(Reprinted from the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography [cclapcenter.com]. I am the original author of this essay, as well as the owner of CCLaP; it is not being reprinted here illegally.)
This is one of four books that recently came in and out of my life without me finishing, which coincidentally enough also kicks off a little mini-series coming here to CCLaP this month; for, you see, by sheer dumb luck, I was able this month to get my hands on half of the ten science-fiction novels nominated this year for either the Hugo or Philip K Dick awards. This one here, for example, was nominated for the Hugo, an award which supposedly reflects the best SF novel of the entire year, and is considered by many to be the most prestigious award in that entire industry; but, oh, I don't know -- I don't want to say that Jon Armstrong's Grey is out-and-out bad, because it isn't, just that it's got one of those storylines that sounds a whole lot better as a premise inside an author's brain, while not so great or even that compelling when actually committed to paper. In fact, my brain is already fuzzy about the plot's details, a mere week after putting the manuscript down: it's the future, I remember that, a future run by royal Shakespearean families of sorts, where decorum and protocol rule all and the subtleties of fashion and music have become an outrageous arena for displaying one's political opinions. Unfortunately, though, Armstrong uses such a milieu to tell a mostly forgettable story, something about the wealthy and good-looking son of one of these outrageously-dressed patriarchs, who is part of some sort of weird countercultural fashion movement to dress only in infinitely subtle shades of grey, and I guess belongs to a religion that worships advertisements or something like that, and who along with his true love is fighting the prearranged political marriages that are the norm for their society. Or...something.
Like I said, I can see how this might've seemed like a cool concept for a fantastical novel when Armstrong was first dreaming it up; a shiny surrealist world where private armies wear stylish bright-orange satin suits and have three-foot-high hairdos, and where the ultimate form of rebellion a fey young fashionista can partake in is to only eat tan foods. But see, once you start writing stuff like that down, you start realizing just how ridiculous a lot of it would actually look if seen in the real world, or at least you should; this is the same problem, for example, that leads to all the ridiculous things you see in SF movie adaptations, from Zardoz to Southland Tales, all those silly cartoonish details that make you scratch your head and go, "Who the hell ever thought this would be a good idea?" Grey is not necessarily a bad book, but is definitely only for the most hardcore SF junkies out there, the genre apologists who not only own the DVD box-sets of crappy 1970s obscure television space operas, but actually watch them on a regular basis. Again, it makes me wonder why it got nominated for a Hugo in the first place, when you would think that the award-givers would want to concentrate on the absolute best their industry had to offer that year. Approach with caution.
Out of 10: 5.3