicks, including child-magicians. Their collective, overweening superiority complex has made an underclass of regular people, which I expect will be explored later in the trilogy, and has resulted in a murderous backbiting culture within magic as magicians all try to scramble their way to political power. Nathaniel, the kid in question, summons a djinni called Bartimaeus and has him carry out all sorts of dangerous shenanigans in his quest to one-up the rest. The book's told from both their perspectives - first person for Bartimaeus, and third person for Nathaniel, which makes it feel a bit choppy but never mind. I liked it well enough, though it didn't entirely grab me - mostly because I apparently have a set limit when it comes to liking these characters. For most of the book, I enjoyed the kid's chapters a lot and the djinni's were far less interesting to me. Then, quite close to the end, the situation entirely reversed itself. It seems I can't enjoy both at once, which is quite odd. Having a favourite point-of-view in a book with multiple points-of-view is normal, of course, but the strict seesaw effect between the two, in my experience at least, is not.
Basically, an orphan kid with magical powers is apprenticed to an older magician, and things turn to custard, largely because all magicians are dicks, including child-magicians. Their collective, overweening superiority complex has made an underclass of regular people, which I expect will be explored later in the trilogy, and has resulted in a murderous backbiting culture within magic as magicians all try to scramble their way to political power. Nathaniel, the kid in question, summons a djinni called Bartimaeus and has him carry out all sorts of dangerous shenanigans in his quest to one-up the rest. The book's told from both their perspectives - first person for Bartimaeus, and third person for Nathaniel, which makes it feel a bit choppy but never mind. I liked it well enough, though it didn't entirely grab me - mostly because I apparently have a set limit when it comes to liking these characters. For most of the book, I enjoyed the kid's chapters a lot and the djinni's were far less interesting to me. Then, quite close to the end, the situation entirely reversed itself. It seems I can't enjoy both at once, which is quite odd. Having a favourite point-of-view in a book with multiple points-of-view is normal, of course, but the strict seesaw effect between the two, in my experience at least, is not.
Not quite as good as the first one, I think, but still enjoyable. It's been a while since I read it, but I recall Postmortem as having a bit more science stuff in it, which was what particularly interested me. The only forensics that really turned up in Body of Evidence was a small bit related to fibres, and with the best will in the world I can't get excited about different types of nylon. Still, the characterisation remains appealing. I like Scarpetta, and I like the relationship she has with Marino. Hell, I even enjoy Marino and he makes a Neanderthal look refined - I think it's the contrast in their natures that works for me. I'm certainly much more interested in their snarky interactions than I am with the love interest that appears in this book, who isn't compelling in any way. Also not quite as compelling is the plot, which crams quite a lot of relatively outlandish stuff together. I mean it's interesting, but I'm reading more for character and concept in this series (all of two books in as I am) than anything else right now.
This is, I think, one of those odd handful of children's series that turns into YA before the end. That always irritates me slightly when I review the individual volumes on Goodreads, as it seems more consistent to have the whole series under one shelf or the other, but I suppose if a series follows the same characters over time, those characters age and that has its own consequences. There are exceptions to that exact progress, though, and this series might be one of them. It's only a few months, really, since the events of Wise Child, and both the protagonists, including the narrator Colman, are actually children. (They're those creepy looking kids on the cover. Cornish Gothic, I think the illustrator is going for.) But the argument here is more adult, and the tone is immensely darker. It's full of murder and torture, and though the previous two books in the series have been fairly grim around the edges, there's always been that sort of peaceful happy centre, and that's really not the case here. Hence the different shelving.
What remains childish about the series is, I think, the refusal to look at killing as a useful tactic for the good guys. I don't meant to imply by that that the refusal to murder is in itself childish, but there's something really off-putting to me, something deliberately and almost harmfully naïve, in the choice to let torture and slavery and murder go on for one minute longer than they have to simply because one of the good guys feels they are above the act of killing. I'm sure the fact that their morals remain unbesmirched is a great comfort to those others who have been slaughtered, or who are watching their children starve to death. Meroot has been a blight upon the land for at least a generation at this point, and there's a doran in her inner circle with the opportunity and ability to save everyone by getting rid of her for good, and they refuse to do it, because apparently decent people don't do that. Well, I beg to fucking differ I think, and it irritates me that the price of such squeamishness isn't even mentioned. It's all very well wittering on about dorans being in tune with nature, but shit dies in nature, and violently, so get on with at least considering it, please.
Suffice to say, this was my least favourite of the trilogy. Wise Child remains the best of the bunch, and I think the only one I'd ever be interested in reading again.
What remains childish about the series is, I think, the refusal to look at killing as a useful tactic for the good guys. I don't meant to imply by that that the refusal to murder is in itself childish, but there's something really off-putting to me, something deliberately and almost harmfully naïve, in the choice to let torture and slavery and murder go on for one minute longer than they have to simply because one of the good guys feels they are above the act of killing. I'm sure the fact that their morals remain unbesmirched is a great comfort to those others who have been slaughtered, or who are watching their children starve to death. Meroot has been a blight upon the land for at least a generation at this point, and there's a doran in her inner circle with the opportunity and ability to save everyone by getting rid of her for good, and they refuse to do it, because apparently decent people don't do that. Well, I beg to fucking differ I think, and it irritates me that the price of such squeamishness isn't even mentioned. It's all very well wittering on about dorans being in tune with nature, but shit dies in nature, and violently, so get on with at least considering it, please.
Suffice to say, this was my least favourite of the trilogy. Wise Child remains the best of the bunch, and I think the only one I'd ever be interested in reading again.
I wanted to like this better than I did - and I did like it - but it seems to me it suffers from series-itis. Which is a completely made up word for a phenomenon I see all the time in speculative fiction. There's a book with a fantastic idea, or strong characters, or something really and truly compelling, and then the author doesn't leave it alone. They go back to the well, and they keep going back, and keep going back, and in every subsequent installment the interest and vivacity and punch of the original seeps further away. That's what happened here. I love the idea of psychohistory, but the more I read the Foundation books the more that idea is whittled away.
Foundation and Empire consists of what are essentially two novellas. The first, The General is just not that interesting. I feel as if I've read all this before, and it was done better then - primarily it suffers from not having a single interesting character to stand out amidst all that repetition. If I'd read it on its own I'd have given it two stars. The second novella, The Mule, is (after an admittedly very slow first half) significantly better. There's an interesting idea there to supplement that waning attraction of psychohistory, and it's that the predicted future of populations can be disturbed by the birth of a mutant individual. Psychohistory, of course, doesn't deal with individuals, because they effectively cannot change the course of galactic history sufficiently to counteract the psychological weight of billions. Except this particular mutant can, and he's an interesting character as well as an interesting concept, which improves the thing immensely. Even more interesting as a character, however, is Bayta, and together she and Mule make the second novella genuinely entertaining. On its own, I'd give it four stars, and so the rating for the book averages out at three.
Foundation and Empire consists of what are essentially two novellas. The first, The General is just not that interesting. I feel as if I've read all this before, and it was done better then - primarily it suffers from not having a single interesting character to stand out amidst all that repetition. If I'd read it on its own I'd have given it two stars. The second novella, The Mule, is (after an admittedly very slow first half) significantly better. There's an interesting idea there to supplement that waning attraction of psychohistory, and it's that the predicted future of populations can be disturbed by the birth of a mutant individual. Psychohistory, of course, doesn't deal with individuals, because they effectively cannot change the course of galactic history sufficiently to counteract the psychological weight of billions. Except this particular mutant can, and he's an interesting character as well as an interesting concept, which improves the thing immensely. Even more interesting as a character, however, is Bayta, and together she and Mule make the second novella genuinely entertaining. On its own, I'd give it four stars, and so the rating for the book averages out at three.
I read and reviewed the three books collected in this edition separately, so this is essentially just for my own records. The rating for the collection is the average of the star ratings I gave to the different books: Foundation earned four stars from me, while both Foundation and Empire and Second Foundation earned three.
There's no doubt that for me the first book is the star of the series, and as that series continues it just gets a bit less interesting (as is, to be honest, the case for most of the series I read - I wish authors would learn to leave well enough alone.) Basically, the initial concept is outstanding. I find the idea of psychohistory absolutely fascinating. But the characters hardly ever reach the same level of interest - as I commented in one of the reviews, when I can only manage to give a damn about one of a cast of a dozen or so, there's a problem - and the series just becomes more and more repetitive as it goes on.
There's no doubt that for me the first book is the star of the series, and as that series continues it just gets a bit less interesting (as is, to be honest, the case for most of the series I read - I wish authors would learn to leave well enough alone.) Basically, the initial concept is outstanding. I find the idea of psychohistory absolutely fascinating. But the characters hardly ever reach the same level of interest - as I commented in one of the reviews, when I can only manage to give a damn about one of a cast of a dozen or so, there's a problem - and the series just becomes more and more repetitive as it goes on.
The handful of Christie books that I've read so far lead me to believe that she's incapable of writing an uninteresting novel, and this was certainly interesting as well as being enjoyable to read. Poirot is his usual smug self, but there's a more evident streak of kindness in him here than is normal, and that is I think due to the strong supporting cast. Katherine Grey is extremely likeable, and I hope she pops up again in later novels. Lenox, her younger cousin, is less visible but also well-drawn, and I'd be happy to see her again as well.
On the down side, this does take a lot longer to get going than I'm used to with a Christie read, and her seemingly unbreakable fascination with disguises is again apparent - I'm sorry to say it's the one element of predictability and tedium that I routinely find in her work. The number of her villains who slink about in ridiculously convincing disguises must keep the costume shops of Paris and London more afloat than opera. In fact I dare to say that should any of them ever be on the verge of going under, all they need to do is invite Poirot to visit, and the subsequent sale of wigs, cloaks, and other stuff as villains converge for their makeovers will amply replay the endeavour.
On the down side, this does take a lot longer to get going than I'm used to with a Christie read, and her seemingly unbreakable fascination with disguises is again apparent - I'm sorry to say it's the one element of predictability and tedium that I routinely find in her work. The number of her villains who slink about in ridiculously convincing disguises must keep the costume shops of Paris and London more afloat than opera. In fact I dare to say that should any of them ever be on the verge of going under, all they need to do is invite Poirot to visit, and the subsequent sale of wigs, cloaks, and other stuff as villains converge for their makeovers will amply replay the endeavour.
Ugh. I feel bad giving any Shakespeare play two stars, I really do, but I just could not get into this. It reminds me very much of Measure for Measure, which I also gave two stars, and for much the same reason - unlikable characters, including a doormat of a heroine, and the play's total refusal to rate these people as they deserve. (Fuck off, Angelo, I have neither forgiven nor forgotten.)
The basic conceit of this play is that Leonatus sets up a shit test of his wife, Imogen, and things go to pot. Believing her to have failed, he arranges her murder. Of course things work out in the end and she forgives him(!) like the simpering little twit that she is, but what really gets my goat is that the text, and a good number of the characters, fall over themselves to praise Leonatus, all through the damn play, as an absolute paragon of manhood. No. No he isn't. He's a shit-testing murderous moron, and I could happily live with that if the text just acknowledged that that was what he was, but it doesn't.
Predictably, the best part of Cymbeline occurs when acknowledgement of character is razor accurate. Cloten, the stepson of Cymbeline and one of the villains of the piece, is deeply entertaining. He's a puffed-up, arrogant, awful individual, completely self-deluded as to capacity and position, and he is ruthlessly dragged by pretty much everyone who comes in contact with him. It's very very funny, and for sheer amusement value, I'd far rather he survived to the end of the play than Leonatus, who can go join Fucking Angelo in the dungeon full of Shakespeare's ill-rewarded dicks.
The basic conceit of this play is that Leonatus sets up a shit test of his wife, Imogen, and things go to pot. Believing her to have failed, he arranges her murder. Of course things work out in the end and she forgives him(!) like the simpering little twit that she is, but what really gets my goat is that the text, and a good number of the characters, fall over themselves to praise Leonatus, all through the damn play, as an absolute paragon of manhood. No. No he isn't. He's a shit-testing murderous moron, and I could happily live with that if the text just acknowledged that that was what he was, but it doesn't.
Predictably, the best part of Cymbeline occurs when acknowledgement of character is razor accurate. Cloten, the stepson of Cymbeline and one of the villains of the piece, is deeply entertaining. He's a puffed-up, arrogant, awful individual, completely self-deluded as to capacity and position, and he is ruthlessly dragged by pretty much everyone who comes in contact with him. It's very very funny, and for sheer amusement value, I'd far rather he survived to the end of the play than Leonatus, who can go join Fucking Angelo in the dungeon full of Shakespeare's ill-rewarded dicks.