So, here’s what you want to know: you already know that Jack Vance is the granddaddy of several streams of science fiction and fantasy. You already know that Big Planet was the first genuine attempt in the genre to create a full-fledged society on an alien planet. You already know that Big Planet is the ancestor of masterpieces like Le Guin’s Left Hand of Darkness and Aldiss’ Helliconia. So you know it was influential, seminal. But here is what you want to know: you want to know, alright, it's important, you get that, but does it still work? Is it any good?
And the answer to that question is, well, no, not really. But that’s okay. It's just a start, right?
So, long ago, Big Planet was the destination for Earth’s misfits; the criminals, the outcasts. One town, we are informed, was founded by the members of a disaffected ballet troupe. Over the generations, the descendants of those first settlers divided into various societies across the globe, and Big Planet is now a patchwork of random nations and cultural groups with no overarching government, and with constant conflict among them. Recently, though, the Bajurnum of Beaujolais (whose name is too evocative of Lewis Carroll’s Boojum to be a coincidence) has begun purchasing weapons and invading neighboring nations. Our heroes from Earth have been sent to Big Planet to stop the Bajurnum from forming an Empire (why this should bother Earth is never entirely made clear.) But someone on board the Earth ship is a traitor. The ship is sabotaged. The crew crash lands. The adventure begins as Claude Gystra and his men realize they will have to trek 40, 000 miles across Big Planet to arrive at Earth Enclave (essentially the Earth embassy) in order to contact Earth authorities and be rescued. That the projected journey is 40, 000 miles, and yet the book is under 200 pages, tells you something about how seriously this book ought to be taken.
The set-up, at least, is instantly engaging. In the first three pages, the Captain and first mate are murdered, the ship crashes, a nun is crushed to death, our hero is fed soup by a country maiden on an alien planet, and adventure beckons. We discover the planet possesses no heavy metals, which means no machinery, no electricity, nothing we would consider modern civilization. The ideas here, the natural possibilities of the story, are stimulating. Who will our heroes meet? What have these descendants of Earth done with themselves? How will the lack of metals determine the living conditions of the planet’s inhabitants? The attitude of the novel seems, at first, to be that of a sociologist, or an anthropologist - this won’t be like Burrough’s Mars, we feel, not just some mountains and valleys to present obstacles and hide bad guys, but an honest-to-goodness living and breathing civilization, with economics, local leadership styles, class structures, and an existence before the heroes arrived that will continue after they leave. That was Vance’s contribution. That is what later writers picked up and ran with - the sociological approach to alien civilizations. It's not that Vance did it well. It's that he did it at all, and that's nothing to be scoffed at.
But other than that, there isn't much here for a modern reader to be excited about. The sociological approach turns out to be mostly window dressing, a pose the characters take before hopping to the next adventure. Gystra asks a couple of sociological questions, but we don’t delve deeply into any of the alien societies, and the plot (which is extremely episodic) consists mainly of entering and escaping from various places by various creative means with a myriad variety of bad guys in pursuit. The final adventure, true to form, entails the rescuing of a girl. And the intellectual attractions begin to wane when we realize the novel, at its heart, is merely an enactment of the standard trappings of pulpy adventure fantasy fiction. Emotions are absent. The pacing is breathless monotony. Death and violence are treated with the casualness of 1930’s space opera. Characterization is non-existent. When we discover the identity of the saboteur, the reveal is meaningless, because the crew are just a bunch of names, interchangeable, empty. The only thing I can tell you about Gystra is that he's in charge, don't ask me why. As they cross the planet, the crew members are killed off one by one, and none of the deaths trigger even the vaguest of responses, other than, “Um, which one was he again?” When Gystra and Nancy have a disagreement, and Gystra worries that their relationship will “never again be quite the same,” the notion that the reader had any investment whatsoever in this so-called relationship in the first place is laughable.
This book will work on you about as well as you can enjoy simply crafted and relatively mindless adventure stuff. It is not bad on that score, just ordinary. If identifying with characters, or even being able to discern character, is something you need from your novels, then this one will pose a problem for you. There are some neat touches. The nation of Kristendale, for example, is a marvelous invention, a mysterious city of sport and luxury. One morning, one of Gystra’s crew members has vanished, and the leader of Kristendale announces with pride that a rare and delicious meat will be served at table that evening. Vance has some fun with our expectations here, and the secret to the nation’s mysterious nature is a nice conceit, probably the best stab at social criticism the book undertakes. There is also a cool chase by some black-clad riders mounted on demonic beasts with naked skulls for heads that, though reminiscent of the equivalent scene in Fellowship of the Ring, works for about the same reasons. But the rest is just filler, the chase, the adventure, and not done with any particular panache or style, either. Readers of The Dying Earth will find that surprising. The thing that is new, the sociological approach to alien civilizations, seems almost secondary, like something Vance invented by accident. It would be later writers, and later Jack Vance himself, who would confront the idea head on, and make it sing.
It’s worth reading, of course, if you’re a fan of the genre interested in origins. Otherwise, allow me to strongly recommend The Dying Earth, if you haven't read it, which, being the masterpiece that it is, makes Big Planet seem like a trifle.