Back in the 1980s a vast literature analyzing contemporary Japan emerged in the West, and certainly the United States. It became so pervasive, and so influential, that writers about other subjects never missed a chance to comment on the matter, while the concern manifested itself in Hollywood features like Gung Ho and Michael Crichton novels like Rising Sun.1
The larger part of this output was the sheerest drivel, discredited just a short time later.2 (It was taken, for granted, that Japan would never be a great exporter of pop culture, a claim that is now unbelievably embarrassing.) However, worthwhile or not, this stream of writing largely ran dry by the mid-1990s, because American observers had largely discounted Japan as a serious rival--a function of Japan's asset bubble's bursting at the start of the decade, while the United States was becoming heady over its own tech bubble, leading to a new triumphalism, and the end of meaningful debate about the course of the American economy.3 After NAFTA and GATT and Windows 95 the country was committed to neoliberal globalization, and the service-information-FIRE (Finance, Insurance, Real Estate) economy; to the idea that its way was the only viable one in a globalizing world, and that the other courses charted by Japan (and Germany) were paths to nowhere. Europe was synonymous with Eurosclerosis, Japan with the "lost decade," and no matter how hard or how long an Eamonn Fingleton, for example, tried to argue otherwise, the mainstream was simply not willing to give any alternative perspective a hearing.
Of course, Americans have been mindful of China's double-digit growth during these years, which in the first decade of the twenty-first century saw it edge out Japan to become the world's second-largest economy--and had many observers saying that before long it would be first. However, we have not seen anything comparable to that literature emerge in response to China's rise. That is not to say that the country's boom has not been extensively written about, because it very clearly has. Nor is it to say that writers on the subject have refrained from alarmism and xenophobia, because they very clearly have not. Rather, it is to say that where in the '80s we saw enormous, even obsessive, interest in Japanese business methods, in the sociology of Japanese economic life, and in Japanese culture and society more broadly, we have seen comparatively little interest in these aspects of Chinese life.4
I suppose this is in part because the idea of an Asian economic superpower is no longer so novel; because there is less of a tendency to see international politics in stark bipolar terms, or as a competition between social systems, than there was at the Cold War's end; because China is still playing catch-up (its per-capita output, living standards and overall development still far behind the industrialized nations); and because China's success to date does not seem at all mysterious, instead largely attributed to the government's ruthless practice of export-oriented mercantilism and vast supply of cheap labor in a globalizing world.5 Part of it, too, would seem to be the fact of diminished public interest in foreign news and social science, and that writing on the Middle East (again, mostly drivel, though that's another story) has drawn much of what such interest remains in them during the past decade. And it is also the case that the debate which ended in 1995 has not restarted, despite the calamitous events of the last five years.
Whatever one has to say about other aspects of Western authors' response to China's long boom, that last fact should be deeply worrying to all concerned.
1. I recall, for instance, Len Deighton's history of the early years of World War II, 1993's Blood, Tears and Folly, which relates how the United States and Britain fared against Germany and Japan during the war to the then-current debate about Anglo-American economic competitiveness against Germany and Japan in the 1990s.
2. Western observers do not seem to have been totally at fault for this. In many cases they repeated what was being claimed by Japanese observers--many of those '80s-era oversimplifications appearing in Shintaro Ishihara's own The Japan That Can Say No, for example. Among these is the idea of Japan's industrial success as fundamentally rooted in culture, microeconomic rather than macroeconomic, with much made of the country's corporate culture as the key. There is, too, the idea of Japan as a society which refines others' innovations (craftsmanship over metaphysics, to paraphrase Ishihara). Equally Shintaro gives short shrift to the significance of the asset bubble by then obvious to all, or that the country was reaching the limits of its export-driven growth strategy, and blithely assumes that the country's boom would continue indefinitely.
3. Few observers seem to have noticed the end of debate at that time. The sole exception I am familiar with is French sociologist Emmanuel Todd, who makes the point explicitly in his book After the Empire.
4. That is not to say no interest--as this round-up of titles George J. Gilboy offered a few years back demonstrates--but much less than was the case with Japan two decades earlier. Moreover, the interest in Chinese business practices seems more reflective of concern with actually doing business with the country rather than its treatment as a model for others.
5. We also did not see such a literature regarding the success of the "Tiger" economies (South Korea, Taiwan, Hong Kong, Singapore) because their smallness makes them less of a concern. That South Korea is a country of fewer than 50 million limits its impact on the international economic scene, regardless of how prosperous the country becomes.
Monday, July 15, 2013
Revisiting The Japan That Can Say No
Shintaro Ishihara has made a literary, and then a political, career out of grabbing attention with inflammatory remarks. It was certainly such a remark which drew American attention to him in 1989, specifically his claim in his 1989 book The Japan That Can Say No, that "Japan holds the trump card in the nuclear arms race" (21), because "only Japanese electronics firms have the mass-production and quality-control capability to supply the multimegabit semiconductors for the weapons systems and other equipment" (20-21).1 Accordingly,
Instead of a comprehensive analysis, we get a grab-bag of gripes and gloats. In the course of jumping from one to the next, Ishihara criticizes the country's policymaking elites for being insufficiently assertive against the Foreigner, whose displeasure with his government, he insists, is entirely a matter of his bigotry; makes much of the virtue of his countrymen, crediting this, rather than sound policies or historic opportunities, with the nation's economic successes (all a matter of deep cooperation between visionary, production-oriented managers and dedicated, craft-oriented workers, he would have us believe)2; acknowledges the existence of popular economic grievances, while muddling the issue by avoiding substantive criticism of the nation's speculation-mad financial sector or the conduct of Big Business, and even downplaying the existence of inequality and class differences3 (his ire exclusively directed at the retail sector); and lightly dismisses the prospects of other countries (writing off China and all the countries of Europe), which he holds to be doing everything wrong, while expressing complacent optimism about the prospects of his own--if it sticks to his slanted version of what it has been doing all along. On the way, we also get a good deal of anti-intellectualism4, anti-rationalism and outright mysticism5.
Ishihara's world-view is, naturally, reflected in his vision of the post-Cold War international order, beginning with his explicit dismissal of the prospect of a multipolar world. He envisioned the former Soviet bloc entering Japan's "technological sphere of influence" (109), with the economies of the entire region from Vladivostok to Warsaw revitalized by Japanese technology and Japanese know-how--in part because, unlike debt-ridden America, Japan would be able to finance the aid these countries needed.6 He expected that China would, along with the Soviet Union, actually continue to see its influence decline because of its economic failures, while Europe would fail to come together around a reunified Germany. This would leave the Group of Two (the U.S. and Japan) as the decisive actors, and he imagined that after a "cold war" phase between the two countries (military component included), and the U.S.'s getting its house in order (he actually lays out a program for the United States, in Chapter Eleven, ironically enough), this relationship would be essentially cooperative.7
Of course, he was not even close to the mark. The Soviet Union dissolved, and certainly did not enter Japan's sphere of influence, not least because Japan proved to be in no position to bankroll the kind of aid he talked about. Rather the bursting of the giant asset bubble he downplayed here wreaked havoc with the country's banking system, and helped explode the central government's debt to a level which made the American fiscal situation of which he was so critical look enviable. At the same time, the particular technological strengths he believed to be crucial failed to yield the expected results, Japan's dominance in semiconductors much more fragile and short-lived than he seemed to think, while Maglev rail today looks much like the flying car of yesteryear. China, which he wrote off even more fully than Europe, emerged as the colossus that increasingly dominated Asia, and which would have to be regarded as the other member in any "Group of Two" with the U.S.. Meanwhile, the U.S. failed to get its house in order in the ways he prescribed (or any others), its manufacturing continuing to recede and its trade deficits exploding to levels that made those of the 1980s seem small--this politician famously critical of the United States proving overoptimistic in his assessment of how the U.S. would deal with its '80s-era problems.
To be fair, other visions have dated almost as severely and as quickly, many of them as a result of the same predictions. (Recall, for instance, George Friedman and Meredith Lebard's The Coming War With Japan?) Nonetheless, with well-wrought futurology (like the writings of H.G. Wells recently discussed here) we are usually left with a great deal of food for thought even where it has gone wrong. Indeed, we are apt to find compelling reasons why history could have gone another way, yesteryear's forecast turning into today's counterfactual. Ishihara's work, however, is utterly lacking in such insight, but then that was only to be expected, this book consisting of essentially the same drivel with which Ishihara's innumerable counterparts in America (and everywhere else) fill their speeches and books.
1. The bibliographical information for my edition was as follows: Shintaro Ishihara, The Japan That Can Say No. Trans. Frank Baldwin. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1991.
2. The truth is that business is rarely far-seeing and production-oriented, except when it is incentivized to be. Ishihara overlooked the crucial role of government policy in building up the country's industries--and the dramatic way in which policy was about to fail by permitting the emergence of the massive speculation and financial corruption that did so much damage to the country's economy.
3. This attains an absurd extreme when he characterizes Japan as having one of the world's most egalitarian class structures (81), even offering an implausible anecdote about Lech Walesa touring Japanese factories and declaring "Japan the ideal socialist country" (82).
4. Ishihara dismisses the rise of a "knowledge economy" not on the grounds of the numerous practical arguments against it (the limited demand for high-skilled personnel, etc.), but because "all brain and no brawn cannot be good for the country," which is "better off if our Olympic athletes won a basket of medals and the younger generation did strenuous work" (19).
5. Ishihara gleefully announces the end of the "modern era" with its faith in "materialism, science and progress" (123), his discussion of which references Oswald Spengler, whom Ishihara writes claimed that "the solution is to attain a higher level of civilization blended from diverse cultures" (124)--which gives me the impression that Ishihara has confused Spengler with Arnold Toynbee. Even the best-informed of us err, but somehow it is hard to picture someone who has read either of those authors actually confusing the one with the other in this way.
6. Reading this prediction I found myself wondering if this was an inspiration for the scenario in Ralph Peters' The War in 2020, which has the U.S. and Japan fighting a proxy war over a crumbling Soviet Union.
7. Ishihara's recommendations to the U.S. are a mix of the substantive and the vague, the irrefutably sensible and the deeply dubious, and the larger part of them inconceivable within the U.S.'s corporate culture. Ishihara, for instance, was entirely right about the problems of U.S. short-termism, and the country's obsession with speculation and merger and acquisitions games at the expense of manufacturing (which by 2008 reached the astonishing levels seen in the cases of General Electric and General Motors). However, it was certainly not the case that post-Reagan America was in desperate need of a lower capital gains tax or more incentives to oil exploration, or that increased consumption taxes were the best way to raise the revenue needed to redress the budget deficit (while he totally avoided touching on the role of upper-income tax cuts in creating the problem).
if Japan told Washington it would no longer sell computer chips to the United States, the Pentagon would be totally helpless. Furthermore, the global military balance could be completely upset if Japan decided to sell its computer chips to the Soviet Union instead of the United States (21).There was, of course, a great deal of oversimplification and exaggeration in such a remark, and that too has been strongly reflective of his approach throughout the book. While he presents serious issues, genuine problems and valid criticisms (of his country, and others), by and large he deals with them in the trite, shallow, predictable and rather disorganized manner one expects of today's more successful politicians--and certainly those who have comparable career trajectories.
Instead of a comprehensive analysis, we get a grab-bag of gripes and gloats. In the course of jumping from one to the next, Ishihara criticizes the country's policymaking elites for being insufficiently assertive against the Foreigner, whose displeasure with his government, he insists, is entirely a matter of his bigotry; makes much of the virtue of his countrymen, crediting this, rather than sound policies or historic opportunities, with the nation's economic successes (all a matter of deep cooperation between visionary, production-oriented managers and dedicated, craft-oriented workers, he would have us believe)2; acknowledges the existence of popular economic grievances, while muddling the issue by avoiding substantive criticism of the nation's speculation-mad financial sector or the conduct of Big Business, and even downplaying the existence of inequality and class differences3 (his ire exclusively directed at the retail sector); and lightly dismisses the prospects of other countries (writing off China and all the countries of Europe), which he holds to be doing everything wrong, while expressing complacent optimism about the prospects of his own--if it sticks to his slanted version of what it has been doing all along. On the way, we also get a good deal of anti-intellectualism4, anti-rationalism and outright mysticism5.
Ishihara's world-view is, naturally, reflected in his vision of the post-Cold War international order, beginning with his explicit dismissal of the prospect of a multipolar world. He envisioned the former Soviet bloc entering Japan's "technological sphere of influence" (109), with the economies of the entire region from Vladivostok to Warsaw revitalized by Japanese technology and Japanese know-how--in part because, unlike debt-ridden America, Japan would be able to finance the aid these countries needed.6 He expected that China would, along with the Soviet Union, actually continue to see its influence decline because of its economic failures, while Europe would fail to come together around a reunified Germany. This would leave the Group of Two (the U.S. and Japan) as the decisive actors, and he imagined that after a "cold war" phase between the two countries (military component included), and the U.S.'s getting its house in order (he actually lays out a program for the United States, in Chapter Eleven, ironically enough), this relationship would be essentially cooperative.7
Of course, he was not even close to the mark. The Soviet Union dissolved, and certainly did not enter Japan's sphere of influence, not least because Japan proved to be in no position to bankroll the kind of aid he talked about. Rather the bursting of the giant asset bubble he downplayed here wreaked havoc with the country's banking system, and helped explode the central government's debt to a level which made the American fiscal situation of which he was so critical look enviable. At the same time, the particular technological strengths he believed to be crucial failed to yield the expected results, Japan's dominance in semiconductors much more fragile and short-lived than he seemed to think, while Maglev rail today looks much like the flying car of yesteryear. China, which he wrote off even more fully than Europe, emerged as the colossus that increasingly dominated Asia, and which would have to be regarded as the other member in any "Group of Two" with the U.S.. Meanwhile, the U.S. failed to get its house in order in the ways he prescribed (or any others), its manufacturing continuing to recede and its trade deficits exploding to levels that made those of the 1980s seem small--this politician famously critical of the United States proving overoptimistic in his assessment of how the U.S. would deal with its '80s-era problems.
To be fair, other visions have dated almost as severely and as quickly, many of them as a result of the same predictions. (Recall, for instance, George Friedman and Meredith Lebard's The Coming War With Japan?) Nonetheless, with well-wrought futurology (like the writings of H.G. Wells recently discussed here) we are usually left with a great deal of food for thought even where it has gone wrong. Indeed, we are apt to find compelling reasons why history could have gone another way, yesteryear's forecast turning into today's counterfactual. Ishihara's work, however, is utterly lacking in such insight, but then that was only to be expected, this book consisting of essentially the same drivel with which Ishihara's innumerable counterparts in America (and everywhere else) fill their speeches and books.
1. The bibliographical information for my edition was as follows: Shintaro Ishihara, The Japan That Can Say No. Trans. Frank Baldwin. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1991.
2. The truth is that business is rarely far-seeing and production-oriented, except when it is incentivized to be. Ishihara overlooked the crucial role of government policy in building up the country's industries--and the dramatic way in which policy was about to fail by permitting the emergence of the massive speculation and financial corruption that did so much damage to the country's economy.
3. This attains an absurd extreme when he characterizes Japan as having one of the world's most egalitarian class structures (81), even offering an implausible anecdote about Lech Walesa touring Japanese factories and declaring "Japan the ideal socialist country" (82).
4. Ishihara dismisses the rise of a "knowledge economy" not on the grounds of the numerous practical arguments against it (the limited demand for high-skilled personnel, etc.), but because "all brain and no brawn cannot be good for the country," which is "better off if our Olympic athletes won a basket of medals and the younger generation did strenuous work" (19).
5. Ishihara gleefully announces the end of the "modern era" with its faith in "materialism, science and progress" (123), his discussion of which references Oswald Spengler, whom Ishihara writes claimed that "the solution is to attain a higher level of civilization blended from diverse cultures" (124)--which gives me the impression that Ishihara has confused Spengler with Arnold Toynbee. Even the best-informed of us err, but somehow it is hard to picture someone who has read either of those authors actually confusing the one with the other in this way.
6. Reading this prediction I found myself wondering if this was an inspiration for the scenario in Ralph Peters' The War in 2020, which has the U.S. and Japan fighting a proxy war over a crumbling Soviet Union.
7. Ishihara's recommendations to the U.S. are a mix of the substantive and the vague, the irrefutably sensible and the deeply dubious, and the larger part of them inconceivable within the U.S.'s corporate culture. Ishihara, for instance, was entirely right about the problems of U.S. short-termism, and the country's obsession with speculation and merger and acquisitions games at the expense of manufacturing (which by 2008 reached the astonishing levels seen in the cases of General Electric and General Motors). However, it was certainly not the case that post-Reagan America was in desperate need of a lower capital gains tax or more incentives to oil exploration, or that increased consumption taxes were the best way to raise the revenue needed to redress the budget deficit (while he totally avoided touching on the role of upper-income tax cuts in creating the problem).
Looking Back: The Politics of The Dark Knight Rises
Watching The Dark Knight back in 2008 I was deeply impressed by the film's use of the Joker as a Trickster/Shadow figure, and the construction of a Jungian psychodrama around it. I was much less impressed by the film's rather muddled politics, and took little interest in the attempts to read a statement about the War on Terror into it.
However, watching The Dark Knight Rises avoiding politics seemed impossible, least of all the class politics so explicit on the screen.
What did I make of them? The attempts to equate Bane with Mitt Romney's Bain Capital have struck me as overreaching of the worst sort. Bruce Wayne's casually expressed cynicism about other rich people and philanthropy and loss of all his money, the involvement of his business rival John Dagett with the villain's scheme, Commissioner Gordon's misgivings about the lies he told about Dent's death and reading from A Tale of Two Cities at film's end, also seem of ambiguous significance.
Far more substantial are Bane's anarchism, and the pack of right-wing ideas which are the foundation of its treatment--the distrust of the "average" person as a rational or ethical being, and corresponding justification not only of elitism, but the excesses of Leviathan and vigilantes alike; the imagery of revolution as chaos, and revolutionaries as undeserving looters waiting for the chance to grab other (better) people's stuff; the idea that the revolutionary's egalitarian rhetoric is merely a mask for their nefarious real agenda, which is destruction rather than salvation, driven by hatred rather than love, etc..1 Salon's Andrew O'Hehir called it all suggestive of an inverted "Soviet-era revolutionary epic, in which the masses are the villains and their onetime overlords the heroes"--and indeed, watching it time and again I felt that I was looking at something spun out by a stiff-moustached Victorian bourgeois who had become hysterical after reading a piece of yellow journalism about Communards and their Infernal Machines.2
The question, then, is not whether the film's content is right-wing, but rather how we are to take that right-wing content; if we are to take it straight, or see the film as problematizing or satirizing its material.
There is some reason to think this is less than serious, in how over the top the film goes--arguably, to and past the point of absurdity, all the way to schlockiness in significant parts (all the more apparent because of the film's generally high level of technical accomplishment). There is, for instance, the film's bizarre treatment of the passage of time (night turning to day with extreme abruptness, months going by with the feeling that nothing happened in the meantime).3 There is the silliness of the unnamed Nowhereistan from which Bane hails in this version of the story.4 There are the conditions of Batman's imprisonment by Bane, permitting him an escape that would embarrass the very dumbest Bond villain. There is the goofiness of the scene where Gotham's Finest charge a pack of armed criminals like warriors in a pre-gunpowder melee. There is, too, the film's oddly skipping over what happens to Revolutionary Gotham after Batman's departure from the stage and the presumed restoration of order.5 Long stretches of the film are in fact so flimsy as to cry out for the Mystery Science Theater 3000 treatment.
Yet, the claim that the movie must be satirical simply because significant parts of it are so badly made that we cannot take them seriously seems excessive, especially when over-the-top is standard operating procedure for the genre to which the film belongs. Besides, people can and do make bad movies with total earnestness (especially when their political passions get the better of their artistic inclinations), and it is not inconceivable that this would be such a film. The difficulty of the balancing act between the grit Nolan strives for and the spectacular heroics audiences expect of comic book protagonists, and the pressure to top the previous installments in scale (this is undoubtedly the broadest of the trilogy, and in its looseness often feels like a story that simply got out of the author's control); the exhaustion of a series' concept by film number three (revenge for daddy, big city held hostage by big bomb--hardly on a level with the preceding films' inventiveness); and plain old creative misfire (Batman: Escape From Nowhereistan!); all seem sufficient to account for the mess.
Certainly I have a hard time remembering a moment when the film signaled anything like a satirical intent the way that we saw in, for instance, Starship Troopers (1997)--the last big-budget summer entertainment to seriously play around with ideas like these.6 Additionally, where satirists are often frank about their politics, DKR's writer-director Christopher Nolan has been evasive, not only about the content of the film, but about his own political opinions.7 And if one does, at the risk of reading too much into it, try to glean something of those opinions from what he has said--that he was writing "from a place of 'What's the worst thing our villain Bane can do? What are we most afraid of?'"--one finds little reason to do anything but take the film's politics at face value.
1. Given the film's shooting schedule it is possible, even likely, that Bane's attacking Gotham's stock exchange is not a comment on Occupy Wall Street (the movement only began in September 2011, with the production underway). However, given Bane's larger plans, it is hard to read the film as anything but hostile to that kind of protest--just as the Dent Act and Blackgate Prison come across as an advocacy of the suppression of civil liberties and basic human rights, irrespective of whether or not they say anything about the Patriot Act or Guantanamo specifically.
2. Such an inversion is hardly inconceivable or unprecedented. As Thomas Frank demonstrates in Pity the Billionaire, Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged is "reverse-engineered" proletarian literature.
3. The sky changed an awful lot in those forty-five minutes before the bomb was set to blow.
4. It often seems as if the entire region of northern Africa and southwestern/southern/central Asia are a single, homogenous ethno-cultural mass in many minds. Sometimes the confusion gets even worse, with Eastern Europe thrown in there as well to give us characters like Borat.
5. It is as if the writers forgot about it--or thought it better not to linger on it, like the bloody aftermath of the Paris Commune.
6. Starship Troopers, of course, satirized the right-wing politics its producers considered the Heinlein book to embody. The film's efforts were not unproblematic--the spectacles of martial might, the grandly staged (if ludicrous) battle scenes left it open to the charge that it was having its cake and eating it too, and the film fails to take on important dimensions of its milieu (like class and economics, largely passed over). However, the movie is peppered with bits where the intent is unmistakable--the scene in which the film's screenwriter Ed Neumeier is condemned to death; the old-fashioned narration in the media clips (previously employed as satirical vehicles in other Verhoeven science fiction films like 1986's Robocop and 1990's Total Recall); the irony in the remark of a disabled veteran that the Mobile Infantry made him the man he is today; etc..
7. Starship Troopers' director Paul Verhoeven and screenwriter Ed Neumeier, for instance, have been quite frank about that film's politics, and their own politics (in among other places, the commentary on the DVD of the film).
However, watching The Dark Knight Rises avoiding politics seemed impossible, least of all the class politics so explicit on the screen.
What did I make of them? The attempts to equate Bane with Mitt Romney's Bain Capital have struck me as overreaching of the worst sort. Bruce Wayne's casually expressed cynicism about other rich people and philanthropy and loss of all his money, the involvement of his business rival John Dagett with the villain's scheme, Commissioner Gordon's misgivings about the lies he told about Dent's death and reading from A Tale of Two Cities at film's end, also seem of ambiguous significance.
Far more substantial are Bane's anarchism, and the pack of right-wing ideas which are the foundation of its treatment--the distrust of the "average" person as a rational or ethical being, and corresponding justification not only of elitism, but the excesses of Leviathan and vigilantes alike; the imagery of revolution as chaos, and revolutionaries as undeserving looters waiting for the chance to grab other (better) people's stuff; the idea that the revolutionary's egalitarian rhetoric is merely a mask for their nefarious real agenda, which is destruction rather than salvation, driven by hatred rather than love, etc..1 Salon's Andrew O'Hehir called it all suggestive of an inverted "Soviet-era revolutionary epic, in which the masses are the villains and their onetime overlords the heroes"--and indeed, watching it time and again I felt that I was looking at something spun out by a stiff-moustached Victorian bourgeois who had become hysterical after reading a piece of yellow journalism about Communards and their Infernal Machines.2
The question, then, is not whether the film's content is right-wing, but rather how we are to take that right-wing content; if we are to take it straight, or see the film as problematizing or satirizing its material.
There is some reason to think this is less than serious, in how over the top the film goes--arguably, to and past the point of absurdity, all the way to schlockiness in significant parts (all the more apparent because of the film's generally high level of technical accomplishment). There is, for instance, the film's bizarre treatment of the passage of time (night turning to day with extreme abruptness, months going by with the feeling that nothing happened in the meantime).3 There is the silliness of the unnamed Nowhereistan from which Bane hails in this version of the story.4 There are the conditions of Batman's imprisonment by Bane, permitting him an escape that would embarrass the very dumbest Bond villain. There is the goofiness of the scene where Gotham's Finest charge a pack of armed criminals like warriors in a pre-gunpowder melee. There is, too, the film's oddly skipping over what happens to Revolutionary Gotham after Batman's departure from the stage and the presumed restoration of order.5 Long stretches of the film are in fact so flimsy as to cry out for the Mystery Science Theater 3000 treatment.
Yet, the claim that the movie must be satirical simply because significant parts of it are so badly made that we cannot take them seriously seems excessive, especially when over-the-top is standard operating procedure for the genre to which the film belongs. Besides, people can and do make bad movies with total earnestness (especially when their political passions get the better of their artistic inclinations), and it is not inconceivable that this would be such a film. The difficulty of the balancing act between the grit Nolan strives for and the spectacular heroics audiences expect of comic book protagonists, and the pressure to top the previous installments in scale (this is undoubtedly the broadest of the trilogy, and in its looseness often feels like a story that simply got out of the author's control); the exhaustion of a series' concept by film number three (revenge for daddy, big city held hostage by big bomb--hardly on a level with the preceding films' inventiveness); and plain old creative misfire (Batman: Escape From Nowhereistan!); all seem sufficient to account for the mess.
Certainly I have a hard time remembering a moment when the film signaled anything like a satirical intent the way that we saw in, for instance, Starship Troopers (1997)--the last big-budget summer entertainment to seriously play around with ideas like these.6 Additionally, where satirists are often frank about their politics, DKR's writer-director Christopher Nolan has been evasive, not only about the content of the film, but about his own political opinions.7 And if one does, at the risk of reading too much into it, try to glean something of those opinions from what he has said--that he was writing "from a place of 'What's the worst thing our villain Bane can do? What are we most afraid of?'"--one finds little reason to do anything but take the film's politics at face value.
1. Given the film's shooting schedule it is possible, even likely, that Bane's attacking Gotham's stock exchange is not a comment on Occupy Wall Street (the movement only began in September 2011, with the production underway). However, given Bane's larger plans, it is hard to read the film as anything but hostile to that kind of protest--just as the Dent Act and Blackgate Prison come across as an advocacy of the suppression of civil liberties and basic human rights, irrespective of whether or not they say anything about the Patriot Act or Guantanamo specifically.
2. Such an inversion is hardly inconceivable or unprecedented. As Thomas Frank demonstrates in Pity the Billionaire, Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged is "reverse-engineered" proletarian literature.
3. The sky changed an awful lot in those forty-five minutes before the bomb was set to blow.
4. It often seems as if the entire region of northern Africa and southwestern/southern/central Asia are a single, homogenous ethno-cultural mass in many minds. Sometimes the confusion gets even worse, with Eastern Europe thrown in there as well to give us characters like Borat.
5. It is as if the writers forgot about it--or thought it better not to linger on it, like the bloody aftermath of the Paris Commune.
6. Starship Troopers, of course, satirized the right-wing politics its producers considered the Heinlein book to embody. The film's efforts were not unproblematic--the spectacles of martial might, the grandly staged (if ludicrous) battle scenes left it open to the charge that it was having its cake and eating it too, and the film fails to take on important dimensions of its milieu (like class and economics, largely passed over). However, the movie is peppered with bits where the intent is unmistakable--the scene in which the film's screenwriter Ed Neumeier is condemned to death; the old-fashioned narration in the media clips (previously employed as satirical vehicles in other Verhoeven science fiction films like 1986's Robocop and 1990's Total Recall); the irony in the remark of a disabled veteran that the Mobile Infantry made him the man he is today; etc..
7. Starship Troopers' director Paul Verhoeven and screenwriter Ed Neumeier, for instance, have been quite frank about that film's politics, and their own politics (in among other places, the commentary on the DVD of the film).
Sunday, July 7, 2013
The Rise and Fall of Great Powers in Science Fiction
Originally Published in THE FIX, January 1, 2008
One of the most popular games in international relations has always been "Guess the Next Global Hegemon." Naturally, the game seems to become most popular in the superpower of the day when a higher than average proportion of its people become convinced that there will be a Next Hegemon, after them – which is to say, when they wax anxious over national decline.
Science fiction traditionally reflected those anxieties. In the post-World War I period, Olaf Stapledon and Aldous Huxley imagined that the future would be American - correctly as it turned out. American writers, in their turn, expressed the same worries when American supremacy appeared in danger. James Blish's Cities in Flight cycle, the four novels in which were written between 1955 and 1962, posited the triumph of a dynamic Soviet Union over a West in the throes of a Spenglerian decline. In the 1980s cyberpunk writers often presented the future as Japanese.
During the 1990s New Economy hype banished such concerns for a while, creating a confidence - at any rate, in the U.S. - that the twenty-first century, too, would be an American century. (The attitude may have been exemplified by Arthur Herman's 1997 book The Idea of Decline in Western History, in which, with limitless smugness, he dismisses such anxieties as nothing more than the neurosis of pathetic failures.)
Of course, the 1990s did not last, and neither did such certainties. For the United States this is another moment of anxiety, and while there are those who look across the Atlantic at the European Union as a contender, most look across the Pacific instead to China. Reading short fiction for Tangent and The Fix this last year, tales of taikonauts leading the way to the moon and beyond seemed to be a dime a dozen.
Indeed, it seems to strike a great many people as extraordinary that this hasn't been the case all along, that the past hasn't been more Chinese than it was actually (certainly more than saw Japan or the Soviet Union as "natural" world leaders). Some of these go so far as to see the recent centuries of Western dominion as a blip on the historical radar screen. Back in 1998 the noted historian and social scientist Andre Gunder Frank published REORIENT: Global Economy in the Asian Age, which makes exactly this case. Not surprisingly, such thinking has been reflected in recent alternate history, in which a small alteration to the timeline eliminated that blip. (The November-December 2007 issue of Interzone for instance, contained two pieces exploring exactly this theme, Chris Roberson's Metal Dragon Year, and Aliette De Bodard's "The Lost Xuyan Bride.")
To be fair, this isn't completely new. Many Westerners over the last two centuries appreciated that China at least had the makings of a great power, Napoleon, for instance, famously remarking that the country was a sleeping giant. However, it was not quite a contender in the game, at least for the time being, by practical decision-makers, and again the case of Britain circa 1900 is exemplary. British strategists, aware their country was being overshadowed by bigger, more modern powers, worried that the Germans would find their "place in the sun," that the next century would be an American century. To a lesser extent, they also worried about the Russians, the French and the Japanese, at least in certain neighborhoods. China, however, was something to be fought over by the other great powers that had colonized it, like all the others on this list.
The idea of China as a great power therefore appeared most often in the abstract, especially manifesting itself in science fiction. In the invasion stories that were the Victorian and Edwardian era's predecessor to today's Tom Clancy-style techno-thriller, the Chinese were routinely aggressors. M.P. Shiel famously produced The Yellow Danger, and Sax Rohmer, stories about the villainous Fu Manchu. Buck Rogers fought the Han, while Flash Gordon battled a fairly obvious caricature in Ming of Mongo.
Later writers treated the theme somewhat more seriously. In his novel First and Last Men (a book which is, ironically, constantly slammed for poor futurism), Stapledon pictured global dominion coming down to a contest between the United States and China - an idea today extremely commonplace. The theme appeared in Robert Heinlein's novels as well, the final act before the rise of the Federation in Starship Troopers being the war against the Chinese Hegemony by a triple alliance of the United States, Britain and Russia, which happened in the late 1980s.
Still, all this is a long way from our present moment, in which so many take the idea so seriously, and not without reason. The United States is not coping particularly well with an enormous trade deficit (much of it with China), exceptional oil dependence and decrepit infrastructure, among other problems. At the same time there is China with its billion-plus population and marathon economic growth rate during the last three decades, reflected in just about everything you own having a MADE IN CHINA label on it.
The numbers crunched by the economists seem to bear this out. By the more generous measures, its Gross Domestic Product (GDP) is three-quarters as large as that of the United States. By contrast, the Soviet economy had attained perhaps sixty percent the U.S. level at its nearest point, and Japan's was about the same. Additionally, where both those economies stagnated after hitting that level, China's double-digit growth rate shows little sign of such a dramatic slowdown, so that the gap seems likely to continue to close, with a rough parity appearing perhaps by the 2020s. Such wealth equals power, especially when there is a willingness to translate that wealth into military might - something that nuclear-armed China seems far more likely to do than the European Union, for instance.
In short, size, combined with momentum and will, seem to make this a no-brainer. But is it really? As I said before, the high estimate of the size of the Chinese economy is the one provided by the most generous measures - and that different indexes provide a much different picture.
The key issue at the moment is a device used by economists called Purchasing Power Parity (PPP), an idea that may seem esoteric, but which is actually quite important, and not all that hard to understand. It is a method for calculating the correct value of a nation's currency, as opposed to its market value, so that you can compare the economies of two different countries using two different currencies. (Put another way, what is the real difference in value between the American dollar and the Chinese yuan? In PPP, you establish this by figuring out how much of each currency you need to buy the same basket of goods or services.)
Measured without PPP, using just the market exchange rates of American dollars and Chinese yuan, China's GDP is about $2.5 trillion, just a quarter as large as in the other figure. However, when PPP is used (in other words, the fact that a U.S. dollar goes further in China than the exchange rates suggest), you can get a Chinese GDP of over $10 trillion, roughly equal to three-quarters the size of the economy of the U.S.
This makes the calculation of PPP crucial, and the particularly large gap between the nominal and PPP-adjusted figures in China's case (a factor of four) has always made me wonder, so much so that I usually qualify my statements when discussing China's economy more than I would in statements about the economies of other countries (as in the press release mentioned above).
As it turns out, I was right to be suspicious. Recently, the Asian Development Bank has released data indicating that the PPP used to calculate the size of China's economy has long been overestimated by a substantial margin, the nation's GDP forty percent smaller than the high figure indicates. Instead of a GDP of $10 trillion, it would be in the neighborhood of $5 trillion. This still qualifies it for the Number Two spot, but a much more distant one.
It also indicates that China's growth rate has been slower than advertised for many years, meaning that as a challenger, China has a much, much longer way to go before it becomes Number One. This is all the more problematic when one consider that this GDP is divided up among over four times as many people as the United States, and in a noticeably less egalitarian fashion.
Even assuming this not to be the case, China has its own problems, some of them actually the same problems. The United States may run a trade deficit with China, while China runs a trade surplus, which is in China's benefit - but only up to a point. China's rise to the status of "sweatshop of the world" depends on the capacity of foreign markets to absorb its deluge of low-priced manufactures. Should those trade deficits force other countries to cut back, China's growth will suffer, barring the unlikely event of more egalitarian policies which foster the nation's internal market.
It should also be remembered that China is a voracious oil consumer, and that should the world be in for an oil shock, which many believe to be plausible in the next decade, China will be extremely hard hit. (I myself argued this in the U.S. Army War College Quarterly Parameters, and do so again in my upcoming article in the journal Survival, "The Impending Oil Shock.") Nor is this the end of China's ecological problems, China's willingness to exploit its workers matched only by its willingness to befoul its environment and poison its population, with disastrous consequences. This includes the killing of the Yangtze and Yellow rivers, the rendering of the air toxic with the burning of dirty coal, and desertification on a vast scale, now said to be adversely affecting some 200 million people - a population the size of Britain, France and Germany combined - and given its effects on agriculture in the world's most populous country, global consequences. Once again, the kinds of policies that would be needed to seriously address the situation do not seem to be forthcoming.
I could go on, but the point is that the story is at the very least more complicated than the hype suggests, and at worst, that (barring a change in course) China's story in the twenty-first century might be marked not by a rise to global preponderance, but turmoil of a sort too familiar from the nation's long history. Where science fiction is concerned, this might make the fashionable tales of a Chinese future seem awfully dated in a few years, the stories assuming another, increasingly familiar form - ecologically ruined dystopia, of the kind that make nineteenth century-style realpolitik count for a whole lot less.
What goes for China goes to a greater or lesser degree for every other major power, and most of the little ones, too, which are on the whole aging, debt-ridden, ecologically strained, economically weaker than they look and prone to caution over boldness because of that frailty. There is simply no present-day analog to the dynamism of the British Empire's ascent from Cromwell to Victoria, of Prussia as it united Germany in the nineteenth century, of the expansion of the United States from sea to shining sea, which may be just as well. We live in a changed world, where developments ranging from nuclear weapons to climate change make the risks of old-fashioned power politics greater than ever before, and the rewards more meager, for all concerned. Any plausible vision of the future can not but reflect that.
NOTE: The downward revision in the then-prevailing estimates of China's GDP was widely accepted, and more recent figures have reflected the adjustment. According to the CIA World Factbook, China's GDP was in the $11 trillion range in 2011, about 75 percent of the figure given for the U.S. (slightly over $15 trillion).
One of the most popular games in international relations has always been "Guess the Next Global Hegemon." Naturally, the game seems to become most popular in the superpower of the day when a higher than average proportion of its people become convinced that there will be a Next Hegemon, after them – which is to say, when they wax anxious over national decline.
Science fiction traditionally reflected those anxieties. In the post-World War I period, Olaf Stapledon and Aldous Huxley imagined that the future would be American - correctly as it turned out. American writers, in their turn, expressed the same worries when American supremacy appeared in danger. James Blish's Cities in Flight cycle, the four novels in which were written between 1955 and 1962, posited the triumph of a dynamic Soviet Union over a West in the throes of a Spenglerian decline. In the 1980s cyberpunk writers often presented the future as Japanese.
During the 1990s New Economy hype banished such concerns for a while, creating a confidence - at any rate, in the U.S. - that the twenty-first century, too, would be an American century. (The attitude may have been exemplified by Arthur Herman's 1997 book The Idea of Decline in Western History, in which, with limitless smugness, he dismisses such anxieties as nothing more than the neurosis of pathetic failures.)
Of course, the 1990s did not last, and neither did such certainties. For the United States this is another moment of anxiety, and while there are those who look across the Atlantic at the European Union as a contender, most look across the Pacific instead to China. Reading short fiction for Tangent and The Fix this last year, tales of taikonauts leading the way to the moon and beyond seemed to be a dime a dozen.
Indeed, it seems to strike a great many people as extraordinary that this hasn't been the case all along, that the past hasn't been more Chinese than it was actually (certainly more than saw Japan or the Soviet Union as "natural" world leaders). Some of these go so far as to see the recent centuries of Western dominion as a blip on the historical radar screen. Back in 1998 the noted historian and social scientist Andre Gunder Frank published REORIENT: Global Economy in the Asian Age, which makes exactly this case. Not surprisingly, such thinking has been reflected in recent alternate history, in which a small alteration to the timeline eliminated that blip. (The November-December 2007 issue of Interzone for instance, contained two pieces exploring exactly this theme, Chris Roberson's Metal Dragon Year, and Aliette De Bodard's "The Lost Xuyan Bride.")
To be fair, this isn't completely new. Many Westerners over the last two centuries appreciated that China at least had the makings of a great power, Napoleon, for instance, famously remarking that the country was a sleeping giant. However, it was not quite a contender in the game, at least for the time being, by practical decision-makers, and again the case of Britain circa 1900 is exemplary. British strategists, aware their country was being overshadowed by bigger, more modern powers, worried that the Germans would find their "place in the sun," that the next century would be an American century. To a lesser extent, they also worried about the Russians, the French and the Japanese, at least in certain neighborhoods. China, however, was something to be fought over by the other great powers that had colonized it, like all the others on this list.
The idea of China as a great power therefore appeared most often in the abstract, especially manifesting itself in science fiction. In the invasion stories that were the Victorian and Edwardian era's predecessor to today's Tom Clancy-style techno-thriller, the Chinese were routinely aggressors. M.P. Shiel famously produced The Yellow Danger, and Sax Rohmer, stories about the villainous Fu Manchu. Buck Rogers fought the Han, while Flash Gordon battled a fairly obvious caricature in Ming of Mongo.
Later writers treated the theme somewhat more seriously. In his novel First and Last Men (a book which is, ironically, constantly slammed for poor futurism), Stapledon pictured global dominion coming down to a contest between the United States and China - an idea today extremely commonplace. The theme appeared in Robert Heinlein's novels as well, the final act before the rise of the Federation in Starship Troopers being the war against the Chinese Hegemony by a triple alliance of the United States, Britain and Russia, which happened in the late 1980s.
Still, all this is a long way from our present moment, in which so many take the idea so seriously, and not without reason. The United States is not coping particularly well with an enormous trade deficit (much of it with China), exceptional oil dependence and decrepit infrastructure, among other problems. At the same time there is China with its billion-plus population and marathon economic growth rate during the last three decades, reflected in just about everything you own having a MADE IN CHINA label on it.
The numbers crunched by the economists seem to bear this out. By the more generous measures, its Gross Domestic Product (GDP) is three-quarters as large as that of the United States. By contrast, the Soviet economy had attained perhaps sixty percent the U.S. level at its nearest point, and Japan's was about the same. Additionally, where both those economies stagnated after hitting that level, China's double-digit growth rate shows little sign of such a dramatic slowdown, so that the gap seems likely to continue to close, with a rough parity appearing perhaps by the 2020s. Such wealth equals power, especially when there is a willingness to translate that wealth into military might - something that nuclear-armed China seems far more likely to do than the European Union, for instance.
In short, size, combined with momentum and will, seem to make this a no-brainer. But is it really? As I said before, the high estimate of the size of the Chinese economy is the one provided by the most generous measures - and that different indexes provide a much different picture.
The key issue at the moment is a device used by economists called Purchasing Power Parity (PPP), an idea that may seem esoteric, but which is actually quite important, and not all that hard to understand. It is a method for calculating the correct value of a nation's currency, as opposed to its market value, so that you can compare the economies of two different countries using two different currencies. (Put another way, what is the real difference in value between the American dollar and the Chinese yuan? In PPP, you establish this by figuring out how much of each currency you need to buy the same basket of goods or services.)
Measured without PPP, using just the market exchange rates of American dollars and Chinese yuan, China's GDP is about $2.5 trillion, just a quarter as large as in the other figure. However, when PPP is used (in other words, the fact that a U.S. dollar goes further in China than the exchange rates suggest), you can get a Chinese GDP of over $10 trillion, roughly equal to three-quarters the size of the economy of the U.S.
This makes the calculation of PPP crucial, and the particularly large gap between the nominal and PPP-adjusted figures in China's case (a factor of four) has always made me wonder, so much so that I usually qualify my statements when discussing China's economy more than I would in statements about the economies of other countries (as in the press release mentioned above).
As it turns out, I was right to be suspicious. Recently, the Asian Development Bank has released data indicating that the PPP used to calculate the size of China's economy has long been overestimated by a substantial margin, the nation's GDP forty percent smaller than the high figure indicates. Instead of a GDP of $10 trillion, it would be in the neighborhood of $5 trillion. This still qualifies it for the Number Two spot, but a much more distant one.
It also indicates that China's growth rate has been slower than advertised for many years, meaning that as a challenger, China has a much, much longer way to go before it becomes Number One. This is all the more problematic when one consider that this GDP is divided up among over four times as many people as the United States, and in a noticeably less egalitarian fashion.
Even assuming this not to be the case, China has its own problems, some of them actually the same problems. The United States may run a trade deficit with China, while China runs a trade surplus, which is in China's benefit - but only up to a point. China's rise to the status of "sweatshop of the world" depends on the capacity of foreign markets to absorb its deluge of low-priced manufactures. Should those trade deficits force other countries to cut back, China's growth will suffer, barring the unlikely event of more egalitarian policies which foster the nation's internal market.
It should also be remembered that China is a voracious oil consumer, and that should the world be in for an oil shock, which many believe to be plausible in the next decade, China will be extremely hard hit. (I myself argued this in the U.S. Army War College Quarterly Parameters, and do so again in my upcoming article in the journal Survival, "The Impending Oil Shock.") Nor is this the end of China's ecological problems, China's willingness to exploit its workers matched only by its willingness to befoul its environment and poison its population, with disastrous consequences. This includes the killing of the Yangtze and Yellow rivers, the rendering of the air toxic with the burning of dirty coal, and desertification on a vast scale, now said to be adversely affecting some 200 million people - a population the size of Britain, France and Germany combined - and given its effects on agriculture in the world's most populous country, global consequences. Once again, the kinds of policies that would be needed to seriously address the situation do not seem to be forthcoming.
I could go on, but the point is that the story is at the very least more complicated than the hype suggests, and at worst, that (barring a change in course) China's story in the twenty-first century might be marked not by a rise to global preponderance, but turmoil of a sort too familiar from the nation's long history. Where science fiction is concerned, this might make the fashionable tales of a Chinese future seem awfully dated in a few years, the stories assuming another, increasingly familiar form - ecologically ruined dystopia, of the kind that make nineteenth century-style realpolitik count for a whole lot less.
What goes for China goes to a greater or lesser degree for every other major power, and most of the little ones, too, which are on the whole aging, debt-ridden, ecologically strained, economically weaker than they look and prone to caution over boldness because of that frailty. There is simply no present-day analog to the dynamism of the British Empire's ascent from Cromwell to Victoria, of Prussia as it united Germany in the nineteenth century, of the expansion of the United States from sea to shining sea, which may be just as well. We live in a changed world, where developments ranging from nuclear weapons to climate change make the risks of old-fashioned power politics greater than ever before, and the rewards more meager, for all concerned. Any plausible vision of the future can not but reflect that.
NOTE: The downward revision in the then-prevailing estimates of China's GDP was widely accepted, and more recent figures have reflected the adjustment. According to the CIA World Factbook, China's GDP was in the $11 trillion range in 2011, about 75 percent of the figure given for the U.S. (slightly over $15 trillion).
Saturday, July 6, 2013
Reading Shintaro Ishihara's Season of the Sun
Last year a story in The Japan Times asked "Is Shintaro Ishihara The Most Dangerous Man in Japan?"
Ishihara is a far-right Japanese politician, first elected to the House of Representatives in 1968, who has at various points in his parliamentary career held the posts of Director-General of the Environment Agency and Minister of Transport. He resigned his seat in 1995 (interestingly, just after the attack on the Tokyo subway system by the Aum Shinrikyo cult, with which he has reportedly been associated), but was elected Governor of Tokyo in 1999, and held that job until 2012, when he was returned to the House of Representatives.
During his time in politics Ishihara has been notorious for his long record of making inflammatory, ultranationalist statements, such as calling the Rape of Nanking a fiction, defending the colonization of Korea, and branding the 2011 earthquake and tsunami "punishment from heaven" for the nation's "egoism."1 He helped to provoke the recent row between China and Japan over the Senkaku Islands with his proposal that the Tokyo Governorate buy the islands. He is also a hard-line culture warrior who has heaped endless racist abuse on immigrants and foreigners of all kinds, and on the country's pop culture and its fans, claiming that otaku have "warped DNA."
It was consequently a great surprise to find that Ishihara was not just a celebrated novelist (we don't often see those in politics in the States), but that he had been a prominent figure in the country's postwar youth culture, at once symbol and influence after publishing the novel Taiyo no Kisetsu--Season of the Sun in English. My curiosity piqued, I hunted down a translation, which took some doing because the book was published in the English-speaking world as Season of Violence, and is collected with two other stories by Ishihara ("The Punishment Room," "The Yacht and the Boy") in a single volume where we might expect a standalone work. Moreover the three of them combined come to about a hundred and fifty pages in length--Ishihara's novel in fact just a novelette according to the usual standard, adding to the chances of confusion.2
Judged as novel, novelette or anything else Season of the Sun (I will use the usual, literal translation of the title) is the story of a college athlete named Tatsuya who divides his time between boxing, petty criminality and the pursuit of sex, which he finds about as often and easily as James Bond once did. His relationship with Eiko proves more complex, however. A young woman who has been similarly cavalier and similarly callous toward her lovers, she proves a greater than usual challenge for Tatsuya. However, after the two end up having sex on his boat, and each realized they are in love with the other, Eiko softens toward Tatsuya--while Tatsuya becomes increasingly sadistic. This hits its low point in his "selling" Eiko to his brother for five thousand yen (about a hundred and twenty-five dollars in today's terms)--taking the money to walk away so that his brother can try to seduce her. Eiko, however, is uninterested in Tatsuya's brother, pays him back his money, and keeps after Tatsuya, even as he sells her again and again. By that point it is apparent that she is pregnant with his child, and Eiko informs Tatsuya of the fact. He rejects her and the baby, which drives Eiko to get an abortion, during which she dies--after which Tatsuya sees in her death the loss of "his favorite toy," and Eiko's "supreme challenge" to him.
This story of bed-hopping, Porky's-style humor (the "shoji screen scene" anticipates that film's most famous gag by a generation), girlfriend-selling and abortion was, we are given to understand, taboo-breaking at the time, but to say that it is a substantial piece of fiction would be something else altogether.3 Ishihara's characters never convince on the level of personal psychology. And the connection between his characters' behavior and the larger societal context on which Ishihara so clearly wishes to comment is even more problematic. Instead of revealing that relationship through the personal histories and inner lives of his characters (if only through the straightforward telling to which writers must often resort), he merely insists on the existence of that connection in the frequent passages in which he stops telling the story and instead tells the reader what to make of it--an unintentional but still palpable admission of inability to properly support, explain or even just depict those things to which he refers. (Thus does it go with such things as his telling the reader that Eiko's promiscuity is a response to her earlier loss of beloved male acquaintances.)
And so in the end Season of the Sun is not a deep and incisive work of literature about the struggles of youth in the confusing post-war world in which so much appeared discredited, but a sensationalistic melodrama cashing in on the 1950s-era hysteria about "out-of-control kids" that was pervasive across the industrialized world at that time, complete with a tragic ending fitting perfectly into the "often licentious but always Puritanical" mold of popular entertainment.4 The sort of thing that, far from illuminating its issue, frightens parents, sets the tongues of the stupider "moralists" wagging, and excites real-life adolescents precisely because they lead much more circumscribed lives than the hype claims.5
In all that, Ishihara the novelist seems to be of a piece with Ishihara the politician, a shallow, muddled thinker and professional provocateur who got ahead by pushing people's buttons, especially the buttons of the sort of people who respond to the eternal lament of "THESE KIDZ TODAY!"6 He got so far ahead, in fact, that he ended up a figure of international standing whose words have geopolitical consequences--and the world is worse off for it.
1. For the real story of who was at fault in that disaster, I suggest you check out Greg Palast's Vulture's Picnic (reviewed here).
2. The bibliographical data is as follows: Ishihara, Shintaro, Season of Violence, trans. John G. Mills, Toshie Takahama, Ken Tremayne (Rutland, VT: Charles E. Tuttle Co., Inc., 1966).
3. Indeed, it seems that many contemporary Japanese critics did not regard Ishihara's self-styled "novels of ideas" as literature.
4. The 1966 Charles E. Tuttle edition certainly played up the sensationalist aspect of the works. The translation of "Season of the Sun" as "Season of Violence" aside, the tagline on the book's cover reads "Prize-winning stories of Japan's infamous SUN TRIBE--teen-agers who reject the morals of the past in favor of women, money and violence!" while the translators' introduction begins with the sentence "The stories in this collection of translated works are, in a word, shocking" as it goes on to explain just how representative the volume's contents supposedly are of the lives of Japanese youth.
5. As film critic Michael Raine notes, that "frustrated young people" identified with Ishihara's characters took "quite a feat of imagination" on their part, "considering that Japanese youth were paid one-tenth what their American counterparts were and could only dream of nightclubs, motorboats, and villas by the sea." Likewise, they could only dream of the wildly implausible leisure and autonomy enjoyed by Tatsuya and company (parents, like all other authority figures, are either coddling or absent, and no student ever seems to study or go to class, while beating up people who anger them without any repercussions--even dad getting a sock in the gut and letting it go).
6. The irony, of course, is the extent to which Ishihara has gone on contributing to that culture, not only with his sensationalist fiction, but its various spin-offs. All by itself Season of the Sun made him a success across the media spectrum, with a 1956 film version, two television versions (a 1986 episode in the anthology Animated Classics of Japanese Literature and 2002 live-action miniseries), and even a 2011 video game (of the eroge genre). He may abuse the otaku, but clearly is happy to take their money.
Ishihara is a far-right Japanese politician, first elected to the House of Representatives in 1968, who has at various points in his parliamentary career held the posts of Director-General of the Environment Agency and Minister of Transport. He resigned his seat in 1995 (interestingly, just after the attack on the Tokyo subway system by the Aum Shinrikyo cult, with which he has reportedly been associated), but was elected Governor of Tokyo in 1999, and held that job until 2012, when he was returned to the House of Representatives.
During his time in politics Ishihara has been notorious for his long record of making inflammatory, ultranationalist statements, such as calling the Rape of Nanking a fiction, defending the colonization of Korea, and branding the 2011 earthquake and tsunami "punishment from heaven" for the nation's "egoism."1 He helped to provoke the recent row between China and Japan over the Senkaku Islands with his proposal that the Tokyo Governorate buy the islands. He is also a hard-line culture warrior who has heaped endless racist abuse on immigrants and foreigners of all kinds, and on the country's pop culture and its fans, claiming that otaku have "warped DNA."
It was consequently a great surprise to find that Ishihara was not just a celebrated novelist (we don't often see those in politics in the States), but that he had been a prominent figure in the country's postwar youth culture, at once symbol and influence after publishing the novel Taiyo no Kisetsu--Season of the Sun in English. My curiosity piqued, I hunted down a translation, which took some doing because the book was published in the English-speaking world as Season of Violence, and is collected with two other stories by Ishihara ("The Punishment Room," "The Yacht and the Boy") in a single volume where we might expect a standalone work. Moreover the three of them combined come to about a hundred and fifty pages in length--Ishihara's novel in fact just a novelette according to the usual standard, adding to the chances of confusion.2
Judged as novel, novelette or anything else Season of the Sun (I will use the usual, literal translation of the title) is the story of a college athlete named Tatsuya who divides his time between boxing, petty criminality and the pursuit of sex, which he finds about as often and easily as James Bond once did. His relationship with Eiko proves more complex, however. A young woman who has been similarly cavalier and similarly callous toward her lovers, she proves a greater than usual challenge for Tatsuya. However, after the two end up having sex on his boat, and each realized they are in love with the other, Eiko softens toward Tatsuya--while Tatsuya becomes increasingly sadistic. This hits its low point in his "selling" Eiko to his brother for five thousand yen (about a hundred and twenty-five dollars in today's terms)--taking the money to walk away so that his brother can try to seduce her. Eiko, however, is uninterested in Tatsuya's brother, pays him back his money, and keeps after Tatsuya, even as he sells her again and again. By that point it is apparent that she is pregnant with his child, and Eiko informs Tatsuya of the fact. He rejects her and the baby, which drives Eiko to get an abortion, during which she dies--after which Tatsuya sees in her death the loss of "his favorite toy," and Eiko's "supreme challenge" to him.
This story of bed-hopping, Porky's-style humor (the "shoji screen scene" anticipates that film's most famous gag by a generation), girlfriend-selling and abortion was, we are given to understand, taboo-breaking at the time, but to say that it is a substantial piece of fiction would be something else altogether.3 Ishihara's characters never convince on the level of personal psychology. And the connection between his characters' behavior and the larger societal context on which Ishihara so clearly wishes to comment is even more problematic. Instead of revealing that relationship through the personal histories and inner lives of his characters (if only through the straightforward telling to which writers must often resort), he merely insists on the existence of that connection in the frequent passages in which he stops telling the story and instead tells the reader what to make of it--an unintentional but still palpable admission of inability to properly support, explain or even just depict those things to which he refers. (Thus does it go with such things as his telling the reader that Eiko's promiscuity is a response to her earlier loss of beloved male acquaintances.)
And so in the end Season of the Sun is not a deep and incisive work of literature about the struggles of youth in the confusing post-war world in which so much appeared discredited, but a sensationalistic melodrama cashing in on the 1950s-era hysteria about "out-of-control kids" that was pervasive across the industrialized world at that time, complete with a tragic ending fitting perfectly into the "often licentious but always Puritanical" mold of popular entertainment.4 The sort of thing that, far from illuminating its issue, frightens parents, sets the tongues of the stupider "moralists" wagging, and excites real-life adolescents precisely because they lead much more circumscribed lives than the hype claims.5
In all that, Ishihara the novelist seems to be of a piece with Ishihara the politician, a shallow, muddled thinker and professional provocateur who got ahead by pushing people's buttons, especially the buttons of the sort of people who respond to the eternal lament of "THESE KIDZ TODAY!"6 He got so far ahead, in fact, that he ended up a figure of international standing whose words have geopolitical consequences--and the world is worse off for it.
1. For the real story of who was at fault in that disaster, I suggest you check out Greg Palast's Vulture's Picnic (reviewed here).
2. The bibliographical data is as follows: Ishihara, Shintaro, Season of Violence, trans. John G. Mills, Toshie Takahama, Ken Tremayne (Rutland, VT: Charles E. Tuttle Co., Inc., 1966).
3. Indeed, it seems that many contemporary Japanese critics did not regard Ishihara's self-styled "novels of ideas" as literature.
4. The 1966 Charles E. Tuttle edition certainly played up the sensationalist aspect of the works. The translation of "Season of the Sun" as "Season of Violence" aside, the tagline on the book's cover reads "Prize-winning stories of Japan's infamous SUN TRIBE--teen-agers who reject the morals of the past in favor of women, money and violence!" while the translators' introduction begins with the sentence "The stories in this collection of translated works are, in a word, shocking" as it goes on to explain just how representative the volume's contents supposedly are of the lives of Japanese youth.
5. As film critic Michael Raine notes, that "frustrated young people" identified with Ishihara's characters took "quite a feat of imagination" on their part, "considering that Japanese youth were paid one-tenth what their American counterparts were and could only dream of nightclubs, motorboats, and villas by the sea." Likewise, they could only dream of the wildly implausible leisure and autonomy enjoyed by Tatsuya and company (parents, like all other authority figures, are either coddling or absent, and no student ever seems to study or go to class, while beating up people who anger them without any repercussions--even dad getting a sock in the gut and letting it go).
6. The irony, of course, is the extent to which Ishihara has gone on contributing to that culture, not only with his sensationalist fiction, but its various spin-offs. All by itself Season of the Sun made him a success across the media spectrum, with a 1956 film version, two television versions (a 1986 episode in the anthology Animated Classics of Japanese Literature and 2002 live-action miniseries), and even a 2011 video game (of the eroge genre). He may abuse the otaku, but clearly is happy to take their money.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
What Would You Like to See on This Blog?
The title of this post says it all--I am asking what you, the readers of Raritania, would like to see me doing here on this blog, whether that means this blog's doing more of something or less of something, whether you have in mind a single-post treatment of some topic or a longer-ranged shift in emphasis, or even simply some change in the design or the line-up of feeds in the blog-list at the side of the page. I am interested in what you didn't like as well as what you did.
To get your message to me, just leave a comment below (or if you prefer, send an e-mail to the address provided on this page). I cannot assure you that I will be able to use all of your suggestions, but I do promise to answer every comment and question appearing on this page, the comments section of which will, I hope, become a forum for such ideas.
To get your message to me, just leave a comment below (or if you prefer, send an e-mail to the address provided on this page). I cannot assure you that I will be able to use all of your suggestions, but I do promise to answer every comment and question appearing on this page, the comments section of which will, I hope, become a forum for such ideas.
On Warehouse 13's H.G. Wells
I have recently had occasion to return to the work of H.G. Wells--and found myself thinking of Warehouse 13's inclusion of a Victorian figure by that name in the core cast.
The show's premise regarding the character is that H.G. Wells is not the famous writer we knew, but his sister--never mind that he had no sibling named Helena, and for that matter, no sister by any name in his lifetime.1 The show then goes on to claim that the man we think of as Herbert George Wells was really Charles Wells (why we thought of him as H.G. is never explained), and made his fame with Helena's ideas, for which he claimed full credit--again, never mind that Helena was bronzed in 1900, while the H.G. Wells we know not only lived another forty-six years, but was productive throughout that period, giving the world such novels as A Modern Utopia (1905), The War in the Air (1908), Tono-Bungay (1909), The History of Mr. Polly (1910), The New Machiavelli (1911), The World Set Free (1914) and The Shape of Things to Come (1933), and nonfiction works like Anticipations (1901), The Outline of History (1920) and The Science of Life (1930), an opus hardly reducible to pre-1900 inspiration.
For anyone who assumed a connection to Wells' actual biography this can only seem confusing, the liberties the show takes too great for the concept to work as a compelling secret history (not that Wells is much of a candidate for such a story anyway, given how public a figure he was for a very long time). So what, one wonders, is going on here? Are the writers of this famously concept-light show playing a postmodern game with the audience?
If this is a game, it does not seem much of one, actual use of Wells' character or ideas being very scarce, as was probably inevitable. For instance, how likely is American television to feature a character making the case for a secular, socialist world state? (The closest we come to this is Helena's expression of disappointment at the state of the world she found a century after her bronzing.) No one seems to have noticed the shocking disparity between the rationalism for which Wells so famously stood, and the magical artifacts with which the warehouse deals.2 And even superficial reference to the stuff of Wells' best-known books is rare. (We do see Helena employ a time machine of her own design at one point, but it bears no conceptual resemblance to the device of that novel, or even physical resemblance to the iconic realization of it in the 1960 film version of the book, and in the end the plot of the episode really looks like just an excuse to send Myka and Pete back to the era of Don Draper, lazily milking the Mad Men cult just like everybody else on American television.)
And so it seems less an attempt at a game than the mere spicing up of the show with a character named so as to grab a bit of unearned attention from the steampunk-inclined. On the whole I do think the show is better off for Helena's (and Jaime Murray's) presence in it, but it has to be admitted that tying her character up with H.G. Wells in the way that they have is rather lazy and cheap--and for an admirer of Wells, rather grating in its disrespect for the great author and his achievements.
1. Wells' parents in fact had only one daughter, Fanny, who died two years before Herbert George was born.
2. George Orwell famously paid tribute to Wells as the English-speaking world's prophet of reason in the first two decades of the twentieth century in "Wells, Hitler and the World-State"--in which he ironically went on to lament that "since 1920 he has squandered his talents in slaying paper dragons."
The show's premise regarding the character is that H.G. Wells is not the famous writer we knew, but his sister--never mind that he had no sibling named Helena, and for that matter, no sister by any name in his lifetime.1 The show then goes on to claim that the man we think of as Herbert George Wells was really Charles Wells (why we thought of him as H.G. is never explained), and made his fame with Helena's ideas, for which he claimed full credit--again, never mind that Helena was bronzed in 1900, while the H.G. Wells we know not only lived another forty-six years, but was productive throughout that period, giving the world such novels as A Modern Utopia (1905), The War in the Air (1908), Tono-Bungay (1909), The History of Mr. Polly (1910), The New Machiavelli (1911), The World Set Free (1914) and The Shape of Things to Come (1933), and nonfiction works like Anticipations (1901), The Outline of History (1920) and The Science of Life (1930), an opus hardly reducible to pre-1900 inspiration.
For anyone who assumed a connection to Wells' actual biography this can only seem confusing, the liberties the show takes too great for the concept to work as a compelling secret history (not that Wells is much of a candidate for such a story anyway, given how public a figure he was for a very long time). So what, one wonders, is going on here? Are the writers of this famously concept-light show playing a postmodern game with the audience?
If this is a game, it does not seem much of one, actual use of Wells' character or ideas being very scarce, as was probably inevitable. For instance, how likely is American television to feature a character making the case for a secular, socialist world state? (The closest we come to this is Helena's expression of disappointment at the state of the world she found a century after her bronzing.) No one seems to have noticed the shocking disparity between the rationalism for which Wells so famously stood, and the magical artifacts with which the warehouse deals.2 And even superficial reference to the stuff of Wells' best-known books is rare. (We do see Helena employ a time machine of her own design at one point, but it bears no conceptual resemblance to the device of that novel, or even physical resemblance to the iconic realization of it in the 1960 film version of the book, and in the end the plot of the episode really looks like just an excuse to send Myka and Pete back to the era of Don Draper, lazily milking the Mad Men cult just like everybody else on American television.)
And so it seems less an attempt at a game than the mere spicing up of the show with a character named so as to grab a bit of unearned attention from the steampunk-inclined. On the whole I do think the show is better off for Helena's (and Jaime Murray's) presence in it, but it has to be admitted that tying her character up with H.G. Wells in the way that they have is rather lazy and cheap--and for an admirer of Wells, rather grating in its disrespect for the great author and his achievements.
1. Wells' parents in fact had only one daughter, Fanny, who died two years before Herbert George was born.
2. George Orwell famously paid tribute to Wells as the English-speaking world's prophet of reason in the first two decades of the twentieth century in "Wells, Hitler and the World-State"--in which he ironically went on to lament that "since 1920 he has squandered his talents in slaying paper dragons."
Monday, July 1, 2013
Filming John le Carrés The Honourable Schoolboy? (A Note on the Challenges)
WARNING: MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD
Two years ago a film version of John le Carré's classic Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy hit the big screen. The film was certainly not perfect from a purist's perspective. As was perhaps inevitable in any viable two-hour film, it did not quite do justice to the novel's sprawl and feel (the tangle of the back stories, the wooliness of the investigation, the shabbiness of imperialists living "after-the-empire"), and less inevitably, included some questionable additions (the dubious symbolism of Smiley swimming in a pond, bits of violence apparently intended to spice up a story lacking in action, but which seemed merely repellent and even propagandistic).1 Nonetheless, the script was an impressive feat of compression and rearrangement, rendering a book that often seems opaque not merely intelligible, but accessible, while retaining something of the original's complexity. The film was also bolstered by strong performances from the cast and skillfully edited (the closing montage justly drawing favorable comment). The result was a critical success, and on its modest terms, a commercial one as well, which has led to some talk of a sequel, focusing on Smiley's People.
Of course, Smiley's People is the third novel in the "Karla" trilogy, not the second, such a plan necessarily skipping over the series' second book, The Honourable Schoolboy--despite not only the fact that the events of Schoolboy bring about the situation we see at the start of Smiley's, but that it also seems to be the more highly praised of the latter two novels. Nonetheless, it is worth remembering that, difficult as Tinker, Tailor was to compress into a two-hour movie, Honourable (the longest of the three novels) is harder still, as it tells a larger, more complex story following two different but related and ultimately converging tracks--the maneuverings of Smiley and his people in London in the aftermath of the unmasking of Bill Haydon's treachery, and Jerry Westerby's field work in Southeast Asia on Smiley's people's behalf. This is compounded by the fact that what were at the time of the novel's writing recent events are now relatively obscure history, particularly the complex of interrelated Southeast Asian wars (Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, Thailand) that form a significant part of the backdrop. A great deal would have to be explained to the audience, which afterward might still have a hard time following along, easily thinking that Westerby is still in the same country, and confronted by the same conflict, even as he crosses from one country (and one war zone) to another.2
Moreover, Westerby's adventure is nothing short of an epic journey across the region at the time of the fall of Saigon--the kind of thing which would be hugely expensive to shoot faithfully. Where Tinker, Tailor mostly gave us small groups of people talking to each other in mundane-looking rooms, Honourable is packed with such spectacles as the high life at the Happy Valley Racecourse and the siege of Pnom Penh, while, uncharacteristically for a le Carré novel, there are a number of elaborate set pieces involving blazing machine guns, explosions and swooping aircraft.
I have not heard any estimates of what the budget would have to be to get it all on screen, but I would not be surprised to hear a figure upward of $100 million--in contrast with the $20 million spent on Tinker, Tailor. Of course, such sums are spent on movies all the time. (I counted at least twenty major releases with such budgets in 2012 alone.) Nonetheless, a blockbuster budget can only be raised when there is the prospect of a blockbuster gross, and one has to recall that Tinker, Tailor was a hit on a much smaller scale, earning $80 million not in the first weekend of its North American release, but its entire global run. And the prospects of a film version of Honourable Schoolboy doing much better, let alone well enough to justify a $100 million-plus production budget, seem slim given not just the limited size of the built-in audience created by the original book, and the previous film, but the source material itself, which in its structure and course is no more the stuff of blockbusters than Tinker, Tailor was.3 The fact that the Circus is here working against Chinese intelligence is also likely to be an inhibiting factor, given the leeriness of the film industry about doing anything which might seem offensive to those in command of what is now the world's second-largest movie market--fears that loom all the larger when one talks big budgets. Those particular fears are not at all allayed by the fact that a major part of the story is set in British-ruled Hong Kong, and that unlike in Tinker, Tailor (which switched its Hong Kong scenes to Istanbul), the location cannot be changed without doing considerable violence to the plot. (One might add, too, that the story is not especially flattering to the U.S. either. In fact, reading the book I had the impression that, after writing of the end of the British Empire in Tinker, Tailor, le Carré decided to take on what looked to many at the time like the end of the American empire.)
Of course, book-to-screen adaptations make compromises all the time, but the tension between art and commerce here would be considerable, and the results likely to displease fans without reaching that more general audience necessary to make the project profitable. By contrast, Smiley's People is a far easier movie to make, with a simpler, more compact story making far fewer demands on a production's resources. The Russian-set bits are easy enough to do on a sound stage, and the rest of the location shooting poses little challenge, while the large-scale spectacle and elaborate action of Schoolboy are totally left out. All of that makes this turn of events unsurprising, even if it is disappointing to fans of the trilogy who would have liked a big-screen version.
1. In particular there are two graphic killings which have the effect of identifying the Soviets with senseless, misogynistic violence.
2. I suspect that even Americans familiar with the era are scarcely aware of the war in Thailand, or that the United States continued to conduct an air war in Cambodia for several months after the withdrawal of U.S. troops from Vietnam.
3. Consider, for instance, the finale to this rather more ambiguous, personal tale: Westerby betrays the operation to save a woman with whom he has become obsessed, and is killed by his colleagues in British intelligence for it. After that the prize defector at the center of the game winds up in American hands, with the British cut out of the debriefing to follow; and Smiley himself gets pensioned, while his "people" are also squeezed out of their present jobs, reassigned when not retired. In short, Smiley does it again--despite which Smiley's people lose, hardly a crowd-pleasing finale.
Two years ago a film version of John le Carré's classic Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy hit the big screen. The film was certainly not perfect from a purist's perspective. As was perhaps inevitable in any viable two-hour film, it did not quite do justice to the novel's sprawl and feel (the tangle of the back stories, the wooliness of the investigation, the shabbiness of imperialists living "after-the-empire"), and less inevitably, included some questionable additions (the dubious symbolism of Smiley swimming in a pond, bits of violence apparently intended to spice up a story lacking in action, but which seemed merely repellent and even propagandistic).1 Nonetheless, the script was an impressive feat of compression and rearrangement, rendering a book that often seems opaque not merely intelligible, but accessible, while retaining something of the original's complexity. The film was also bolstered by strong performances from the cast and skillfully edited (the closing montage justly drawing favorable comment). The result was a critical success, and on its modest terms, a commercial one as well, which has led to some talk of a sequel, focusing on Smiley's People.
Moreover, Westerby's adventure is nothing short of an epic journey across the region at the time of the fall of Saigon--the kind of thing which would be hugely expensive to shoot faithfully. Where Tinker, Tailor mostly gave us small groups of people talking to each other in mundane-looking rooms, Honourable is packed with such spectacles as the high life at the Happy Valley Racecourse and the siege of Pnom Penh, while, uncharacteristically for a le Carré novel, there are a number of elaborate set pieces involving blazing machine guns, explosions and swooping aircraft.
Of course, book-to-screen adaptations make compromises all the time, but the tension between art and commerce here would be considerable, and the results likely to displease fans without reaching that more general audience necessary to make the project profitable. By contrast, Smiley's People is a far easier movie to make, with a simpler, more compact story making far fewer demands on a production's resources. The Russian-set bits are easy enough to do on a sound stage, and the rest of the location shooting poses little challenge, while the large-scale spectacle and elaborate action of Schoolboy are totally left out. All of that makes this turn of events unsurprising, even if it is disappointing to fans of the trilogy who would have liked a big-screen version.
1. In particular there are two graphic killings which have the effect of identifying the Soviets with senseless, misogynistic violence.
2. I suspect that even Americans familiar with the era are scarcely aware of the war in Thailand, or that the United States continued to conduct an air war in Cambodia for several months after the withdrawal of U.S. troops from Vietnam.
3. Consider, for instance, the finale to this rather more ambiguous, personal tale: Westerby betrays the operation to save a woman with whom he has become obsessed, and is killed by his colleagues in British intelligence for it. After that the prize defector at the center of the game winds up in American hands, with the British cut out of the debriefing to follow; and Smiley himself gets pensioned, while his "people" are also squeezed out of their present jobs, reassigned when not retired. In short, Smiley does it again--despite which Smiley's people lose, hardly a crowd-pleasing finale.
Sunday, June 30, 2013
An Alternate World War II: H.G. Wells' The Shape of Things to Come
Reading Wells' The Shape of Things to Come from the standpoint of eight decades on, one is, of course, struck by how far the history of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries verged from his anticipations. Certainly his expectations about the conflicts that led to World War II are no exception; rather than the last gasp of the nation-state, they led to the birth of far more states (as a result of decolonization), and the dominance of international politics, and certainly the European politics on which he focused, by two states of unprecedented strength (the U.S. and Soviet Union). Yet, I was also struck by the number of parallels between his anticipations and what actually happened in the war--what he got right as well as wrong. Below is a list of the parallels that caught my eye.
* The war is ongoing by 1940.
* Despite widespread nationalistic hysteria, there is little enthusiasm among the civilian populations of the countries marching off to war.
* Germany's rearmament is an open process as well as a secret one.
* The war begins with fighting between Germany and Poland over Danzig.
* While war rages in northeastern Europe, Italy expands in the Balkans.
* Despite its commitments to its East European allies, France hesitates to fully enter the fray.
* While fighting Germany in the west, Poland finds itself attacked in the east by Soviet action.
* Germany and Austria are unified.
* There is a confluence between the initially separate aggressions of Germany and Italy into a common conflict between these powers on one side, and their enemies on the other, that extends "from the Pyrenees to Siberia."
* Hungary and Bulgaria fight on the same side as the German-Italian "Axis," entering the action through their participation in the invasion and occupation of Yugoslavia.
* The Axis entry into Yugoslavia is challenged by a significant guerrilla campaign.
* In East Asia, Japan invades "China proper," leading to open warfare between it and the United States.
* The war continues for several years in both Europe and Asia.
* Aerial warfare is a significant part of the conflict, with the belligerents relying on it heavily to achieve their aims. It is also highly indecisive--while still killing millions.
* The war contributes powerfully to the collapse of Europe's dominion over the rest of the world.
* The war sees the Soviet Union expand inside Europe, gaining territory at Poland's expense, and also establishing a new Soviet republic on territory taken from Romania, while more broadly consolidating a sphere of influence in the eastern, predominantly Slavic, part of the continent.
Especially given that the book was published in 1933, six thoroughly eventful years before the outbreak of open warfare among Europe's great powers, this is an impressive list of good calls, which comprise a substantial part of the war's outline as well as numerous particular details of its course--and testify to his real insight into the events of his time. Still, Wells got a great deal wrong, and it does not do to gloss over these, least of all those attributes of the conflict that may have been foreseeable. Two errors are particularly striking (certainly where the larger shape of the European war is concerned). The first is that he expected a smaller number of major powers to take part as belligerents than actually did so, particularly in Europe--his scenario excluding Britain and the United States from the fighting on the continent, while the Soviet Union and Germany also did not come to blows. The second is that he anticipated a "limited" effort on the part of those actors that did fight, waging a technologically sophisticated but economically constrained war.
Nonetheless, this may not have been so unlikely as it now appears. While Wells characterized Hitler as "the voice of Germany losing control," and viewed the country as having been maddened by the situation of Danzig, he anticipated a weak Germany--weak enough, in fact, that in the conflict over Danzig, it is Poland which strikes the first large-scale blow (with an air raid on Berlin), and then holds its own in the subsequent war, even with a Soviet-backed rebellion in Polish Ukraine. At the same time, he also anticipated a much weaker United States, much less able to intervene in a European war.
This was, in part, a reflection of his expectation that the Depression represented the final collapse of capitalism. Wells was aware of the American New Deal, and regarded it as a step in the right direction, but predicted that it would prove unsuccessful--not because of any flaw in the economic theory underlying it, but because he thought that American political culture, and American inexperience in such matters, would prevent the Federal government from successfully administering such a program. However, the New Deal actually returned the U.S. economy's output to 1929 levels by 1936, and left it 20 percent larger in 1940. Germany, too, achieved a significant reduction of unemployment, and the recovery of its national output, through "Keynesian" methods.
And of course, each nation was to translate that recovery into a stronger military position, and build on it, with a "military Keynesianism" of a kind which Wells simply seems not to have anticipated (identifying military spending solely with economic strain and privation as he did). Germany followed this course first in 1936, to which one might add that Germany (aided by its appearance of comparative dynamism) also attained a number of political successes that enabled it to further strengthen itself, like the Anglo-German Naval Agreement of 1935, and more dramatically, Germany's getting other nations to acquiesce in its union with Austria in 1938, and its absorption of Czechoslovakia in 1939, all of which substantially improved its strategic and military position when hostilities actually began. So did the German army's capacity for high speed and flexible movement, a function in part of its exploitation of the possibilities of the tank in ways that the Allies had failed to do during the '30s.1 The result was not only to make a Polish attack on Germany implausible, but to make Germany's war against Poland short and successful. Indeed, it enabled Germany to turn west and win similar victories over the Low Countries and France.
Had Germany not posed that kind of threat, had it in fact been attacked by Poland, and been unable to achieve better than a draw in that fight, while France dithered about supporting its ally, one could indeed imagine Britain remaining aloof from the conflict, especially if it were distracted by colonial affairs--and the United States being that much less inclined to enter the fray, while the Soviet Union remained content with shoring up its position in eastern Europe. Nonetheless, Germany's growing power and record of expansionism in the interwar period assured British involvement in a German-Polish war on some level. Subsequently, Germany's successes early in the war meant increasing U.S. involvement through its support of Britain, and after December 1941, its own open, direct, full-scale involvement. That involvement, in turn, greatly enlarged the U.S.'s power to act through an extraordinary spurt of war-driven economic growth, American GDP expanding over 70 percent between 1940 and 1945.1
This combination of an economically stronger and expanded Germany capable of threatening all of Europe, and an economically more powerful United States capable of a major transoceanic intervention, are at the root of the other, larger error Wells made about the character of the war, namely its totalistic nature.
Wells' expectation, in line with the fashionable military futurology of the time, was that "the next war" would not be a "total" clash of multimillion-man armies and navies, but a conflict of small, technically oriented establishments emphasizing "aero-chemical" power above their other arms. On that score he, and a great many others, were wrong (especially about the casual attitude of the belligerents toward the use of chemical weaponry). Still, Wells was more astute than many of his contemporaries in appreciating that strategic bombing would not win the quick, decisive, cheap victory enthusiasts of the technique promised--and not for lack of trying, with the U.S. and Britain in particular relying very heavily on this approach.2
Equally, he was right about the European powers trying to avoid a totalistic conflict--as they did in the earlier period of the war, haunted as their leaders were by memories of the domestic upheavals to which World War I led. Britain, and France, certainly refrained from this in the "phony war" phase, after which France was knocked out of the game, and Britain only made a more strenuous effort following the French collapse--an effort which exhausted its foreign exchange reserves by early 1941 (after which vast foreign, and especially American, economic aid was indispensable). Germany, too, was leery of a total war, actually avoiding full-scale mobilization until 1943, after it was embroiled in a losing fight against an alliance that included a fully committed United States and Soviet Union--its run of conquests instead massively subsidizing its efforts.
Putting it another way, it was a stronger Germany's series of swift political and military triumphs over its initial continental opponents (which let Germany go on the offensive so successfully as to leave Britain fighting for its life, and clear the way for an invasion of the Soviet Union), and the economic recovery, and boom, of the United States (which enabled it to not just intervene, but intervene massively), that made the European war truly and lengthily totalistic (the U.S. effort subsidizing Britain's, and along with the strains of the Axis-Soviet war to which Operation Barbarossa led, contributing to Germany's reacting in kind). All of this resulted in a conflict that was shorter than Wells anticipated (ending in 1945 rather than 1949), but far more decisive (with the Allies securing the formal unconditional surrender of the Axis countries, then proceeding to occupy those states and give them entirely new political institutions rather than merely suspending hostilities), and by some measures also more horrific (perhaps 30 million dying on the Eastern Front alone).
By contrast, had the war remained a continental affair among relatively anemic military actors, history might have gone rather more like Wells' anticipation. Indeed, like many a well-reasoned vision of the future which did not actually come to pass, his scenario retains a great deal of interest as a counterfactual long after it has ceased to interest us an anticipation of "things to come."
1. This failure is ironic given that Wells offered an influential presentation of the idea in the 1903 short story "The Land Ironclads."
2. Giulio Douhet, one of the foremost such thinkers, argued in his classic The Command of the Air that a squadron of twenty planes would suffice to "break up the whole social structure of the enemy in less than a week, no matter what his army and navy may do." (This quotation is taken from the Dino Ferrari translation published by Coward-McCann in 1942, where the remark appears on page 142.)
* The war is ongoing by 1940.
* Despite widespread nationalistic hysteria, there is little enthusiasm among the civilian populations of the countries marching off to war.
* Germany's rearmament is an open process as well as a secret one.
* The war begins with fighting between Germany and Poland over Danzig.
* While war rages in northeastern Europe, Italy expands in the Balkans.
* Despite its commitments to its East European allies, France hesitates to fully enter the fray.
* While fighting Germany in the west, Poland finds itself attacked in the east by Soviet action.
* Germany and Austria are unified.
* There is a confluence between the initially separate aggressions of Germany and Italy into a common conflict between these powers on one side, and their enemies on the other, that extends "from the Pyrenees to Siberia."
* Hungary and Bulgaria fight on the same side as the German-Italian "Axis," entering the action through their participation in the invasion and occupation of Yugoslavia.
* The Axis entry into Yugoslavia is challenged by a significant guerrilla campaign.
* In East Asia, Japan invades "China proper," leading to open warfare between it and the United States.
* The war continues for several years in both Europe and Asia.
* Aerial warfare is a significant part of the conflict, with the belligerents relying on it heavily to achieve their aims. It is also highly indecisive--while still killing millions.
* The war contributes powerfully to the collapse of Europe's dominion over the rest of the world.
* The war sees the Soviet Union expand inside Europe, gaining territory at Poland's expense, and also establishing a new Soviet republic on territory taken from Romania, while more broadly consolidating a sphere of influence in the eastern, predominantly Slavic, part of the continent.
Especially given that the book was published in 1933, six thoroughly eventful years before the outbreak of open warfare among Europe's great powers, this is an impressive list of good calls, which comprise a substantial part of the war's outline as well as numerous particular details of its course--and testify to his real insight into the events of his time. Still, Wells got a great deal wrong, and it does not do to gloss over these, least of all those attributes of the conflict that may have been foreseeable. Two errors are particularly striking (certainly where the larger shape of the European war is concerned). The first is that he expected a smaller number of major powers to take part as belligerents than actually did so, particularly in Europe--his scenario excluding Britain and the United States from the fighting on the continent, while the Soviet Union and Germany also did not come to blows. The second is that he anticipated a "limited" effort on the part of those actors that did fight, waging a technologically sophisticated but economically constrained war.
Nonetheless, this may not have been so unlikely as it now appears. While Wells characterized Hitler as "the voice of Germany losing control," and viewed the country as having been maddened by the situation of Danzig, he anticipated a weak Germany--weak enough, in fact, that in the conflict over Danzig, it is Poland which strikes the first large-scale blow (with an air raid on Berlin), and then holds its own in the subsequent war, even with a Soviet-backed rebellion in Polish Ukraine. At the same time, he also anticipated a much weaker United States, much less able to intervene in a European war.
This was, in part, a reflection of his expectation that the Depression represented the final collapse of capitalism. Wells was aware of the American New Deal, and regarded it as a step in the right direction, but predicted that it would prove unsuccessful--not because of any flaw in the economic theory underlying it, but because he thought that American political culture, and American inexperience in such matters, would prevent the Federal government from successfully administering such a program. However, the New Deal actually returned the U.S. economy's output to 1929 levels by 1936, and left it 20 percent larger in 1940. Germany, too, achieved a significant reduction of unemployment, and the recovery of its national output, through "Keynesian" methods.
And of course, each nation was to translate that recovery into a stronger military position, and build on it, with a "military Keynesianism" of a kind which Wells simply seems not to have anticipated (identifying military spending solely with economic strain and privation as he did). Germany followed this course first in 1936, to which one might add that Germany (aided by its appearance of comparative dynamism) also attained a number of political successes that enabled it to further strengthen itself, like the Anglo-German Naval Agreement of 1935, and more dramatically, Germany's getting other nations to acquiesce in its union with Austria in 1938, and its absorption of Czechoslovakia in 1939, all of which substantially improved its strategic and military position when hostilities actually began. So did the German army's capacity for high speed and flexible movement, a function in part of its exploitation of the possibilities of the tank in ways that the Allies had failed to do during the '30s.1 The result was not only to make a Polish attack on Germany implausible, but to make Germany's war against Poland short and successful. Indeed, it enabled Germany to turn west and win similar victories over the Low Countries and France.
Had Germany not posed that kind of threat, had it in fact been attacked by Poland, and been unable to achieve better than a draw in that fight, while France dithered about supporting its ally, one could indeed imagine Britain remaining aloof from the conflict, especially if it were distracted by colonial affairs--and the United States being that much less inclined to enter the fray, while the Soviet Union remained content with shoring up its position in eastern Europe. Nonetheless, Germany's growing power and record of expansionism in the interwar period assured British involvement in a German-Polish war on some level. Subsequently, Germany's successes early in the war meant increasing U.S. involvement through its support of Britain, and after December 1941, its own open, direct, full-scale involvement. That involvement, in turn, greatly enlarged the U.S.'s power to act through an extraordinary spurt of war-driven economic growth, American GDP expanding over 70 percent between 1940 and 1945.1
This combination of an economically stronger and expanded Germany capable of threatening all of Europe, and an economically more powerful United States capable of a major transoceanic intervention, are at the root of the other, larger error Wells made about the character of the war, namely its totalistic nature.
Wells' expectation, in line with the fashionable military futurology of the time, was that "the next war" would not be a "total" clash of multimillion-man armies and navies, but a conflict of small, technically oriented establishments emphasizing "aero-chemical" power above their other arms. On that score he, and a great many others, were wrong (especially about the casual attitude of the belligerents toward the use of chemical weaponry). Still, Wells was more astute than many of his contemporaries in appreciating that strategic bombing would not win the quick, decisive, cheap victory enthusiasts of the technique promised--and not for lack of trying, with the U.S. and Britain in particular relying very heavily on this approach.2
Equally, he was right about the European powers trying to avoid a totalistic conflict--as they did in the earlier period of the war, haunted as their leaders were by memories of the domestic upheavals to which World War I led. Britain, and France, certainly refrained from this in the "phony war" phase, after which France was knocked out of the game, and Britain only made a more strenuous effort following the French collapse--an effort which exhausted its foreign exchange reserves by early 1941 (after which vast foreign, and especially American, economic aid was indispensable). Germany, too, was leery of a total war, actually avoiding full-scale mobilization until 1943, after it was embroiled in a losing fight against an alliance that included a fully committed United States and Soviet Union--its run of conquests instead massively subsidizing its efforts.
Putting it another way, it was a stronger Germany's series of swift political and military triumphs over its initial continental opponents (which let Germany go on the offensive so successfully as to leave Britain fighting for its life, and clear the way for an invasion of the Soviet Union), and the economic recovery, and boom, of the United States (which enabled it to not just intervene, but intervene massively), that made the European war truly and lengthily totalistic (the U.S. effort subsidizing Britain's, and along with the strains of the Axis-Soviet war to which Operation Barbarossa led, contributing to Germany's reacting in kind). All of this resulted in a conflict that was shorter than Wells anticipated (ending in 1945 rather than 1949), but far more decisive (with the Allies securing the formal unconditional surrender of the Axis countries, then proceeding to occupy those states and give them entirely new political institutions rather than merely suspending hostilities), and by some measures also more horrific (perhaps 30 million dying on the Eastern Front alone).
By contrast, had the war remained a continental affair among relatively anemic military actors, history might have gone rather more like Wells' anticipation. Indeed, like many a well-reasoned vision of the future which did not actually come to pass, his scenario retains a great deal of interest as a counterfactual long after it has ceased to interest us an anticipation of "things to come."
1. This failure is ironic given that Wells offered an influential presentation of the idea in the 1903 short story "The Land Ironclads."
2. Giulio Douhet, one of the foremost such thinkers, argued in his classic The Command of the Air that a squadron of twenty planes would suffice to "break up the whole social structure of the enemy in less than a week, no matter what his army and navy may do." (This quotation is taken from the Dino Ferrari translation published by Coward-McCann in 1942, where the remark appears on page 142.)
Reflections on William Gibson's Distrust That Particular Flavor
On first contact I found William Gibson's fiction deeply frustrating. One reason for this was stylistic. (In the pieces with which I first came into contact, like the short story "Johnny Mnemonic," clarity and flow were sacrificed to the principle of showing as flashily as possible--and this was certainly one writer who could have told a good deal more than he did.) However, the content of his stories was also an issue. His Sprawl stories and novels seemed to touch on innumerable major issues, from the Cold War to corporate power to the widening gap between the classes, but he never really said anything about these things.
Gibson was, in short, a postmodernist. Since then I have increasingly thought of him--not just today's Gibson, but the Gibson we've always had--as a postmodernist first and a science fiction writer second, with Gibson's remarks in interviews reinforcing the impression.1 If anything, it has been reinforced yet again reading Distrust That Particular Flavor, the first ever collection of the small but noted body of nonfiction he has accumulated over the years.
As those who have made its acquaintance before know, Gibson is not a scholar or a journalist. Rather what he does in his nonfiction is offer reflections on a handful of experiences--particularly through pieces of travelogue (most of it Japan-set, though his feather-ruffling account of his famous visit to Singapore, "Disneyland With the Death Penalty," is included), and accounts of his contacts with various bits of information technology and media (like "William Gibson's Filmless Festival," in which he shares a number of movies shot on video with his daughter).
At their best, these pieces can be read as a collection of glittering bits, offering a razor-sharp insight in razor-sharp prose, and on occasion even engaging on a human level (as in his tribute to actor Takeshi Kitano, "The Baddest Dude on Earth"). At their worst they seem hopelessly self-indulgent, like "My Obsession," his piece about a period of addiction to shopping for mechanical watches on EBay (which Gibson himself admits went on way too long). Fortunately most pieces come closer to the former than the latter, and while in the end it was not all that I would have hoped for from Gibson's first nonfiction book once upon a time, I still found it a worthwhile read.
1. To put it bluntly, he always seemed to speak at length about trivia (like using EBay), rather than the Big Issues about which I always hoped he would say something.
Gibson was, in short, a postmodernist. Since then I have increasingly thought of him--not just today's Gibson, but the Gibson we've always had--as a postmodernist first and a science fiction writer second, with Gibson's remarks in interviews reinforcing the impression.1 If anything, it has been reinforced yet again reading Distrust That Particular Flavor, the first ever collection of the small but noted body of nonfiction he has accumulated over the years.
As those who have made its acquaintance before know, Gibson is not a scholar or a journalist. Rather what he does in his nonfiction is offer reflections on a handful of experiences--particularly through pieces of travelogue (most of it Japan-set, though his feather-ruffling account of his famous visit to Singapore, "Disneyland With the Death Penalty," is included), and accounts of his contacts with various bits of information technology and media (like "William Gibson's Filmless Festival," in which he shares a number of movies shot on video with his daughter).
At their best, these pieces can be read as a collection of glittering bits, offering a razor-sharp insight in razor-sharp prose, and on occasion even engaging on a human level (as in his tribute to actor Takeshi Kitano, "The Baddest Dude on Earth"). At their worst they seem hopelessly self-indulgent, like "My Obsession," his piece about a period of addiction to shopping for mechanical watches on EBay (which Gibson himself admits went on way too long). Fortunately most pieces come closer to the former than the latter, and while in the end it was not all that I would have hoped for from Gibson's first nonfiction book once upon a time, I still found it a worthwhile read.
1. To put it bluntly, he always seemed to speak at length about trivia (like using EBay), rather than the Big Issues about which I always hoped he would say something.
Monday, June 24, 2013
Bad Teacher 2?
WARNING: MILD SPOILERS AHEAD
I rarely expect much from Hollywood comedies anymore, and 2011's Bad Teacher was no exception. Teachers, after all, are a shamefully easy, "safe" target, on the receiving end of several of American society's animuses--toward intellectuals, toward government and government workers, toward organized labor (and especially public sector unions), toward liberals (which teachers are all incorrectly assumed to be by many a conservative detractor). And because of their vulnerability (as a not merely maligned, but ill-paid and relatively unprestigious profession) prone to be blamed for every failing of American education, real or merely perceived.
Still, there is no denying that the education system, like any other major institution, is not an unfit subject for satire. Our debates over curriculum and educational methods, from the math wars to standardized testing; the tension between the "convenient social virtue" society is prone to demand of teachers, and their needs and rights as human beings and professionals; the sociology of the classroom and the educational bureaucracy and the broader conditions under which educators work; the inequality between the schooling given the poorest and the most privileged--all this can plausibly make for a movie about something.1
Bad Teacher does not go this route, however.2 The failings of the titular figure, Elizabeth Halsey are purely individual and anomalous. She is simply a lazy, conniving "bad girl" who somehow got hired as a teacher, and somehow never got weeded out from among the flaky, naive do-gooders who are her colleagues--not that she has any desire to continue in this career. Her real aspiration is to marry money so that she can give up teaching and live in comfortable leisure. This leads to a pair of overlapping love triangles--the first between Elizabeth, substitute teacher Scott Delacorte and Elizabeth's colleague Amy Squirrel in the first, and the second between Elizabeth and Scott and gym teacher Russell Gettis--which have Elizabeth scheming to keep Scott and Amy apart, and buy herself breast augmentation surgery which she thinks will let her win over Scott (whose principal attraction is his coming from a wealthy family).
Of course, love triangles, ill-conceived money-making schemes and general bad behavior are standard comedic material, but even as "turn your brain off" entertainment I found the results underwhelming. The characters were one-note and often annoying (particularly Delacorte and Squirrel), the jokes mostly flat and ill-conceived (with Halsey's un-p.c. remarks merely seeming incongruous rather than funny, sounding as they did not like the un-p.c. remarks of her generation, but her cranky old grandfather's). And to top it all off, the film, wholly dependent on Elizabeth's consistent greed and mean-spiritedness for its few laughs, has her undergo a third-act change of heart so unconvincing that it feels like a parody of the kind of commercial hokum that director Jake Kasdan sent up in his earlier The TV Set (2006).
Nonetheless, the film was a hit as these things go, pulling in over $100 million domestically and another $115 million overseas (no Hangover, but still decent given the $20 million budget), and finding enough enthusiasm in Hollywood for a continuation that CBS has a sitcom based on the material premiering in the fall, and Sony has now announced a sequel.
I wonder about these decisions. It is far from clear to me that the concept has a hundred episodes in it, especially with the sexuality and language unavoidably toned down for network television.3 Equally the sequel seems a risky proposition, because it is bound to cost more--but not necessarily bound to sell more tickets. The margin between budget and gross is not all that high here, and I am not at all sure that this is an idea which left viewers begging for more (and indeed, the audience's affection does not seem to have been overwhelming). Also unhelpful is the conclusion of the first film, which had a (somewhat) reformed Halsey give up teaching to be the school's guidance counselor, so that she is no longer so bad as before, nor a teacher, complicating any continuation. Certainly it is difficult to picture the sequel doing well at the box office while the sitcom of the same name is airing--a potential competitor rather than complement, and perhaps a drag if it is not well-received.
If Hollywood really does mean to turn this one into a large, profitable franchise, those least powerful of Tinseltown's creative people, the writers, will have a lot of difficult work ahead of them.
1. As John Kenneth Galbraith put it in his classic Economics and the Public Purpose, the "convenient social virtue ascribes merit to any pattern of behavior, however uncomfortable or unnatural for the individual involved, that serves the comfort or well-being of, or is otherwise advantageous for, the more powerful members of the community. The moral commendation of the community for convenient and therefore, virtuous behavior then serves as a substitute for pecuniary compensation." This is "widely important for inducing people to perform unpleasant services." Nurses, for example, are expected to accept such commendation "as a partial substitute for compensation," while "such merit was never deemed a wholly satisfactory substitute for remuneration in the case of physicians."
2. In short, Bad Teacher proves to be pure Bucket Brigade, saying as much about education as Anchorman says about journalism and broadcasting, The 40 Year Old Virgin says about celibacy, or Step Brothers says about why people continue living with their parents well into adulthood--which is to say that not only does it say nothing, but it does not even appear to have been interested in saying anything. Instead the film is a showcase for the writers' and actors' trademark lines and gags (like the bizarre exclamations labeled "Ron Burgundyisms" on Urban Dictionary).
3. Premium cable, of course, would be another matter.
I rarely expect much from Hollywood comedies anymore, and 2011's Bad Teacher was no exception. Teachers, after all, are a shamefully easy, "safe" target, on the receiving end of several of American society's animuses--toward intellectuals, toward government and government workers, toward organized labor (and especially public sector unions), toward liberals (which teachers are all incorrectly assumed to be by many a conservative detractor). And because of their vulnerability (as a not merely maligned, but ill-paid and relatively unprestigious profession) prone to be blamed for every failing of American education, real or merely perceived.
Still, there is no denying that the education system, like any other major institution, is not an unfit subject for satire. Our debates over curriculum and educational methods, from the math wars to standardized testing; the tension between the "convenient social virtue" society is prone to demand of teachers, and their needs and rights as human beings and professionals; the sociology of the classroom and the educational bureaucracy and the broader conditions under which educators work; the inequality between the schooling given the poorest and the most privileged--all this can plausibly make for a movie about something.1
Bad Teacher does not go this route, however.2 The failings of the titular figure, Elizabeth Halsey are purely individual and anomalous. She is simply a lazy, conniving "bad girl" who somehow got hired as a teacher, and somehow never got weeded out from among the flaky, naive do-gooders who are her colleagues--not that she has any desire to continue in this career. Her real aspiration is to marry money so that she can give up teaching and live in comfortable leisure. This leads to a pair of overlapping love triangles--the first between Elizabeth, substitute teacher Scott Delacorte and Elizabeth's colleague Amy Squirrel in the first, and the second between Elizabeth and Scott and gym teacher Russell Gettis--which have Elizabeth scheming to keep Scott and Amy apart, and buy herself breast augmentation surgery which she thinks will let her win over Scott (whose principal attraction is his coming from a wealthy family).
Of course, love triangles, ill-conceived money-making schemes and general bad behavior are standard comedic material, but even as "turn your brain off" entertainment I found the results underwhelming. The characters were one-note and often annoying (particularly Delacorte and Squirrel), the jokes mostly flat and ill-conceived (with Halsey's un-p.c. remarks merely seeming incongruous rather than funny, sounding as they did not like the un-p.c. remarks of her generation, but her cranky old grandfather's). And to top it all off, the film, wholly dependent on Elizabeth's consistent greed and mean-spiritedness for its few laughs, has her undergo a third-act change of heart so unconvincing that it feels like a parody of the kind of commercial hokum that director Jake Kasdan sent up in his earlier The TV Set (2006).
Nonetheless, the film was a hit as these things go, pulling in over $100 million domestically and another $115 million overseas (no Hangover, but still decent given the $20 million budget), and finding enough enthusiasm in Hollywood for a continuation that CBS has a sitcom based on the material premiering in the fall, and Sony has now announced a sequel.
I wonder about these decisions. It is far from clear to me that the concept has a hundred episodes in it, especially with the sexuality and language unavoidably toned down for network television.3 Equally the sequel seems a risky proposition, because it is bound to cost more--but not necessarily bound to sell more tickets. The margin between budget and gross is not all that high here, and I am not at all sure that this is an idea which left viewers begging for more (and indeed, the audience's affection does not seem to have been overwhelming). Also unhelpful is the conclusion of the first film, which had a (somewhat) reformed Halsey give up teaching to be the school's guidance counselor, so that she is no longer so bad as before, nor a teacher, complicating any continuation. Certainly it is difficult to picture the sequel doing well at the box office while the sitcom of the same name is airing--a potential competitor rather than complement, and perhaps a drag if it is not well-received.
If Hollywood really does mean to turn this one into a large, profitable franchise, those least powerful of Tinseltown's creative people, the writers, will have a lot of difficult work ahead of them.
1. As John Kenneth Galbraith put it in his classic Economics and the Public Purpose, the "convenient social virtue ascribes merit to any pattern of behavior, however uncomfortable or unnatural for the individual involved, that serves the comfort or well-being of, or is otherwise advantageous for, the more powerful members of the community. The moral commendation of the community for convenient and therefore, virtuous behavior then serves as a substitute for pecuniary compensation." This is "widely important for inducing people to perform unpleasant services." Nurses, for example, are expected to accept such commendation "as a partial substitute for compensation," while "such merit was never deemed a wholly satisfactory substitute for remuneration in the case of physicians."
2. In short, Bad Teacher proves to be pure Bucket Brigade, saying as much about education as Anchorman says about journalism and broadcasting, The 40 Year Old Virgin says about celibacy, or Step Brothers says about why people continue living with their parents well into adulthood--which is to say that not only does it say nothing, but it does not even appear to have been interested in saying anything. Instead the film is a showcase for the writers' and actors' trademark lines and gags (like the bizarre exclamations labeled "Ron Burgundyisms" on Urban Dictionary).
3. Premium cable, of course, would be another matter.
H.G. Wells' The Shape of Things to Come: Eighty Years On
For much of his career H.G. Wells was a founding proponent of what Patrick Parrinder termed "the scientific world-view"--a sense that the nineteenth century liberal order (a balance of power among nation-states preserving the peace, a capitalist world economy) was dead, and that the way forward for the species lay in rationalism, socialism and international organization. Advanced in both his nonfiction and fiction, across a range of genres, Wells gave it its fullest treatment in 1933's book The Shape of Things to Come. Wells presents Shape as the "dream-book" of Philip Raven, a British civil servant who recorded dream visions he had of a twenty-second century history textbook which tells of the founding of a future "World State."
Its story is, in a way, the story of all human history, the book looking back to antiquity for the origin of the idea in the World-State, and finding it in the universalism of the religions which emerged in the first millennium BCE, and the dissent of prophets taken for insane or inspired, and always inconvenient (with Plato's Republic a crucial moment in its depiction of an elite committed to service rather than self-aggrandizement in implementing in a social order). These forces continued to develop, until by the seventeenth century an increasingly critical turn of mind was evident, and with it the beginnings of modern scientific rationality and criticism of existing institutions--monarchy, aristocracy, religion, even property.
Alongside these important cultural and intellectual changes, advancing technology and growing organization made what was previously an ideal into a practical possibility and necessity by the early twentieth century. By this point, Wells' textbook argued, capitalism was translating increases in productivity into unemployment, weakened consumption and slumps--a self-defeating pattern which appeared to have culminated in the Great Depression--while avoidable poverty continued to stunt human life. Meanwhile advancing military technology and the increasingly totalistic character of warfare (demonstrated in World War I) made armed conflict more costly and dangerous for human civilization, with the risk of such conflict exacerbated by nationalistic and militaristic ideas, by what we today call military-industrial complexes, by the worst of tradition and habit (religious beliefs, sexual attitudes, etc.), and even by the physically and psychologically unhealthful conditions of everyday life in the era (all the way down to bad hygiene and noise pollution).
Wells also pointed to widening recognition of the problems, and of the ways in which they could be redressed, in meaningful but flawed developments like Henry Ford's Peace Ship, the League of Nations, the London Economic Conference, Franklin Delano Roosevelt's New Deal--and the emergence of explicit alternatives to liberalism on the left in Soviet Communism, and the right in fascism in Italy, Germany and elsewhere.1 Nonetheless, the limitations of these initiatives and movements mean that the world fails to recover from the economic crisis. Instead the world's economy continues to fall into greater disarray, resulting in living standards, deteriorating public services, and rising crime and insecurity of all kinds, extending even to a resurgence of maritime piracy. Moreover, the worst in these new movements comes to the fore when Nazi Germany's dispute with Poland over Danzig escalates into shooting, sparking a general European war that, along with the ongoing conflict in east Asia, saps what remains of the world's economic vitality, and leaves the world wide open to a plague that kills off half the planet's population in the 1950s.2
This collapse of the old order creates a space in which a new one can emerge, the groundwork for which is laid by a practical-minded technical-administrative elite centered on the control of the world's long-distance communications. This "Air and Sea Control," the members of which recognize that the more traditional objects of such careers have been mooted by the new realities, works instead for the revival of the world economy and the building of a World State, a process formalized in a 1965 conference at Basra. This dictatorship, up against the remnants of the old order of capitalist enterprise and sovereign states (actually drawing strength from the revival of the world economy), manages to pragmatically, patiently and consistently outmaneuver its foes, only rarely having to employ any significant force to get its way. (Indeed, it manages to circumscribe privately owned business and let it fade away rather than outlawing it.)
Of course, after this point there are continued difficulties as the World-State goes about the immense practical work of achieving material plenty for all, eradicating disease, and educating its citizens for life in the new world, while still facing attempts at subversion from those opposed to it, resulting in thousands of political murders, and executions into the 2030s (during which the conduct of the security organs was not always unimpeachable). Later the World-State itself became a problem, under the administration of a stifling (if benevolent) "Puritan Tyranny" that was so "consumed by an overwhelming fear of leisure both for [itself] and others" in a world where so many of the old constraints on life had been eliminated that it bowdlerized literature and the arts, and "INVENTED work for the Fellowship and all the world."
Nonetheless, this too gives way as the World-State withers, the Central Council increasingly disregarded by the subordinate Controls overseeing various aspects of human life (education, health, etc.)--an administration of things rather than people. The process is formalized when the Council is officially retired in the 2059 Declaration of Mégève, which declares "the Martyrdom of Man . . . at an end" and "the sunrise of the hour" of united humanity in a world without superstition, tribalism and want, freer, happier--and saner--than the people of previous centuries had even dreamed it could be.
As might be expected from Wells' earlier success as a popular historian, his historiography is impressive--thorough and lucid and accessible. As might also be expected given his brand of science fiction, his interweaving of the events of the past, and his present, with his record of things to come, feels seamless even today, enough so that even someone well-read in the history of the time can have a hard time figuring out just when he stopped writing as a historian and started writing as a scenarist. A grand testament to both his vast imagination and underappreciated technical skill, it endows what he describes with an astonishing verisimilitude.
Nonetheless, we know that history did not take the turn he anticipated. Instead the Second World War proved to be a far more intense conflict than he anticipated, which led not to the dissolution of the nation-state system, but its reorganization at a higher level--the old circle of Great Powers mostly folded into the alliance systems of the U.S. and Soviet Union. Moreover, the Keynesian policies he underestimated helped lay the foundation for the American economic recovery that proved crucial to the Allied victory in World War II, and the unprecedented, global boom that followed the conflict.
Of course, that order, too, did not last, the world in the 1970s turning to neoliberalism. Since then the world economy has been increasingly crisis-ridden and anemic, prone to increasing inequality, and ecologically strained in ways he did not imagine, with the problem raised by nuclear weapons in the 1940s (sooner than he feared) unresolved. It is a perilous situation, leaving many once again convinced that this state of things cannot last, but there is little enthusiasm for the sorts of solutions he proposed, and the idea of a future remotely like the one he described seems as implausible now as it has ever been.
Even the attempt to imagine something like it reflects this sensibility, as W. Warren Wagar's A Short History of the Future demonstrates. Modeled on Wells' scenario, but updated for our times, it envisages the world's economic and political crises leading to strategic nuclear warfare on a far more crowded planet; a much more painful rebuilding process, up against far more violent resistance; and much more problematic consequences, full of survivals of the older irrationalism, with anything like a new humanistic consensus beyond reach--postmodernism apparently here to stay.
Some of this is an understandable reaction to what now appears Wells' overoptimism about some things, like his confidence in Science as well as the sciences, the idea that these have to be on the same side. (I think of George Orwell's response to this attitude with the charge that in comparison with Britain the Nazis were both more barbaric and more scientific.) Certainly his confidence in technocrats, and the "plasticity" of human consciousness and behavior, far exceed anything one is likely to encounter today. Indeed, it is all such that Wagar himself confesses that his version of events has a look of "Augustinian pessimism" about it, and that is the difference between our troubled times, and the period in which Wells wrote his classic book.
1. The Soviet Union, in his view, was a promising beginning distorted when the "infinitely practical" Lenin died and was succeeded by the dogmatic Stalin, and with him, the primacy of politics over technical rationality, and nationalism over internationalism, so that it failed to rise to the role it should have played.
2. Interestingly Wells made no direct reference to the influenza epidemic which followed World War I and took a far heavier toll of human lives than the actual fighting.
Its story is, in a way, the story of all human history, the book looking back to antiquity for the origin of the idea in the World-State, and finding it in the universalism of the religions which emerged in the first millennium BCE, and the dissent of prophets taken for insane or inspired, and always inconvenient (with Plato's Republic a crucial moment in its depiction of an elite committed to service rather than self-aggrandizement in implementing in a social order). These forces continued to develop, until by the seventeenth century an increasingly critical turn of mind was evident, and with it the beginnings of modern scientific rationality and criticism of existing institutions--monarchy, aristocracy, religion, even property.
Alongside these important cultural and intellectual changes, advancing technology and growing organization made what was previously an ideal into a practical possibility and necessity by the early twentieth century. By this point, Wells' textbook argued, capitalism was translating increases in productivity into unemployment, weakened consumption and slumps--a self-defeating pattern which appeared to have culminated in the Great Depression--while avoidable poverty continued to stunt human life. Meanwhile advancing military technology and the increasingly totalistic character of warfare (demonstrated in World War I) made armed conflict more costly and dangerous for human civilization, with the risk of such conflict exacerbated by nationalistic and militaristic ideas, by what we today call military-industrial complexes, by the worst of tradition and habit (religious beliefs, sexual attitudes, etc.), and even by the physically and psychologically unhealthful conditions of everyday life in the era (all the way down to bad hygiene and noise pollution).
Wells also pointed to widening recognition of the problems, and of the ways in which they could be redressed, in meaningful but flawed developments like Henry Ford's Peace Ship, the League of Nations, the London Economic Conference, Franklin Delano Roosevelt's New Deal--and the emergence of explicit alternatives to liberalism on the left in Soviet Communism, and the right in fascism in Italy, Germany and elsewhere.1 Nonetheless, the limitations of these initiatives and movements mean that the world fails to recover from the economic crisis. Instead the world's economy continues to fall into greater disarray, resulting in living standards, deteriorating public services, and rising crime and insecurity of all kinds, extending even to a resurgence of maritime piracy. Moreover, the worst in these new movements comes to the fore when Nazi Germany's dispute with Poland over Danzig escalates into shooting, sparking a general European war that, along with the ongoing conflict in east Asia, saps what remains of the world's economic vitality, and leaves the world wide open to a plague that kills off half the planet's population in the 1950s.2
This collapse of the old order creates a space in which a new one can emerge, the groundwork for which is laid by a practical-minded technical-administrative elite centered on the control of the world's long-distance communications. This "Air and Sea Control," the members of which recognize that the more traditional objects of such careers have been mooted by the new realities, works instead for the revival of the world economy and the building of a World State, a process formalized in a 1965 conference at Basra. This dictatorship, up against the remnants of the old order of capitalist enterprise and sovereign states (actually drawing strength from the revival of the world economy), manages to pragmatically, patiently and consistently outmaneuver its foes, only rarely having to employ any significant force to get its way. (Indeed, it manages to circumscribe privately owned business and let it fade away rather than outlawing it.)
Of course, after this point there are continued difficulties as the World-State goes about the immense practical work of achieving material plenty for all, eradicating disease, and educating its citizens for life in the new world, while still facing attempts at subversion from those opposed to it, resulting in thousands of political murders, and executions into the 2030s (during which the conduct of the security organs was not always unimpeachable). Later the World-State itself became a problem, under the administration of a stifling (if benevolent) "Puritan Tyranny" that was so "consumed by an overwhelming fear of leisure both for [itself] and others" in a world where so many of the old constraints on life had been eliminated that it bowdlerized literature and the arts, and "INVENTED work for the Fellowship and all the world."
Nonetheless, this too gives way as the World-State withers, the Central Council increasingly disregarded by the subordinate Controls overseeing various aspects of human life (education, health, etc.)--an administration of things rather than people. The process is formalized when the Council is officially retired in the 2059 Declaration of Mégève, which declares "the Martyrdom of Man . . . at an end" and "the sunrise of the hour" of united humanity in a world without superstition, tribalism and want, freer, happier--and saner--than the people of previous centuries had even dreamed it could be.
As might be expected from Wells' earlier success as a popular historian, his historiography is impressive--thorough and lucid and accessible. As might also be expected given his brand of science fiction, his interweaving of the events of the past, and his present, with his record of things to come, feels seamless even today, enough so that even someone well-read in the history of the time can have a hard time figuring out just when he stopped writing as a historian and started writing as a scenarist. A grand testament to both his vast imagination and underappreciated technical skill, it endows what he describes with an astonishing verisimilitude.
Nonetheless, we know that history did not take the turn he anticipated. Instead the Second World War proved to be a far more intense conflict than he anticipated, which led not to the dissolution of the nation-state system, but its reorganization at a higher level--the old circle of Great Powers mostly folded into the alliance systems of the U.S. and Soviet Union. Moreover, the Keynesian policies he underestimated helped lay the foundation for the American economic recovery that proved crucial to the Allied victory in World War II, and the unprecedented, global boom that followed the conflict.
Of course, that order, too, did not last, the world in the 1970s turning to neoliberalism. Since then the world economy has been increasingly crisis-ridden and anemic, prone to increasing inequality, and ecologically strained in ways he did not imagine, with the problem raised by nuclear weapons in the 1940s (sooner than he feared) unresolved. It is a perilous situation, leaving many once again convinced that this state of things cannot last, but there is little enthusiasm for the sorts of solutions he proposed, and the idea of a future remotely like the one he described seems as implausible now as it has ever been.
Even the attempt to imagine something like it reflects this sensibility, as W. Warren Wagar's A Short History of the Future demonstrates. Modeled on Wells' scenario, but updated for our times, it envisages the world's economic and political crises leading to strategic nuclear warfare on a far more crowded planet; a much more painful rebuilding process, up against far more violent resistance; and much more problematic consequences, full of survivals of the older irrationalism, with anything like a new humanistic consensus beyond reach--postmodernism apparently here to stay.
Some of this is an understandable reaction to what now appears Wells' overoptimism about some things, like his confidence in Science as well as the sciences, the idea that these have to be on the same side. (I think of George Orwell's response to this attitude with the charge that in comparison with Britain the Nazis were both more barbaric and more scientific.) Certainly his confidence in technocrats, and the "plasticity" of human consciousness and behavior, far exceed anything one is likely to encounter today. Indeed, it is all such that Wagar himself confesses that his version of events has a look of "Augustinian pessimism" about it, and that is the difference between our troubled times, and the period in which Wells wrote his classic book.
1. The Soviet Union, in his view, was a promising beginning distorted when the "infinitely practical" Lenin died and was succeeded by the dogmatic Stalin, and with him, the primacy of politics over technical rationality, and nationalism over internationalism, so that it failed to rise to the role it should have played.
2. Interestingly Wells made no direct reference to the influenza epidemic which followed World War I and took a far heavier toll of human lives than the actual fighting.
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
These Cyberpunk Times: The Travails of Detroit
Watching the city of Detroit subjected to a wave of privatization by an unelected emergency manager, I cannot but think of Robocop 2--not as good a film as the original in most respects, perhaps, but certainly the more audacious social satire. And in its scenario, far more prophetic than anyone expected at the time, for all the goofiness of its presentation.
As it turns out, a good many others have had thoughts along similar lines, Aaron Foley recently writing of a proposal to erect a statue to the iconic character in that city.
As it turns out, a good many others have had thoughts along similar lines, Aaron Foley recently writing of a proposal to erect a statue to the iconic character in that city.
Learning the Novelist's Craft
When first getting acquainted with the output of the "how-to-be-a-writer" industry, I read on a number of occasions that it commonly takes something like a half dozen manuscripts and ten years to get a book published--or at least, to write a "publishable" book.1 Such data as I have seen since then has convinced me that they were not all that far off the mark.
Of course, the reason why this is the case is that it takes such time to hone the relevant skills to the necessary degree. After all, novel-writing not only demands the skills associated with fiction writing in general (like the ability to tell a story, describe a scene or develop a character on the page), or writing in a specific genre (like the ability to create suspense that a thriller writer needs), but their exercise on the larger scale required for a book-length story, which means a writer's managing a number of interconnected subplots, coordinating a larger cast of characters, and overall presenting the broader field of view and deeper detailing that go with the form. The differences are not just quantitative, but qualitative, and entirely new and different skills are involved.
Still, those would-be purveyors of advice never said why it should take so long to pick these up. Rather, as I slowly learned, the answer laid in what they didn't say. Search as I might in the how-to books for some tidy explanation of what exactly one has to do to produce a hundred thousand word narrative, I never found it--because writing is more art than science, with little lending itself to formulas, and even the apparent formulas of little use in themselves.
Compare, for instance, the position of an English student learning how to construct a functional sentence, and another English student learning how to write a thesis statement. In the former case, the issue is reducible to the expression of a complete thought with a main clause containing a subject and predicate, accompanied by the appropriate punctuation and connections (e.g. capitalize the first letter of the first word, use commas to connect your clauses, finish with an end mark)--something one can execute and judge with almost mathematical precision.
Alas, no explanation of how to write a thesis statement is as compact and tidy as that. In the best of cases the student is given not a clear-cut prescription, but a theory of what constitutes a thesis, likely to be a much more complex thing (e.g. "A thesis is a claim about a topic with room for debate, based on a rational analysis of the facts"). One can, of course, judge whether or not someone has written a thesis in a reasonably objective way, but actually assimilating what it takes to produce one is a much more demanding thing, reliant on a good deal of intuition, personal observation, and learning by doing.
This is all the more the case with the writing of fiction. One typically learns to write novels by groping their way toward an understanding of the form, which typically comes less from the digestion of pithy advice than from reading a good many such works, and then by actually writing novels. The sheer length of a novel means that this is a slow process, a single first draft easily the work of months or years, without counting in the irregular and nonlinear pre-writing process, or the editing and revision that inevitably caps a serious effort. And of course, just as in the mastery of any other skill, several repetitions of the task are likely to be necessary before the result becomes tolerable.
Moreover, the process tends to be extended even beyond the amount of time it takes to write the requisite hundreds of thousands of words for several reasons.
One is the likelihood that the aspiring writer is unlikely to have their training process financially supported. This means that they are likely working at something else for income, which reduces the number of hours--and especially fresh, energetic, clear-headed hours--they can allot to their writing. (I know of one novelist--with a day job--who writes two hundred words a day. He will necessarily be less prolific than someone who, able to commit themselves to this full-time, can put in two thousand.)
Another reason is that one does not necessarily jump from one novel to the next. There are inevitable gaps, just as in any other course of work--because life gets in the way, and because, contrary to the celebration of stupid persistence so congenial to the self-help culture, a writer does sometimes need to go and do something else. People can get burned out writing, just as they can get burned out doing anything else, and the problem is exacerbated by the setbacks and disappointments with which the process is fraught--especially when one is not just writing, but pursuing publication. Submitting one's own work is not just time-consuming (and remember, any time in which one is submitting queries is time in which one is not actually writing), but typically a disspiriting activity that will frequently have the aspirant licking their wounds-- again and again and again, for many years.
It doesn't help that the learning process tends to be lonely. Yes, we all hear tales of people gifted with wonderfully supportive friends and family, but the reality is that people who are not writers generally do not understand what writers go through, and rarely have much sympathy for their tribulations (as the writer tends to find when they need to vent). Authors do command a measure of respect if they get rich and famous (despite which even the rich and famous have their insecurities and frustrations), and loved ones will likely put up with one who is at least paying his bills with his writing--but an author who is as yet unpublished tends to be treated with suspicion and contempt, as a malingering pseudointellectual who ought to be doing something more "useful" with their time. This doesn't help one's efficiency.
Unpublished authors also suffer in another way from that isolated position. Unlike an established writer with access to agent and editor and a slew of friends in the business, they do not get the benefit of personalized, professional advice. They may not even have anyone who can be a willing and able sounding board for their ideas, let alone offer meaningful feedback on their manuscripts. This leaves them having to figure out much more for themselves, doing much more of their own editing (another dispiriting activity), and makes them that much more likely to squander a lot of time and effort on artistically or commercially dubious ideas.
And so a decade goes by, just like that.
Of course, some writers do not need a half dozen manuscripts or a decade to reach the point at which they write "publishable" novels. Why the difference? Exceptional talent is always one possibility, though I am doubtful that talent spares anyone who actually pursues this course from having to suffer through a great deal of drudgery and frustration. A more likely possibility is that the author came to their first manuscript, or their third, with their skills relatively well-honed by other activity. They have already read more and written more than their counterparts by that point, and so are better-equipped to make the attempt. (Certainly a writer who pens their first novel-length manuscript at fifteen is likely to produce something quite different from what they would have written at twenty-five or thirty-five, especially if they have been doing other kinds of writing in the meantime.)
Some writers also get lucky, sidestepping a good many pitfalls without even knowing it, or learning more from their mistakes, or bouncing back more quickly from their failures, or having good fortune in their advisers, their personal support system, their access to privacy and quiet, or even the quantity and quality of leisure time they are able to devote to the effort. Some also get lucky in having a subject that makes the work easier, one that brings them closer than others to the ideal of "the story that writes itself." And some are fortunate in not having to go all this way on their own, but being able to get an agent or a publisher to take on a relatively raw manuscript, which they get to fix up under the close guidance of the pros, who are there for them again on the next attempt.2
Unfortunately, good luck is not a career plan.
1. Of course, publishable books often do go unpublished--while books that some might deem "unpublishable" do make it into the mill, and even reach the bestseller lists. The concern in this post is solely with the problem of writing a passable manuscript, getting published being an altogether different matter.
2. One other possibility is that the difference is not in the amount of work put in, but in the ways in which authors number their manuscripts. One writer may count the fifth massive rewrite of his first manuscript as still that first manuscript, while another might regard it as his sixth effort.
Of course, the reason why this is the case is that it takes such time to hone the relevant skills to the necessary degree. After all, novel-writing not only demands the skills associated with fiction writing in general (like the ability to tell a story, describe a scene or develop a character on the page), or writing in a specific genre (like the ability to create suspense that a thriller writer needs), but their exercise on the larger scale required for a book-length story, which means a writer's managing a number of interconnected subplots, coordinating a larger cast of characters, and overall presenting the broader field of view and deeper detailing that go with the form. The differences are not just quantitative, but qualitative, and entirely new and different skills are involved.
Still, those would-be purveyors of advice never said why it should take so long to pick these up. Rather, as I slowly learned, the answer laid in what they didn't say. Search as I might in the how-to books for some tidy explanation of what exactly one has to do to produce a hundred thousand word narrative, I never found it--because writing is more art than science, with little lending itself to formulas, and even the apparent formulas of little use in themselves.
Compare, for instance, the position of an English student learning how to construct a functional sentence, and another English student learning how to write a thesis statement. In the former case, the issue is reducible to the expression of a complete thought with a main clause containing a subject and predicate, accompanied by the appropriate punctuation and connections (e.g. capitalize the first letter of the first word, use commas to connect your clauses, finish with an end mark)--something one can execute and judge with almost mathematical precision.
Alas, no explanation of how to write a thesis statement is as compact and tidy as that. In the best of cases the student is given not a clear-cut prescription, but a theory of what constitutes a thesis, likely to be a much more complex thing (e.g. "A thesis is a claim about a topic with room for debate, based on a rational analysis of the facts"). One can, of course, judge whether or not someone has written a thesis in a reasonably objective way, but actually assimilating what it takes to produce one is a much more demanding thing, reliant on a good deal of intuition, personal observation, and learning by doing.
This is all the more the case with the writing of fiction. One typically learns to write novels by groping their way toward an understanding of the form, which typically comes less from the digestion of pithy advice than from reading a good many such works, and then by actually writing novels. The sheer length of a novel means that this is a slow process, a single first draft easily the work of months or years, without counting in the irregular and nonlinear pre-writing process, or the editing and revision that inevitably caps a serious effort. And of course, just as in the mastery of any other skill, several repetitions of the task are likely to be necessary before the result becomes tolerable.
Moreover, the process tends to be extended even beyond the amount of time it takes to write the requisite hundreds of thousands of words for several reasons.
One is the likelihood that the aspiring writer is unlikely to have their training process financially supported. This means that they are likely working at something else for income, which reduces the number of hours--and especially fresh, energetic, clear-headed hours--they can allot to their writing. (I know of one novelist--with a day job--who writes two hundred words a day. He will necessarily be less prolific than someone who, able to commit themselves to this full-time, can put in two thousand.)
Another reason is that one does not necessarily jump from one novel to the next. There are inevitable gaps, just as in any other course of work--because life gets in the way, and because, contrary to the celebration of stupid persistence so congenial to the self-help culture, a writer does sometimes need to go and do something else. People can get burned out writing, just as they can get burned out doing anything else, and the problem is exacerbated by the setbacks and disappointments with which the process is fraught--especially when one is not just writing, but pursuing publication. Submitting one's own work is not just time-consuming (and remember, any time in which one is submitting queries is time in which one is not actually writing), but typically a disspiriting activity that will frequently have the aspirant licking their wounds-- again and again and again, for many years.
It doesn't help that the learning process tends to be lonely. Yes, we all hear tales of people gifted with wonderfully supportive friends and family, but the reality is that people who are not writers generally do not understand what writers go through, and rarely have much sympathy for their tribulations (as the writer tends to find when they need to vent). Authors do command a measure of respect if they get rich and famous (despite which even the rich and famous have their insecurities and frustrations), and loved ones will likely put up with one who is at least paying his bills with his writing--but an author who is as yet unpublished tends to be treated with suspicion and contempt, as a malingering pseudointellectual who ought to be doing something more "useful" with their time. This doesn't help one's efficiency.
Unpublished authors also suffer in another way from that isolated position. Unlike an established writer with access to agent and editor and a slew of friends in the business, they do not get the benefit of personalized, professional advice. They may not even have anyone who can be a willing and able sounding board for their ideas, let alone offer meaningful feedback on their manuscripts. This leaves them having to figure out much more for themselves, doing much more of their own editing (another dispiriting activity), and makes them that much more likely to squander a lot of time and effort on artistically or commercially dubious ideas.
And so a decade goes by, just like that.
Of course, some writers do not need a half dozen manuscripts or a decade to reach the point at which they write "publishable" novels. Why the difference? Exceptional talent is always one possibility, though I am doubtful that talent spares anyone who actually pursues this course from having to suffer through a great deal of drudgery and frustration. A more likely possibility is that the author came to their first manuscript, or their third, with their skills relatively well-honed by other activity. They have already read more and written more than their counterparts by that point, and so are better-equipped to make the attempt. (Certainly a writer who pens their first novel-length manuscript at fifteen is likely to produce something quite different from what they would have written at twenty-five or thirty-five, especially if they have been doing other kinds of writing in the meantime.)
Some writers also get lucky, sidestepping a good many pitfalls without even knowing it, or learning more from their mistakes, or bouncing back more quickly from their failures, or having good fortune in their advisers, their personal support system, their access to privacy and quiet, or even the quantity and quality of leisure time they are able to devote to the effort. Some also get lucky in having a subject that makes the work easier, one that brings them closer than others to the ideal of "the story that writes itself." And some are fortunate in not having to go all this way on their own, but being able to get an agent or a publisher to take on a relatively raw manuscript, which they get to fix up under the close guidance of the pros, who are there for them again on the next attempt.2
Unfortunately, good luck is not a career plan.
1. Of course, publishable books often do go unpublished--while books that some might deem "unpublishable" do make it into the mill, and even reach the bestseller lists. The concern in this post is solely with the problem of writing a passable manuscript, getting published being an altogether different matter.
2. One other possibility is that the difference is not in the amount of work put in, but in the ways in which authors number their manuscripts. One writer may count the fifth massive rewrite of his first manuscript as still that first manuscript, while another might regard it as his sixth effort.
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