If you're serious about good fiction and are educated in storytelling, don't believe all of the praise for "The Blade Itself."
Abercrombie's trilogy has been getting a lot of buzz in fantasy circles. Most readers call it "unconventional fantasy," the back cover of my edition calls it "noir fantasy," and the loftiest of readers call it "literary fantasy." I don't find any of these terms oxymoronic--but they are all applied incorrectly to this book. "The Blade Itself" is as uninteresting and cliche-riddled as anything else. In this review, I attack the most common points of praise: good fight scenes, complex characters, and tight plotting.
One of the things praised near-universally is Abercrombie's "fight scenes." Anyone who's seen a film understands the difficulty of reproducing fast-paced physical combat in a less-than-ideal medium; writing fight scenes is hard. For the most part, at a technical level, Abercrombie holds his own. The fights have most of what they need: rhythm, description, visibility. What they frequently lack is a purpose, or emotional stakes. There's more to constructing compelling fights than "someone's gonna die." So when characters randomly come across highwaymen or "Flatheads," the feeling is not of meaningful characters clashing--it's of Abercrombie forcing an adrenaline shot. (Speaking of those Flatheads, I still don't even know if they were human or some kind of gnoll; there's never a precise description.)
I'm definitely not anti-battle. But the best fight scenes involve high stakes for both sides--stakes beyond physical preservation. Every scene present feels too one-sided. (As an example, consider Obi-Wan Kenobi VS. Darth Vader in "A New Hope": master and student, old friends, now representing entire philosophies of the Force's light and dark sides, of nigh-extinct Jedi and all-powerful Sith. Now consider Yoda VS. Count Dooku/Darth Tyrannus at the end of "Attack of the Clones": Yoda doesn't want him to escape, and they're, uh . . . opposed politically? Wow, look how acrobatic the little green guy is!)
A second point of widespread acclaim for "The Blade Itself" is its characters. Common proclamations are that they break the fantasy mold by being flawed, witty, and antiheroic. I see an underlying assumption in these readers, though, and that's that the above character traits automatically make well-constructed characters. But despite hitting this literary checklist, Abecrombie's characters are flat and uncomplicated.
Glokta was an up-and-coming knight crippled by torture, who became a torturer himself. He's spiteful towards everything. Okay. What else? Well, he schemes a lot. And he's witty. He thinks a lot of jokes in italics. And . . . I guess he wishes his leg didn't hurt all the time. What about this is interesting or complicated?
Logen used to kill a bunch of people, but now he doesn't. His family got murdered by an acquaintance, someone for whom he used to kill people, now self-proclaimed "King of the Northmen." O, Irony!
Jezal's handsome and rich and rakish, and he's training to win a contest and trying to bang this one chick. Sweet. Except it's his friend's sister, of no nobility. Bummer.
And Ferro--she comes in halfway through the novel. She's a girl running from an emperor's harem and she's really angry and she kills all these people! Wicked!
Alongside the mains is a Gandalfian wizard waiting in the rafters until the world needs him yet again, a normal guy who slaps his sister at one part, a woman with brains (gasp!) and a whole bunch of even less interesting secondaries.
There's something readers of this book fail to understand. The cliches of yesterday are no longer the cliches of today. The gallant knight, the damsel in distress, the Dark Lord, the roguish wanderer; all are known to be cliche across fantasy, and as a result they don't appear anymore. Those cliche cliches (doubly cliche?) have been identified, catalogued, discussed at length, and hermetically sealed so that no one will ever use them again. The kind of characters Abercrombie uses are the new cliche, still fresh enough to be unrecognizable to the masses--antiheroes, dirty and uncouth, yet still saving the world in their own ragtag way. All of the book's characters--all, without exception--are basic and uncomplicated. Their motivations are too simple, their actions are unsurprising, and even their dialogue is tired.
There's a special affront in the female characters. The new "progressivism" of male fantasy writers has been to abolish the uncomplicated princess and replace her with a richer female character. The result? A cliche as predictable as before, and just as insulting, only in a veiled way. The main female in too many modern fantasies (Ardee West is the character here) is the aforementioned "woman with brains" in a world where women don't have brains. Whether she's a peasant or a princess, her wit makes all the other characters afraid of her. She doesn't "fit in." Also, this commonly manifests physically--i.e., she's "too tall." In the end, though, this stuff doesn't matter; she always ends up with a guy who "deserves" her. While her narration and her dialogue might be more engaging than the cliched princesses of yore, she does nothing to bolster femininity in fantasy. She winds up wedded and bedded like all the rest. Giving a female a little wit to abolish cliche is no more significant a gesture than unknotting one of the princess's bows.
(At this point, one might mention Ferro--the feral female, savage and furious, who shoots arrows through eyeballs more often than she says something witty. Okay. So a different bow is unknotted. This female can fight. This doesn't make her pro-fem, and it certainly doesn't make her a good anticliche--she's as crappy a character as any beefcake male who carries a six-foot sword and grunts a lot.)
My final grievance is in the structure of this book--or perhaps the structure of this trilogy, and what this book was designed to do. This is the party-former. It doesn't even attempt to stand alone--there's no smaller goal in sight for the end of book one. Imagine if "The Fellowship of the Ring" ended in Rivendell with the forming of the fellowship. Wow, that kind of stinks. Now erase all knowledge of Sauron, the ring itself, or any clear endgoal for the obviously ensuing quest. Wow--that actually really stinking sucks. That's what "The Blade Itself" does. Things happen. There's little cause and effect. The chapters are a smattering of chain links spilled across the floor, and you won't even know what the broken chain should be attached to until the end. You'll read 500-odd pages of uninteresting characterization, artifically-inseminated fight scenes, and witty witter's witticisms (does Abercrombie truly think snarky one-liners are the height of comedy?) before hitting the end of the book and finding out that the story has yet to begin.
If you're interested in all of the above by the end, great. You'll love the next two, I'm sure. I wasn't grabbed by any of it, though, and won't be finishing the series.