I’ve known of 253 (a.k.a. Tube Theatre) for quite some time, but I’ve only just read it, after stumbling across the (Philip K Dick Award-winning) “print remix“ in the dealer’s room at Eastercon. Its original incarnation was as a website – which still exists, seemingly untouched and untweaked since it was built in 1996. Wikipedia would have me believe that Robert Arellano’s Sunshine 69 was “the World Wide Web’s first interactive novel”, published in June 1996; I can’t find an accurate date for 253‘s launch, but it seems reasonable to say that even if it came out after Arellano’s work, it was still very much in the vanguard of web-native hypertext fictions. I used to read Wired in ’96 – dead-tree editions, of course, imported from the States – and remember the repeated pre-emptive obituaries for print media, and announcements of the imminence of the hypertext novel as the primary literary form of The Future. The former looks more likely now than it ever did, but still a long way off, while the latter – but for a small fringe scene – has remained resolutely below the radar, for reasons that are more obvious in hindsight. (I’m not going to waffle on about the paucity of viable business models for online fiction at this point; I’ve done enough of that at Futurismic over the years.) Continue reading 253 (Print Remix) by Geoff Ryman
So, that was Eastercon. My [stops to count old badges on lanyard] fifth, and my favourite so far. Well-organised, good fun; a great balance of the familiar and the new; old friends and fresh acquaintances…
… and some dramatic props. [Thanks to Chad Dixon for the photo.]
I often compare Eastercon to my experiences of Glastonbury back in my twenties: it costs me a fortune, I overindulge in my usual vices, I see less than a third of the stuff I vaguely planned to see, but yet I roll away with a warm glow that comes from sharing a highly specific chunk of space-time with a community of people who share one of the greatest passions of my life, inspired to do new things.
Granted, I’ve never left Eastercon coated in mud, wrapped in a space blanket and trying to chew my own left ear, so the analogy isn’t perfect. I’m pretty sure I never came back from Glasto carrying approximately a third of my own bodyweight in books, either. But hey, I need the exercise… and my Bruce Sterling collection draws nearer to Stage One completion.
Olympus was not utterly devoid of controversy and upset, however, and I find myself wanting to talk about that. After the initial heat-of-the-moment furore, what would really have helped would have been a good solid apology and admission of error from the primary source, but… well, this ain’t one.
So, look: you can watch what actually happened right here, and whatever side you take I think that’s gotta be the absolute entry level for having an opinion on this, unless you were actually at the BSFA Awards ceremony. And here’s a record of the Twitter backchannel as it happened.
I was in the audience. Things went from cringeworthy to worse; it was the sort of thing the “trainwreck” metaphor was made for. I was sat a few seats from Lavie Tidhar at the time. That was a very uncomfortable moment for me, as a straight white male British person who just happens to be Lavie’s friend. I can’t imagine how he felt… especially given that early in the day an audience member from the Non-Anglophone SF panel had breezed up to inform him that, despite English being Lavie’s second language, he spoke it very well indeed. Condescending, much?
The common factor here is that both cases of offence were not intended to offend – quite the opposite, in fact. But that doesn’t negate the offence.
The sad thing about this, for me at least, is that Olympus felt very diverse and inclusive with respect to its roster of guests, panel topics and panel composition; a real step forward, even within the short timeframe of my own involvement with fandom. The con committee and the BSFA worked damned hard to make that happen, and as much as I believe it’s important that the failures are acknowledged, I think the good stuff needs to be remembered, too; the sheer scale of effort and passion needed to make these things happen is staggering, and to overlook that energy and commitment would be grossly unfair, no matter what may have gone wrong along the way. So, for the record, let me congratulate the BSFA and the Olypus con committee, the gophers and techs and the folk behind the scenes: I wouldn’t even know where to start, and there was oodles of great stuff over the weekend for which praise is rightly due. There’s a tendency for the baby to go the same way as the bathwater in these situations, and in terms of the grand project – making fandom a space where everyone can feel safe, valued and included, regardless of gender, nationality, skin colour, sexuality or anything else – I feel that it would help to acknowledge that, as a community, we’re “working on our shit”, as the saying goes.
But that’s my privilege speaking, and I know it. It’s easy for me to sit here and hand-wring, rehearse weak or global versions of a The Tone Argument, and recruit for the Cult Of Nice. I’m a white able-bodied just-about-heterosexual cis-male British person, and as such it’s incredibly rare that anyone gets a platform to give my culture a proper kicking, deserved or otherwise. (And hell knows it’s deserved more often than not.)
It’s never pleasurable to have worked damned hard on something, only to have someone pull out the flaws and wave them in your face. But in the context of, say, writing fiction and subbing it to editors for publication, it’s widely acknowledged that that’s how you get better. Yeah, it hurts. Emotional growth, at least in my experience, always does. If the choice is pain or stasis, though, then pain it has to be.
One final thing: I am not holding myself up as an exemplar, here. I owe what personal politicisation I’ve achieved over the last decade to fandom – to debates and discussions (yes, and slapfights) just like this one. Hell knows that I’ve said countless dumb or offensive things over the years, secure and comfortable in my ignorance and privilege, and my unwarranted opinion of myself as a pretty progressive liberal kinda guy, thankyouverymuch. You could probably trawl through the archives right here at VCTB and find enough material to throw me right into the same sin-bin as Meaney, in fact, if not even a deeper one with sharper spikes. Perhaps you could even say that my invisibility was an added layer of privilege; it’s easy to get away with being thoughtless when thoughtlessness is ubiquitous, just one more voice in the crowd.
It is not for me to stand in judgement atop the mountain of the gods.
But this is my community, too, so nor is it for me to ignore or dismiss the hurt I see expressed by others less privileged than I, especially when some of them are people I count as good friends… and there’s a significant amount of it floating around on the intertubes today. (If you’ve not seen any, then perhaps it’s time for you to go look for it.)
I honestly believe the vast majority of us want fandom to be inclusive and welcoming to everyone, even if we aren’t quite as far along with that project as we’d like to think we are. So if I could have one wish, it’s that we keep to the inclusive spirit with which Olympus was put together and executed, and listen to those who are telling us that the story we tell each other (and ourselves) about our community has flaws that still need editing out.
Redrafting sucks. But it’s the only way to make the story better.
[ 1 – Stage One completion involves acquiring one copy of all extant titles, in or out of print; Stage Two will involve trading up all titles to the best editions available, preferably signed hardback firsts. I did a lot of collecting of various things as a kid, and nowadays I realise the best way to get lasting value from assembling a collection is to delimit the set and pick a completion goal with very low likelihood; non-set-limited collections soon lose their appeal for me (because how will you ever know when you’re done?), and completion means you have to find a new thing to collect. Think of it as a sort of vice management strategy; accept the inevitability of the vice, then steer it as safely and cheaply as possible into a cul-de-sac that you think you could live in for a good long time.
Yes, this is how I think about my hobbies. No, I don’t know why. It works for me. Selah. ]
So, Easter rolls around once more.
In recent years, Easter has become the pivot point of my annual circuit around the sun; Eastercon has a little to do with that, as does the standard 12-month rented housing contract. It’s probably amplified by the fact that I don’t celebrate Xmas or my birthday, too. Which isn’t to say I celebrate Easter, as such; I just tend to find myself looking around – in varying states of wonder and confusion – at the state of my life at this time of year.
Last Easter, for instance, I was making the move back to Velcro City from Stockport. The Easter before… well, we won’t rake over that again, though I made it to Eastercon that year, which probably went a fair way to helping me avoid some sort of full-scale nervous breakdown. (Not something Eastercon is regularly accused of, I’m willing to bet.)
So, what do I see from this year’s fulcrum? Looking backwards, I can make out the first half of my Masters: six hectic months of hard but thrilling work, running in parallel with me learning the ropes of my Research Assistant post. Before that, a long and lazy spring’n’summer in Velcro City, which took me back to its fractious bosom without so much as a “where you been, brah?” It was good, and just what I needed – a proper reboot, a return to familiarity and comfort after my long sabbatical on the banks of the Styx.
But I also feel like it cured me of something. By going back, I was able to leave again on my own terms, and for the right reasons. Stockport was grim because it felt like penance for my naivete and failure, and P-Town came to represent a normalisation point, a load-from-saved-game-and-start-again. I like to think I’m blitzing the level this time through, if only by comparison to last time.
Looking ahead (and ignoring, for the sake of convenience, the hand-in date for my spring semester assignments the week after next), it’s five months of dissertation, plus more infrastructure research for my patient employers at the Pennine Water Group. Come September or so, once I’ve handed my dissertation in, it’ll be time to move out of London. Where will I go? I’m not sure yet, to be honest, but I’ll need to start thinking about it sooner rather than later.
I also need to think about what comes next. If I do well enough in my Masters (and I have some hope that I might), then I might well apply to do a PhD. But in what, and with whom, and where? I have some ideas, but it’s all very nebulous at this point. I need to learn more about the upper echelons of academia before trying to make those decisions, I suspect. And I need to finish these assignments.
But first, it’s Eastercon – a long weekend of hanging out with friends, talking about books and writing, and boozy fun-times.
After that? Well, we’ll have to wait and see.
Yesterday afternoon, the ever-lovely @littlemoog dropped me a line to see if I fancied catching a screening of the classic silent movie Nosferatu at the Prince Charles Cinema, just off Leicester Square. We’d discovered the Charlie a few weeks back, thanks to Sophie Meyer – tutor of the just-about-finished Short Form module of my Masters – suggesting that we all go and see Silent Running as an end-of-semester class outing*.
The Charlie is primarily a “second-run” theatre, specialising in screenings of cult movies with an assortment of twists on the usual sit-down-and-shut-up format; their sing-along-a-screenings seem to be consistently popular, for instance. The main screen has comfy seats with a lot of leg-room, and the prices are generally pretty decent too.
Sing-along-a-Nosferatu wouldn’t work, of course, given that it’s a classic of the silent era. But what we got was even better: the film was accompanied by a soundtrack performed live by post-rock outfit Minima. Apparently this isn’t an entirely new phenomenon – the guys from Minima told me they’ve been doing similar stuff since the mid-Noughties – but it was a new experience for me, and one I’ll definitely be looking to repeat. For a start, the traditional tones of post-rock – effected and echo-drenched guitar for melody and texture-drones; effected cello and electric bass; untreated drumkit – are eminently suited to soundtrack work (witness the only-now-fading ubiquity of Sigur Rós tunes in nature documentaries, for instance). But rather than kludging existing tunes to fit the film, Minima have developed their soundtrack from the ground up, fitting everything neatly to the happenings on screen, bringing the scenes to life. Much of the magic comes from their willingness to have fun at the right moments… I won’t spoil it for you, but the scene in which the disguised Count gives Hutter a ride to the castle on his funereal carriage was LOLtastic.
I’d never seen Nosferatu before, though I was vaguely familiar with it thanks to countless riffs and references to it in other media. Given it was made in 1922, I was impressed by its cinematic maturity… or perhaps surprised at how many film-making techniques and strategies have persisted over that ninety year period (I often describe myself as “cinematically challenged”; I’ve always been more of a books person.). The visual atmosphere is what will stay with me the longest, I suspect: the bleak and lonely locations, especially. The shot near the end with the coffins being carried down the main street of the town during the plague was very affecting… though that may be partly due to the contrast with the rambunctious chase-scene that follows it.
All in all, a great evening out, and I’m very glad @littlemoog dragged me out of my garret for it. If you’re London based and love classic movies, you could do far worse than keep a close eye on the Charlie’s listings page. And if you get the opportunity to see Minima do one of their live soundtrack performances, you’d be mad to pass it up. All the best bits of a movie screening and a live gig in one package; A-double-plus recommend.
[ * Silent Running is an oddly charming little film, given the fundamental bleakness of its premise. Much like Nosferatu, it has moments of laugh-out-loud comedy, though I expect they were intended as such, whereas many of the comedic moments in Nosferatu are more a function of audience unfamiliarity with the ‘language’ of the silent film (e.g. exaggerated emotional face-pulling, slapsticky body-comedy). Here’s Al Reynolds on why Silent Running is one of his favourites. ]
Big fuck-off Hollywood /
and the paradox of tolerance /
the engineering of consent /
an America for Americans /
preserved in amber /
like genes for dinosaurs /
and dreams of the powerless.
[Death to Hollywood… ]
There’s a big fuck-off Hollywood /
in a church built by slaves /
where all glitters and twinkles /
and hungry are all the poor that you made.
Where the weather’s fine /
dark clouds all gather /
trusting and faceless…
[Death to Hollywood… /
… let’s put an end to Hollywood.]
Posted here and now because, well, just look at the bloody news: plastic-faced glitterati patting themselves hard on the back while the world falls apart around them.
The great tragedy of the internet isn’t that it’ll destroy Hollywood’s business model; it’s that it hasn’t achieved it yet.