This is the Article Which Peaked my Interest in Battlestar Galactica

https://www.theguardian.com/culture/2009/mar/19/battlestar-galactica-review

While I generally don’t appreciate the not-so-subtle digs at the general quality of Scifi media, I think I understand the article’s main point. Really good Scifi doesn’t just have crazy, weird, mind-bending technology. I personally believe that too often Scifi television and movies rely on the crazy coolness of the technology to cover glaring narrative problems. Look at the Star Wars Prequels. I loved those movies when I was a child because they had laser swords, but beyond that, those movies leave a lot to be desired narratively. I think it’s really easy for Scifi media to be trashy. Meditations on the impact of new technology on humanity lend themselves to engagement with the idea of what it means to be human. That’s all well and good, but the more weird new tech is brought into a Scifi story, the more work the writers have to do to flesh out the political, societal, psychological impact of these technologies. If the work isn’t done, I believe the story feels unfinished and even a little hollow. This is all to say that I’m looking forward to watching Battlestar Galactica.

Who Says It’s a Man’s World?

Joanna Russ’s 1972 story When It Changed depicts a world in which men have been extinct for hundreds of years. Without men, women are able to construct a society that collapses contemporary gender norms. Yet, when men return to the world, a gender-based class system is reintroduced. Russ uses the narrator’s simultaneous embodiment of stereotypically masculine characteristics and feeling of weakness in the men’s physical presence to demonstrate how social hierarchy between genders may be rooted in the threat of strength, not in any inherent superiority.

The story’s narrator embodies the ways in which contemporary distinctions between genders have been collapsed or reversed in the women’s society. When the narrator describes trying to explain her society to one of the men, she states, “He looked embarrassed. He looked insane. Finally, he said, ‘Where I come from, the women don’t dress so plainly.’ / ‘Like you?’ I said. ‘Like a bride?’ for the men were wearing silver from head to foot. I had never seen anything so gaudy” (Russ 511). The words employed by the narrator are telling. Her description of the man as “insane” and “gaudy,” conveys an air of disdain for the individual. Distinctions along gender lines are “insane.” The tone here reinforces the writing’s structural meaning. By criticizing the plain dress of the narrator and her compatriots, the man is stating that they do not look feminine, that their dress demonstrates a failure to adhere to the prescribed roles of the socially constructed gender binary that defines much of contemporary popular culture. The narrator’s response, implying that the man looks like a bride, flips the script and indicates that within the framework of a gender binary, the man looks feminine. This seeming reversal of contemporary gender roles is a consistent theme throughout Russ’s story. The narrator mentions several times that she is the winner of three duels, all of which ended with her opponent’s death. The narrator has a significant facial scar. When the women first meet the men, the narrator describes one of her fellows, saying, “Phyllis Helgason Spet, whom someday I shall kill” (Russ 510). These casual references to violence are a critical part of Russ’s characterization of the narrator and of her society as a whole. The references to “duels” indicate that dueling, using killing as a means of settling disputes, is an established practice in the narrator’s society. The duels, the scar, the narrator’s assurance of and willingness to participate in future violence are all characteristics traditionally ascribed to men within the contemporary gender binary. The narrator, in her words and deeds, is embodying traditional masculinity. The narrator is a chief of police, a stereotypically masculine job. The seeming gender reversal in the narrator’s dress and actions demonstrates the dissolution of the gender binary in the narrator’s society. These language and plot elements demonstrate that in Russ’s narrative, women are capable of performing whatever social roles necessary, regardless of the gendered implications of those social functions. In the narrator’s society, the construct of gender has been collapsed.

Despite the fact that these alien men intrude upon a society that has largely moved beyond the construct of gender and gender roles, their physical presence reasserts that construct. After meeting the second man in the story, the narrator states that he speaks, “With the self-confidence of someone who has always had money and strength to spare, who doesn’t know what it is to be second-class or provincial. Which is very odd, because the day before, I would have said that was an exact description of me” (Russ 512). Notwithstanding the narrator’s earlier comment that the men’s clothing makes them look feminine, this description of the man’s behavior mirrors contemporary male stereotypes. The man’s behavior conveys confidence in his strength and wealth, both of which are important parts of the performance of contemporary masculinity. Though the protagonist has no personal experience or frame of reference for the men’s physical strength, their physical presence and behavior make the narrator feel “second-class.” Russ’s language here runs parallel to the language used by contemporary feminists in their struggle for gender equality. So, despite the previously established evidence that the narrator’s society has collapsed the construct of gender, the behavior and physical presence of the men in this narrative reestablishes a gender binary that privileges men over women. This idea is underscored by Russ later in the story when she writes, “I will remember all my life those four people I first met who were muscled like bulls and who made me – if only for a moment – feel small” (Russ 514). Russ’s word choice here is significant. It is the men’s physicality that makes the narrator feel small, which makes her feel like a second-class citizen. Even though the narrator is a leader in her society, has feminized the men’s clothing, embodies traditionally masculine roles, and has demonstrated herself to be physically capable of killing, the physical threat of the men’s muscles makes her feel small. In the quote from page 512, the narrator is careful to emphasize how the man has “strength to spare.” How, then, should the reader resolve the seeming contradiction in Russ’s story? It seems that the reassertion of a contemporary gender binary in this narrative can be traced largely to the men’s physical threat. Russ constructs a society of women that no longer delineates its people into classes based on gender. Russ’s narrator demonstrates that women are capable of performing traditionally masculine violence and of moving beyond the confined roles stereotypically assigned women in a constructed gender binary. The physical threat of men makes even the toughest, deadly woman of this society feel second-class, demonstrating that any class separation between genders stems not from any inherent superiority of one gender, but from the threat of physical strength. Russ’s narrative may serve as a commentary on contemporary society as it speaks to the position that women hold as second-class citizens.

Work Cited

 Russ, Joanna. “When It Changed” (1972). The Wesleyan Anthology of Science Fiction. Ed. Arthur B. Evans, et al. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2019. 507-515.

Dune – Is an inaccessible narrator a bad thing?

I was recently browsing an online forum for science fiction reading and discussion. One post, in particular, caught my eye. The post’s author was talking about how they had just finished reading Dune and were a little underwhelmed. They wrote about how the narration felt distant and stilted, about how Paul was an inaccessible protagonist. And while I was initially taken aback and indignant reading this post, the more I reflected, the more it occurred to me that I’ve heard this criticism of Dune before. I try to force everyone I meet to read Dune, and of the few who have listened to me, several have said that the book reads oddly. Dune employs formal and jarring language. My instinct is to reject this feedback out of hand. When I read Dune, it’s almost a religious experience. The prose seem to have supernaturally perfect rhythm. “Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.” Those words are the only thing I’ve ever considered tattooing on my body. They’re simple and quiet phrases but they catch in my mind like they were designed with hooks and barbs to latch onto my synapses. How can people read these lines as being cold and devoid of feeling? They’re desperate alive and full of life. What’s the discrepancy?

While I don’t agree with critics condemnation of Herbert’s prose, I admit that I can see where they’re coming from. Over the course of Dune, the language changes. It begins as many science fiction novels do from the perspective of a child moving through an adult’s world of new technologies and ideas. But over the course of the book the narration changes slowly. As Paul makes the transition into Muad’dib, the writing becomes more formal, the subject matter becomes more metaphysical. I think that my love of Herbert’s cold, stilted writing in these sections stems from the way that I see language deepening and complicating the narrative of Paul Muad’dib. Dune, within the world of the story, is a history of Paul as written by one of his apostles. It is the story of a boy that the narrator fears may be a god. It is a biblical story, in a way. Hundreds of generations of focused human breeding and the inexorable pull of fate granted Paul with extra-human power. And as Paul’s power grows, he loses the uncertainty of action that defines the human perspective. Paul can see all of time, and he grows to know exactly what he must do and say to achieve the outcomes he desires. We mere humans muck about in the uncertainty of the repercussions of our actions. Paul is no longer human but is playing the role of a human. He is acting out a part, move for move, word for word, set in time to prevent the fire of chaotic jihad from spreading across the universe. His concerns, like the concerns of prophets in our earthly religions, are greater than human concerns. It makes sense that any description of this pseudo-deity would be filled with the lofty, inaccessible language of destiny, infinities, and doom. I agree that, often, Herbert’s writing does not create a fully human, approachable character of Muad’dib. But that human character does not exist. The human paul slips away into godliness as he drinks from the cup of the infinite. But Paul still has a mortal body. He still loves his family and mourns the dead, and Herbert does a masterful job of sprinkling moments of genuine human emotion into the narrative. As the stilted language of a person who feels entrusted with the weight of the universe begins to encroach into the narration over the course of the book, these human moments serve to illustrate the loss of self that Paul feels as Maud’dib. The narrative evolution underlines the emotional significance of the book, and that’s pretty dope.

Is Frank Herbert’s Dune the greatest science fiction novel of all time?

I would say yes, but with some caveats. I haven’t read every science fiction book ever written, and therefore do not have the background knowledge with which I could make a surefire claim to Dune’s greatness, but I will do my best to lay out my reasons for loving this book.

Dune won both the Hugo and Nebula awards in 1966 and although book sales were initially tepid, the franchise grew to contain subsequent novels, comic books, board games, video games, and one (admittedly bad) movie. And while I could expound upon the sprawling complexity and detail of Dune’s universe, what makes this franchise special is its unique focus on the human element. Dune, unlike many prominent science fiction franchises, pays little attention to technology. Robots and machines are almost absent from the narrative. The protagonist fights in gladiatorial duels with nothing but a knife and his wits. Space pilots navigate hyperspace using prescient visions imparted by a mystical drug called “spice.” Through a system of eugenics and specialized education, certain bloodlines in the human race have become something more; transhumans capable of reading people’s minds and seeing the future. And while the universe of Dune is huge and complex, the book focuses primarily on the way that this transhuman evolution changes people. The book’s protagonist, Paul Atreides, learns that he is Maud Dib, the fabled savior of a planet and its people. In the process of becoming this fabled hero, Paul gains the ability to see all of space and time. The narrative meditates long on the impact that this change has on Paul. And while an epic space opera plays out in the background as assassination and planetary invasion keep the plot moving forward, the novel is centered around characters struggling to do ‘right’ in a universe where people can become gods. It’s a story about faith and destiny and what those things even mean. It’s a great book, maybe the best science fiction novel ever, and I could not recommend it enough.

https://www.wired.com/2012/12/and-the-winner-is-readers-choice-for-top-10-science-fiction-novel/

And I’m not saying this (^) is proof, but…