Looking Past the Hardcovers: Techno-Thrillers in Other Media

Writing about the military techno-thriller I generally focused on print works.

This was for several reasons--because this is where the over century old tradition has been longest and strongest; because my training and experience was overwhelmingly in analyzing literary text; because I had spent a lot of time reading techno-thriller novels back in the 1990s and wanted to write about that, the more so as very little has been written of them.

Still, recently reading David Sirota's cultural history of the '80s Back to Our Future, the strongest part of which was its discussion of the marketing of pop militarism in the '80s in response to the "Vietnam Syndrome," I was struck by how little the print techno-thriller came up. Tom Clancy was, for two years running, the author of the year's top-selling novel (1988 and 1989), and the decade's top-selling novelist, on the strength of The Cardinal of the Kremlin and Clear and Present Danger (and The Hunt for Red October, Red Storm Rising and Patriot Games too), but save for an explanatory note for a single, brief, rather offhand, reference to Jack Ryan, the name simply does not come up. (Still less is there any reference to, for instance, Stephen Coonts or Larry Bond or the rest.)

Instead the discussion focuses on a number of films and TV shows--in particular, Red Dawn and Top Gun and G.I. Joe--and video games. This does, to some extent, reflect the fact that where his recounting of the relevant political history relies on solid scholarship to produce a robustly comprehensive picture of that side of the period, there is an element of personal reminiscence in his discussion of the pop culture. And Sirota was, as Goldbergs viewers remember, a young person at the time, much more likely to rewatch Red Dawn on VHS or play Contra on Nintendo than plow through one of Clancy's doorstops. However, that is exactly the point. A lot more people, of all ages, watched movies and TV, and played video games, than read books, even the bestselling books of the day, and this was all the more relevant with his focus in that portion of his study on the molding of the outlook of the young.

This does not seem to me to make the print techno-thriller less important or interesting. But, content for the time being with what I have written about that, it did suggest to me where my research might go from here, in the direction of all those works with which I was not unfamiliar (his generation is more or less my generation, and I sure did play Contra and the rest well before I picked up a book by Clancy), but to which I had been less attentive academically.

In fact, I have found myself revisiting the body of writing relevant to this side of film, television, and especially gaming history (because a "big picture" seems most elusive here). So far as I can tell it is much like those bodies of work on anything else to do with pop culture.

On the one hand there is journalism, more interested (often too much so) in retelling the personal stories of "industry players" in that manner so thrilling to devotees of the cult-of-the-tech-entrepreneur than offering comprehensive understandings of the subject matter, or much cultural or political insight; often downright sloppily researched and written; and frequently passing off material suitable for a decent article as a doorstop of a book (the easier for them to do because they have set their sights on telling a story, and telling it sloppily).

On the other hand there is scholarship, tending in the other direction, toward the overly narrow rather than the overly broad, normally in line with the fashionable academic obsessions (with regard to subject matter and methodology) I find . . . well, less than illuminating, especially when undertaking a project like this.

Still, that suggests to me that there is more to be said about the matter--and I hope to say something of it when I get around to revisiting the subject.

Crazed Fruit: Some Thoughts

The screen adaptation of Shintaro Ishihara's second novel, Crazed Fruit, ran on TCM some time ago.

I understand the movie has been recognized with a place in the Criterion Collection.

I have not read the book. But if the film is at all representative of it, it seems that Ishihara, who has screenwriting credit, simply reshuffled the elements of his first book, Season of the Sun--snotty rich college kids who spend their time playing on the beach and with boats, going to nightclubs, trying to get laid and getting into fights; some "tough" talk about generation gaps and the worthlessness of ideas next to action that comes off as the pseudo-macho, pseudo-intellectual drivel of posers; a conflict between brothers over a girl with more than a little history, and a proneness to manipulate and use men, with the younger brother the more susceptible and the older the more tough-minded; and just so we know the author's serious, the culmination of all that in sudden, violent death. We also see plenty of certain unattractive elements more pronounced in his other writing, and out of which he made a political career--like racism and xenophobia with which a certain amount of sexual baggage is nakedly mixed in. (Yes, there is a "The foreigners are here to take away our women!" element in this particular mix.)

The result is a piece of sh--excuse me, melodrama, inadequate to support the movie's 86 minute running time.

An interesting note: in addition to furnishing the source material and the screenplay, Ishihara also appears in the movie. And not just appears. With the camera focused on his face he bullyingly declares "I'm Ishihara!"--just in case we didn't know. And this alter ego of his, also named Ishihara, who happens to be part of a pack of snotty rich college kids having a run-in with the aforementioned pack of snotty rich college kids (in this case, also members of the Tokyo U wrestling team) participates in beating up the film's star, Shintaro Ishihara's real-life younger brother, the "James Dean of Japan," Yujiro Ishihara.

So basically Ishihara, going far beyond a subtle Alfred Hitchcock-like cameo, announces on camera that he is indeed Ishihara, then physically attacks his younger but more celebrated sibling on camera.

Make of that what you will.

In light of, well, everything the man has done since.

Interestingly, it seems Francois Truffaut was impressed, so much so that his seeing this film led to a collaboration between the French New Waver and the ultra-rightist who would call French a "failed language" (1962's Love at Twenty).

Make of that what you will, too.

I know I do.

George Orwell's The Road to Wigan Pier and Obesity

Considering the unending debate on obesity my thoughts go back to what George Orwell had to say of the dietary habits of the poor in his journalistic classic, The Road to Wigan Pier. As he remarked, rather than fruits and vegetables, whole grains, lean meat, the "basis of their diet . . . is white bread and margarine, corned beef, sugared tea, and potatoes," which he admits to finding "appalling." However, he also understood "that the less money you have"--the harder your life is--"the less inclined you feel to spend it on wholesome food." Thus while "[a] millionaire may enjoy breakfasting off orange juice and Ryvita biscuits . . . an unemployed man doesn't," for the plain and simple reason that "[w]hen you are unemployed, which is to say when you are underfed, harassed, bored, and miserable, you don't want to eat dull wholesome food," but rather "something . . . 'tasty.'" And then as now there was plenty of the cheap but tempting available--white bread, tinned beef, sugared tea, and the rest--because, after all, "[u]nemployment is an endless misery that has got to be constantly palliated," and such food does a rather better job of that than what the conventional wisdom of nutritionists recommends as nutrition.

That the observation is so little known, or appreciated, attests to how much more cited than really read Orwell, like all great writers, happens to be--and the utter alienness of what he really thought from the mainstream today, whose perspective is, as much as ever, that of complacent "millionaires" who can never imagine that what goes for them might not go for someone else. Considering the problem of obesity, those espousing that perspective reduce the whole matter to personal, consumption, "lifestyle" choices, without the slightest respect for the matter of context. They have no interest in the class angle, no knowledge, curiosity, sympathy in regard to the hardships faced by those less well-off. The factors that incline the poor to cheap temptation do not enter into their calculations; the only thought is of taking away the palliatives. Thus they crack down on foods with sodium and transfat and large sodas, but poverty, economic insecurity, and the rest are not even seen as relevant.

I will not go so far as to say that matters like advertising or portion sizes are irrelevant, or that action on them has been completely unhelpful. Business does, after all, take advantage of the consumer, in this way as in others, through advertising, and by foisting larger portion sizes on the consumer. (When you buy a 20 ounce soda bottle because none of the machines in your vicinity are offering 12 ounce cans, that has consequences that add up.) Equally there may be factors that are even less a matter of personal choice than the response of the deprived and stressed to temptations--not least, the effect of industrial chemicals or viruses on our bodies (for which a strong case has been made, sadly to little effect thus far). Yet the failure is significant in itself, telling about the larger problem, and a significant reason why obesity has been yet another entry in that long, long list of problems--like the wreck of the natural environment, the health care system, the financialization of the economy--that are eternally talked about, and acted on ineffectively or not all, such that it has just got worse and worse, and which can be expected to go on doing so barring a change in the way society thinks and acts about these matters.

On John Rhys-Davies' Tantrum

Recently I chanced upon John Rhys-Davies' nasty behavior toward Green Party MP Caroline Lucas on the BBC's Question Time. In particular the bit where he responded to her questioning of Donald Trump's legitimacy through reference to his having lost the popular vote by a wide margin with "Oh woman! Have you not read Kenneth Arrow and the Arrow's theorem? Any system has its problems."

As far as I can tell the criticism of his behavior has generally focused on his rudeness and sexism. I do not dispute any of that, but am in this post more interested in the manner in which he argued, or appeared to argue. In not only citing Kenneth Arrow's "impossibility theorem," but presuming that his work was common knowledge which he could expect anyone he meets to know (it is not), he implied (unsubtly) that he is not only vastly more knowledgeable, but altogether on a higher intellectual plane than his opponent.

However, he also gave away his superficiality. Arrow's theorem is a piece of neoclassical economics, after all--the same neoclassical economics that for the last century and a half has been an exercise in physics envy, Scholasticism, and the dressing up of simple-minded but ideologically convenient (read: extreme-right wing) ideas in mathematical symbols and language (hence, "theorem") to lend them the illusion of having all the force and immutability of physical law (and of course, intimidate the callow). Its value has been virtually nil where understanding actual economic life (you know, an economists's job) is concerned--and naturally the approach in general, and Arrow's theorem (vulnerable to every one of the criticisms listed here) is, at the least, rather more open to question than Rhys-Davies implied (that reading it one could not but accept the matter as settled now and forever). It certainly is not a mike-dropping answer to a specific criticism of the outcome of a specific election.

The best that one could say for Rhys-Davies was that he answered Lucas' criticism with a platitude ("You can't have everything!" "You can't please everyone!") passed off as not being a platitude by its being dressed up with a famous name and the aforementioned mathematical language. The ungenerous would suggest that Rhys-Davies' answer was the non-sequitur of a bully who substitutes name-dropping for genuine thought and argument, and that brings me to something I have had much occasion to think about recently, how Internet trolls behave.

Bluntly put, how Rhys-Davies spoke is not how intelligent people speak but rather how stupid people imagine intelligent people speaking.

Why People With High IQs Don't Go Around Bragging About Their High IQs

I have been struck time and again by the number of trolls who claim to be intellectually superior to anyone they are likely to meet in their profiles and handles. One claimed in his profile to have a "top IQ," and insisted that "you won't find anyone who knows more about life than me." Another, less subtle, incorporated the word "genius" into her handle.

Anyone who has spent time among actual "high IQ" people would recognize these people as fakes instantly, simply for their having done so--as people who actually have high IQs do not go around telling people they have a high IQ.

I think one reason is that they know how little IQ really means. By that I do not necessarily mean that they think the test is meaningless (even if they are likely to realize that a test administered on a single occasion which attempts to offer a general estimate of the extremely complex phenomenon that is intelligence is apt to offer a result more precise than accurate), but that they know how little it counts for in real life. I recall, for example, that when his reported IQ of 170 came up in an interview, Herbert Stempel remarked that that "and two dollars can get you on the subway."

It is a reminder that in real life, however much addicts of the propaganda for meritocracy insist upon it, society is not ruled by the smartest, nor inclined to lavish its rewards upon them. Picking your parents well, playing the dirty game of getting ahead, stands one in far, far better stead there.

They know how little it means even where purely intellectual life is concerned. I doubt a high IQ has completely saved anyone from the painful experiences of working harder than they should for longer than they should, making mistakes, getting frustrated, and outright failing. (Often high intelligence is an obstacle to getting good grades in a school system more concerned with students being able to take direction well than think for themselves; get good scores on standardized tests than acquire deeper capability.)

Even the highest intelligence ever possessed by a human being is not automatic, effortless omnicompetence, a free pass to a life of Faustian adventure in which one gets to do and to be everything. Quite the contrary, where the stupid have the Dunning-Kreuger effect to insulate their egos, they have a fairly good idea of the limits of their competence, even where they are competent--even when a narrow specialist, all too alert to how little they know about that, and how much less they know about the rest, the bar higher for them. In fact, that capacity for self-criticism, without which they would have accomplished little, can leave them underestimating themselves.

Because they have worked, they have known burn-out (and the deflation of confidence that goes with it). Because they have been recognized as something, they have wondered if they have not been impostors (the more so in the wake of those inevitable frustrations and failures). Because people have seen potential in them, they have wondered if they have lived up to it. (You have a high IQ, you say? Well, what did you do with it?)

This is also the more poignant as they are likely to have spent much of their life around other, similarly intelligent individuals, whose failings and insecurities are less visible to them than their own, who may seem the more formidable than they. They know there is always someone "better" out there. And they are smart enough to know that no one likes a braggart, not least because they, like everyone else, have had to endure someone else's bragging.

Indeed, in that particular milieu most closely identified with conspicuous intellectual demands and achievement, they are, far from the super-individualist so beloved of bad science fiction, all too aware that they "stand on the shoulders of giants," and manage that only with the help of others. (Never mind winning Nobel Prizes--publishing a run-of-the-mill paper is likely to be a highly collaborative effort.) Robert Merton put it well, the more so for how provocative the term sounds to the ears of the conventional--"communism" is a cornerstone of the ethos of the scientific enterprise.

Does this mean that the intelligent are incapable of arrogance, whether in their taking an exaggerated view of their powers, or their possession of a sense of superiority to others? Of course not. Indeed, one can picture all the sources of insecurity described here driving them overcompensating. But at the least it makes the IQ test score-flogging crudity of bad fiction and much inane real-life personal behavior by the fakers a rarity among "the real thing."

Review: The Chimera Vector, by Nathan Farrugia

Nathan Farrugia's The Chimera Vector being the sort of thriller where plot twists and "big reveals" are critical to the entertainment, it is difficult to discuss in spoiler-free fashion. Without giving away much, though, I can say that the essentials are familiar--a covert operative betrayed and forced on the run to survive, resulting in their trotting the globe with the enemy close behind them and discovering behind the mysteries of their own past, and the dangers they face in the present, a conspiracy of global proportions.

However, Farrugia's handling of the material makes it feel fresh, helped by his clean, crisp prose--a far cry from, for example, Robert Ludlum's often bombastic verbosity. It seems significant, too, that while action-packed for the most part Farrugia eschews over-the-top, physics-defying set pieces (as exemplified by Matthew Reilly) in favor of relatively brief, relatively grounded fight and chase scenes that fit in well with his narrative style. (For all the gunplay, I didn't catch myself pausing and backtracking to work out what is going on at that level--which was especially handy given that the edition supplied for review was an e-book rather than a print work.) It helps, too, that there is more than the usual canniness and substance in the thinking about the reasons behind it all. (Indeed, a good many will come away from this book feeling that behind the science fiction trappings, the story is fairly close to the truth about the times in which we live.)

High-Speed Pulp Writing: How Did People Do It?

Those who delve into the history of the more commercial kinds of fiction--the old pulps and paperbacks and so on--encounter what seem like extraordinary feats on the part of writers from the standpoint of sheer volume of output, authors cranking out whole novels in days (a Lester Dent, for example, particularly famous for this approach).

The prospect of being able to do the same is, for many, enormously appealing. After all, who hasn't wanted to finish a piece of writing more quickly? Who doesn't dream of being more productive?

Just how did they do it? The answer is that there were several enabling factors, not least in regard to the sort of books they were writing:

1. They were shooting for short works--50,000 words or so.
2. Those short books tended to be formulaic--the writer simply coming up with different factors to plug in rather than thinking up a narrative arc from scratch.
3. These short, formulaic books were also simple books, with relatively straightforward structures and straightforward prose, and minimalist in such respects as detail. This meant that they didn't have to do so much fleshing out of their scenes, which was another time-saver.
4. There was a certain tolerance for roughness and repetitiveness in the product--like a good deal of serviceable but awkward phrasing.

There was, too, the manner in which they worked.

1. They had to be able to work without interruption, with working through the night, and the next day, a common feature of the approach.
2. They had someone ready to take the work off their hands when they were done, so that they could move on to the next thing, rather than being stuck poring over what they'd finished.
3. They had the opportunity to do this again and again and again, putting such work out as much as they were physically capable, building up experience at this kind of endeavor.

The combination of the kind of project with its particular demands (and the things it didn't demand), their opportunity to work without interruption and then let go of a project to start a new one of a similar type over and over and over again, are a very far cry from how today's aspiring novelist is likely to work. They are expected to shoot for works of 100,000 words or more, books which are not just longer but more complex. Producing this longer, more complex book they are apt to hold down a day job, which by itself not just commands a large and perhaps critical part of their time and energy, but chops the rest to pieces, with fatal consequences for any sort of intuitive flow. And they are, of course, very unlikely to have a publisher waiting to take a work off their hands as soon as they are done. (Especially if they are unpublished and unagented, they might have it on their hands for years, and maybe forever.) If a writer feels that they must strive for originality, get the facts right, polish their prose; if they have been subjected to lots and lots of form rejection letters that wound enormously while teaching nothing, leaving them insecure and self-conscious; then the approach of a Dent is that much further outside their reach.

Those of us who would find their seemingly unselfconscious, spontaneous, intuitive approach a relief, or even liberating, can only breathe a sigh; but it may be some comfort to consider the reality that in today's market we would have a very tough time selling the result.

The '80s Never Ended

Recently reading David Sirota's Back to Our Future I thought again that the 1980s do define our decade, though the explanation I find satisfying, I dare say, runs somewhat deeper than his--specifically that it was the time when the right-wing cultural counter-offensive underway since the 1940s (an adjunct to the more central political-economic counteroffensive we think of as neoliberalism) finally dominated the mainstream.

Why then and not earlier? Simply put, as the stimulus of post-war reconstruction and automobile culture ran their courses, as the war economy ground down the economic machinery sustaining it (the Cold War killed the gold standard and the Great Society together), as Europe and Japan's assimilating American-style mass-manufacturing made the world market very crowded; and the pace of technological innovation and its associated productivity increases slowed, while the old resource profligacy proved unsustainable; Big Business already felt its profits squeezed in the 1960s. In the 1970s post-war boom altogether turned to post-war bust, worsening matters, while inflation may have made manufacturers uneasy but was positively toxic for finance. Meanwhile the leftward shift of society was felt as intensely threatening, even in the core, Western, industrialized nations. (Remember, for instance, the hysteria of British right-wingers about some imminent union/leftist takeover of the country that had them cooking up coup plots against Harold Wilson?)

At the same time, amid danger there was also opportunity, the decay of the post-war consensus making their going on the offensive seem not only more urgent, but like it had a chance--as by getting the public to think the trouble was that things had gone too far left, rather than not left enough. Meanwhile, both sides of the counterculture provided material to work with--not just the much ballyhooed backlash against it, which, in a demonstration of the validity not of the horseshoe theory by which they set so much store but the fishhook theory they have marginalized, shifted ever-shaky "liberal" centrists right into its ranks in practice and even in name, but the counterculture itself (certainly, as it appeared in the U.S.). More emotional than intellectual in its foundations, strongly inclined to individualism, never very strong on the issues of economics and class, it was possible to exploit its impulses on behalf of not just consumerism (as Thomas Frank has made all too clear), but the full-blown neoliberal economic agenda--turning the hippies into yippies and just plain yuppies.

What we have lived through in the last four decades has been the epilogue. But, perhaps, also the prologue to a new story . . .

Why Was Hollywood So Slow to Capitalize on the Action Film?

The original, EON-produced James Bond movies of the early 1960s are generally regarded as the starting point for the modern action film--the movies that established their characteristic filmic structure, its range and density of set pieces, and its cinematographic and editorial techniques (and even the "blockbuster" mode of releasing them). Yet, Hollywood seems to have only properly begun to assimilate this practice in the mid-1970s, while it seems that it was another decade before they really became a staple product for the industry. In other words, a full generation seems to have passed between those foundational Bond films, and the rise of the Hollywood action film. Just why was that?

One might imagine that such a question had already been asked and answered numerous times, but so far as I can tell, this is very far from being the case. One reason, I suppose, is that the sorts of serious, rigorous scholars of film who would do the hard work of tracing the development have little time for action-oriented blockbusters, whose rise many of them even seem to regard as an annoying aberration, or even a disaster for film. Another would seem to be the extent to which action films are defined by form rather than the kind of content to which they prefer to devote their analytical energies, in part because it is easier to talk about themes than it is the subtleties of cinematic technique--while the fact that the form is of a kind they do not respect does not encourage them in such efforts.

The question is a tough one, too, because it raises the question of why something was not done, a necessarily trickier matter than explaining why something was. Still, the well-known history of Hollywood, and the Bond films, offers a possible explanation.

When the early Bond films came along they were thrillers tinged with science fiction--at a time when thrillers and science fiction were both B-movie stuff, and B-movies looked like they were dying. It might be added, too, that spy films were a relative exoticism for American culture--a genre rather less well-established than, for example, hard-boiled crime. A survey of the reviews written about the films at the time also makes it clear that observers were not so sure about what to make of them--not so sure that they were looking at the rise of a new kind of film. Rather it seemed to them that they were looking at merely a parody of existing material--a parody of Hitchcock, a parody of science fiction, with such a view the more understandable because of the illogic and self-parody that was part of the warp and woof of those movies from the start.

None of this stopped Hollywood from imitating the Bond films. Yet, the imitation was for the most part superficial, and lightweight. The movies imitated the theme of the globe-trotting, gadget-packing superspy, for the most part parodically, rather than displaying a real grasp of the action movie mechanics, because the former was all that could be done with the slight understanding of or interest in those movies. The superficial, parodic route was also much less expensive. After all, in less than half a decade the Bond films upped their budgets tenfold, You Only Live Twice running a hefty near $10 million--and it would have cost Hollywood far more to make such a production at home. It is safe to assume that this was rather more than it was ready to risk in trying to compete head to head with the Bond brand by making a glorified B-movie with the kind of A-movie budget they were used to spending on other, very different kinds of film.* Finally, the reality is that in the mid-1960s the Bond films were already passing the peak of their popularity, and by the 1970s looking increasingly repetitive, derivative of other material and outright decadent, lessening the interest in the movies and what they may have had to offer (that still unmastered action movie form), turning attention from them toward other directions.

And even before that point there were two other trends that galvanized Hollywood's attention, one more natural given its history, the other more radical. The first was an extension of the turn to splashy musicals evident in the '50s, with the years of Bond's greatest successes in America overshadowed each year by a hugely successful film of the type. In 1964 Goldfinger was #2 at the American box office, and From Russia With Love #5, but My Fair Lady was #1. In 1965 Thunderball proved the series' biggest ever success, but wound up at only #3, overshadowed by, above all, the biggest box office phenomenon of the whole decade--The Sound of Music, which took in twice as much in America and globally. In the next several years Hollywood sunk much of its money into trying to repeat that success, and never quite accomplishing it, Camelot doing all right, Oliver! better than all right, but 1969's Sweet Charity, Hello, Dolly! and Paint Your Wagon a trio of big-budget ($20 million) letdowns that largely ended the trend.

The other trend was, of course, the "New Hollywood." Pioneered by directors less habituated to Hollywood tradition, they had relatively little interest in the kind of movie the Bond films represented. Their sensibility, after all, was oriented toward the arthouse, toward youth and the counterculture, toward social criticism and urban grit, toward aesthetically and politically edgier fare, rather than Bond-style crowd pleasers, even if, eventually, it was a New Hollywood director who brought the action film to Hollywood--George Lucas, in Star Wars, for which the Bond films had been an influence.

At that point Hollywood repeated the pattern of superficial imitativeness with Star Wars, imitating the space theme more than grasping the mechanics of action moviemaking, such that the Alien and Star Trek franchises did not began as action movie series', and only became such over the course of the '80s. The original Star Wars trilogy ran its course in 1983, and by then the larger fashion for space operatic movies was waning (few such appearing until the mid-'90s), but by then Hollywood had had the chance to pick up the pattern, routinize it in a period when it might have been more open, because it was more prepared to learn from its own successes than those of others, because B-movies were becoming the new A-movies, because "high concept" had become king and even if it was not yet closely identified with action-adventure, Lucas and his cohorts had given the studio heads the strongest foundation for high concept success of all.

* The 1967 Casino Royale wound up pricier than any Bond movie made to date with a $12 million budget, but this was the result of a chaotic production process that led to cost overruns; and in any event, that film very much an exception.

Darko Suvin and H.G. Wells

Darko Suvin's collection Metamorphoses of Science Fiction includes such classics of his criticism as "Estrangement and Cognition" (available at Strange Horizons).

It also includes a piece dealing with "Wells As the Turning Point of the SF Tradition." In it Suvin remarked that Wells was the "first significant writer who started to write SF from within the world of science, and not merely facing it" (220); whose scientific romances were the "privileged form in which SF was admitted into an official culture that rejected socialist utopianism" (220); and "endowed later SF with a basically materialist look back at human life and a rebelliousness against its entropic closure" (221). "For such reasons," he declares, all subsequent significant SF can be said to have sprung from Wells' Time Machine" (221).

Others are often credited with founding the genre, sometimes Mary Shelley, sometimes Jules Verne, but when one considers science fiction from the standpoint of what made it really unique within twentieth century fiction, from the standpoint of what might be considered its cultural niche or even its special purposes that it alone and not other kinds of fiction could perform, it seems to me inarguable that, as Suvin contends, Wells was by far the most important of these three.