Crash by JG Ballard REVIEWED

I'm a fan of controversial books. Therefore, thought I upon hearing of 1973's Crash, which explores a subculture of people who become sexually obsessed with car crashes, I must read this. (Now that's a sentence with words in an order wrongly put.) Anyway, I did just that. Would you like to know my opinions on it? Good.

Crash is, to be blunt, a badly written book. Written in a highly sensationalistic manner, the novel obsesses over its graphic descriptions of hundreds of in-car sexual acts to such an extent that the novel can be little else. There is not much character development, except in the case of Vaughan, the former TV producer who befriends the narrator James and introduces him to symphorophilia (yes, it has a name), who we see deteriorating into a state similar to drug addiction. The other characters, few though they are, have no roles to speak off - they are simply fucked and then forgotten about.

In terms of its ideas and concepts, Crash is in fact very interesting. The interplay between sexuality and technology in modern society may be rather overplayed by Ballard, but it is certainly a significant issue and one dealt with well by the book. Similarly, the hyperreal sense of a blurring of fiction and reality - Vaughan's greatest desire is to die in a collision with the film actress Elizabeth Taylor - is very strong, and one of the most visited themes within Ballard's work. All this is very good.

But the style of the novel, rather than leading to an exploration of the reader's own morality as was intended, seems only to bore and desensitise. Not helped by his constant repetition of the graphic description of sexual acts, Ballard's writing seems to ooze over the page (sorry...!) and the ultimate effect approaches the soporific. Similarly, the thematic assertions of the work are almost ridiculously overstated.On almost every page, Ballard draws a connection between the shape of cars and the form of the human body, in both being sexualised and made into art - I don't think I've ever read the word "stylization" more often.

Overall, Crash is valuable to all fans of dystopia and sci-fi horror as an exploration of the dark side of our advertisement visions of sexuality and technology. But the disengaging style, while ostensibly in order to make the reader complicit in the amorality of the story, serves only to bore them to such an extent that they don't actually care what happens.

6/10

Me in the world:

http://twitter.com/#!/antmoorfield

http://antmoorfield.tumblr.com/

http://youtube.com/user/antmoorfield

A Good Man Goes To War REVIEWED

Well. That's that, then. I'm still sweating slightly. You didn't want to know that, but oh well. 

There's always something about an episode of Doctor Who being advertised as "epic" that needles me. I get reminded of the worst excesses of the Russell T Davies era when that word turns up. By the worst excesses I mean long opening sequences in which unimportant characters from previous episodes are suddenly incredibly important, I mean overblown speeches that never get anywhere, and I mean flat and badly paced middle segments that don't add anything to the story.

So what happened in A Good Man Goes To War? Well, there was a long opening sequence in which unimportant characters from previous episodes were suddenly incredibly important, including that fat blue guy, that Scottish-sounding Silurian from the Hungry Earth who for some reason was in Victorian London, and an admittedly inspired Sontaran playing against type by being forced to serve as a nurse. Then there were a few overblown speeches that never got anywhere, one about the Doctor's identity, one from Amy about the identity of Melody's father (admittedly beautifully written to make us think it was the Doctor for a moment), and plenty about the child and what evil eyepatch lady wanted her for. There was a flat and badly paced middle segment in which there seemed to be no danger, no sense of what was to happen next, no urgency and no interest. All the very worst elements of bad Doctor Who seemed to be present in this episode.

And yet. And yet, despite the pointless opening sequence, despite the overblown speeches, despite the flat and badly paced middle segment, I BLOODY LOVED IT. It was major cognitive dissonance - every time I thought to myself, "this is bad", I allowed myself to feel it instead, and it was just fantastic. Every witty line made me smile, every expression on an actor's face showed me deep inside their character's heart, every plot twist made me take deeper breaths.

In terms of the content of the episode, I thought the developed idea of militaristic churches was truly inspired, especially the Headless Monks, which are one of those incredibly dark science-fiction constructions that just scream Steven Moffat to you. (Well, not scream. But you know what I mean.) Charlie Baker played a fine part as the fat marine that was offered up to the monks as a "donation", and I particularly loved the line about him and his husband, "We're the thin, fat, gay, married, Anglican marines." A laugh-out-loud moment, complemented throughout the episode with a Stevie Wonder joke, a brief Thunderbirds reference, and some great comic bits with the Doctor speaking baby. The humour offset the tragedy of the storyline beautifully. However, I did feel there was an over-abundance of characters who were nothing more than plot devices and decoration, particularly Jenny and Lorna. I also felt the need to shoehorn in references to past events, particularly the space Spitfires, rather off-putting.

And now, I suppose, inevitably, up comes the subject of the big twist, of which the main twist was... there was no twist. Just as has been set up for so long, River Song is Amy and Rory's daughter. (I must admit, I didn't recognise the Melody/Song connection until well after the fact, but River/Pond has been seeded throughout the whole series, and was entirely obvious.) I don't entirely know how I feel about this. On the one hand, I would have liked some earth-shattering twist that no-one expected, but on the other, this relationship was so well explained by elements throughout the series that it sort of had to be. On the other hand (yes, I have three hands) it does rather seem like this has solved the entire storyline. Melody, when we see her next, is the astronaut child who kills the Doctor, and then she regenerates into River. Is that it? I do hope it isn't this simple. And to be fair there are some other very intriguing questions - whose name is on the Doctor's cot? What happens to the 1107-year old Doctor after the events on the Utah beach? And the small matter of the ultimate confrontations with Kovarian's forces, and the Silence. The more I think about tonight's big reveal, the more I think it's a stroke of genius - we've closed one knot in the rope but there are so many other twists and turns to come.

Final thoughts are a bit hard to come to in this case. Although from a critical point of view I can't like this episode, while I was actually sitting in front of the TV screen I loved every minute. I came away shaking slightly with my head buzzing, and incredibly satisfied with what I'd just witnessed. And as I'm already willing the clock to whizz forwards to the autumn (for the daringly named Let's Kill Hitler, of all episodes!), I can only conclude that this was a brilliant episode.

Verdict: 9/10


Twitter: @antmoorfield

Pretentious philosophical post

The insoluble problem of human existence is defining its goal, its direction, its purpose. The great minds of our species sparked with electric impulses, neural pathways connecting in hitherto unnoticed ways, as their owners wrestled with their membership of this elite caste called humanity, and the consequences of such an association for the activity of the independent brain.

What separates our cognitive biology, in tissue terms, from that of the so-called lower animals, is well known to our psychologists. We have a larger brain in proportion to body size. This, from a purely biological perspective, tells one all there is to know about the mystery of human consciousness. Darwin tells us in The Descent Of Man that “No one, I presume, doubts that the large proportion which the size of man's brain bears to his body, compared to the same proportion in the gorilla or orang, is closely connected with his mental powers.” That, then, may well describe why we have intelligence. We are even beginning to learn from which segments of the brain certain actions and ideas are controlled; the prefrontal cortex, to take a simple example, governs the prediction of outcomes, expectation based on actions, and complex decision making, it is hypothesized. These are known as executive functions: an ironic title, given that they seem all too frequently absent from our senior businessmen and political leaders.

Nevertheless, there is much we do not, and, many would say, cannot, know about the human consciousness. What is inbuilt, what comes from the environment outside – are we at source as bees in a hive or the empty hard drive of a shiny MacBook? Whence comes compassion, whence hatred, whence love? In what sense is there a target for our existence – service to a higher conscience, devotion to an ideal or ideology, or the elimination of worldsuck, perhaps? These questions can be assessed, say the scientists, by their emotionless, empirical method. But there is, it seems, a deeper meaning under the purely measurable, further complexities that underpin the human psyche. Here exists the difference between merely electrocuting flesh and bones, and creating what Mary Shelley’s tale calls “the modern Prometheus”.

A newly created true Man, were such possible, would have more than cells, tissues, blood and mucus – as hidden within the physical cage sits the metaphysical other, the unknowable soul, the undistillable essence of humanity.  Such a concept cannot be understood by a rock, or a table, or a pencil, for precisely the reason that such objects lack a soul of their very own. Without any way of attesting that one lives, one cannot live. Cogito ergo sum, it would seem. When the writers of the Enlightened Age told us that the new extra-human science could explain away superstitious notions of love, God, spirit, they gave up understanding what life means to those that live it. Our goal must be to die without wasting the brief span of breaths and heartbeats on impossibilities; to drive forward the boundaries of understanding, yes, but always to understand that at the centre of our humanity lies a thing, an idea, an essence, that elevates us into sentience, and, as far is it is possible to tell, into a position of free will, of power over our biological instincts, and of liberty to live as beings, and as thinkings, within this universe of our own minds.

NOTE: I am not a psychologist, nor in fact any kind of academic. If the science is wrong, so be it; the philosophy is mine and mine alone.