I requested this on Netgalley despite not actually being that into Ballard, which may seem perverse, but it has contributions from various other writers I like: Iain Sinclair, Will Self, Michael Moorcock are all listed on the cover. Granted, in at least two of those cases I don't like their current stuff as much as the older material, but obligingly they all go back to basics here; Will Self drops the modernist elder statesman bit for his old glee in being shocking, and this is the first time in ages that I've seen Sinclair write about Driffield. Moorcock, of course, has been doing new Jerry Cornelius vignettes for a while, but when you've already created an avatar for times of perpetual collapse, it would be the wrong kind of perverse not to set him running in what passes for the present.
And really, it's not quite that I don't like Ballard, more that he did one very particular thing extremely well, and that even at the length of a short novel, it generally got a bit much for me, although given it was something like a disaffected, clinical eye upon the world, it could sometimes translate extremely well into a camera's gaze, which is why I'd probably take the films of Crash and (apart from the stupid ending) High-Rise over any of the original texts. Curiously, the one place I've seen physical copies of this collection was in the BFI bookshop, a prominent display which seemed odd when it's not ostensibly a book with that strong a cinema connection, but which on a deeper level confirmed my suspicion. And then there's Paul di Filippo's contribution here, in which Ballard washes up in LA after the War, and after a recommendation from Roger Corman ends up making films in the same milieu, with another historical figure along for the ride (I initially thought two, but no, turns out there really was a cameraman called Fred West working there).
Reading this collection, I started to wonder if Ballard wasn't a bit like Mark E Smith. Not just in the sense of being a prolific figure with a reliable point of view, still seen as somehow countercultural despite being firmly ensconced in the canon, and thus absolute catnip to a certain sort of mostly male fan. But because I know a Fall tribute band, the Fallen Women, who perform with a different guest vocalist for each track, and the remarkable thing is that whoever that may be, whether it's my spouse or my mates or a celebrity I like or just some random drunk bloke, I like every last one of them more than the originals. And similarly, this has writers I like and writers I used to like and writers I don't know from Adam, and even when they don't quite capture that beady eye, I think I enjoyed all of their Ballards more than actual Ballard*. Sometimes more than them as themselves, too: Jeff Noon's time travel car crash story here is the first thing of his I've liked in a decade; Christopher Fowler was a writer whose good bits always drew me on through the many things that annoyed me in his work, but I don't think his contribution here, presumably some of his final writing, irked me once. I mean, yes, outside this context I'd probably have said its closest kin was Victor Pemberton's The Slide, but fuck it, it's set in a luxury resort, that's Ballard enough. Perhaps the secret is in Selflessness by David Gordon, one of the contributors I'd not encountered before, which suggests a common root for so much human malaise: "the self sort of swells up, becomes irritated and painful, just like any organ that is inflamed or infected." Treated in the story through a drug trial, but here through writing in the world of someone else for a while, and that someone as detached as Ballard. Curiously, even then some of the obvious signifiers aren't the ones people go for. Sure, there are lots of brittle gated communities, and writers pick up on some of the ways that the modern world feels more Ballard than ever - weird weather; AI as it actually is rather than the classic SF version; shortages and a sense of the precarious, even in nominally affluent countries and communities. Other opportunities, though, aren't seized - I was sure there'd be a riff on the Fyre Festival, but no, and there's a surprising extension of contemporary fiction's wider reluctance to deal with mobiles. OK, Ramsey Campbell puts one at the heart of his story, but that's more a Black Mirror approach than simply accounting for their casual ubiquity. Most shocking of all, especially given the title, is how few contributors go for the peak Ballard of an empty swimming pool - though given the exception is by one of the editors, maybe it was less that they didn't want to go the overly obvious route, more that he simply warned everyone else he'd bagsied those. But given the parameters of the assignment, I think my favourite has to be the one piece which outright takes the piss, Geoff Nicholson's Drift - a (literally) pedestrian Crash with Elizabeth Taylor's role taken by Olivia Colman.
*OK, maybe not The January 6, 2021 Washington DC Riot Considered As A Black Friday Sale, by Pat Cadigan, which would be a perfect title for a Ballardian story referenced and never seen, but which can't quite work itself out beyond occasional glimmers like the significance of 'the customer is always right', and a delightful comparison of the tangerine fraudster to Beanie Babies.