I got into a pretty serious funk recently, for whatever reason (maybe just the expected re-emergence of my dear and oldest friend: nebulous, unmanageable existential dread), and I decided you know what, almost everything I've been reading for the past like three years has been unnecessarily dense and academic, and I don't even know why I'm still doing it to myself, because I hate it. I suppose I felt a kind of obligation to read serious, challenging real-life things, as if the dread I feel needs any more of a legitimate basis from which to overtake my entire body, violently and abruptly, at the quiet corner table of a coffee shop at ten thirty in the morning on a horrible empty Tuesday in July - but then I realized, I could just read a Star Wars book or something. So when I recognized Saladin Ahmed's name on this one at the bookstore (I follow him on Twitter, without really knowing what he does or who he is, just that I think he's neat), I decided to buy it. I was very specifically looking for some sort of salve for the depression spiral I was still plunging down, and more or less that is what I got, so I was happy about that. Not thrilled, but sated. Satisfied and pleased, definitely, in a small way - which was all I was hoping for really (because you don't get that feeling reading, for instance, the book I'm reading now, which is about the eventual destruction of all life on earth as a result of climate change. Like, I do this to myself. That's why I wanted a Star Wars book).
Individual reviews of Canto Bight's four short stories:
4 stars: Rules of the Game (Saladin Ahmed)
I had no idea what kind of writer Ahmed was before I read this. I was 100% banking on my vague but favorable Twitter impression of him, and it turned out I gambled correctly, because this story was really good. I'm also judging it by different standards than normal (my normal standards are haughty and unreasonable), not because I look down on Star Wars short fiction (not willingly, anyway) but because I don't think there's any point in, for instance, directly contrasting this kind of writing to like, Isaac Asimov, or whatever other big-brain shit. Clearly Star Wars as a whole has a different tone than what I usually gravitate to - because I'm a morbid and overly-pretentious fool - and whoever it was that got this particular project going obviously wasn't asking for morbid, overly-pretentious writing. So, Rules of the Game has a generally light-hearted tone, and the prose itself is simple - but these, in a sneaky sort of way, serve to deliver some very heavy, serious themes: like police violence, which isn't necessarily what the story is "about", but it definitely is what you come away thinking about the most when you're done, or at least that was the case for me. A different writer might have introduced the violent police officer character in the way villains often are in vaguely kid-friendly media: as essentially goofy (to take the edge away), not actually dangerous so much as presenting a nebulous threat of danger, and easily dispatched or driven away - but Ahmed didn't do it that way. The abusive officer is a real threat, genuinely scary, and he genuinely causes harm to one of the main characters, in a way that is not glossed over or sanitized. And he makes sure to specify - subtly, but definitively - that this is an issue with the nature of the police as an institution, more than it is with individual evil people. That is a very necessary fact to get across - like, in the world, in general - and he did it in a story that is also, at the same time somehow, genuinely very funny and entertaining. The main character Kedpin could have been terribly annoying - and sort of is, but in an endearing way - but Ahmed steered clear of that eventuality, as well as the eventuality of writing one of those extremely boring "bumbling fool" characters that have no personality but to be bumbling, and harmless. Kedpin actually has a character arc, and a convincing one at that - and this in a very short amount of pages.
Saladin Ahmed is very good with characters, and also very funny. The writing itself isn't spectacular but I don't think it has to be, since he communicated what he wanted to communicate and did it all in an entertaining way. It turns out simplicity can really work. It turns out, in fact, that an entertaining Star Wars story about a small pink alien named Kedpin Shoklop explores police violence better than the entirety of real-life corporate media - and I just think that's neat.
2 stars: The Wine in Dreams (Mira Grant)
I'd never heard of Mira Grant before, and it turns out the name is a pseudonym for the Hugo-award nominated author Seanan McGuire, who I'd also never hard of before. (I followed her on Twitter, after). Her story is about - and I really genuinely think the concept is beyond fantastic - an intergalactic sommelier who travels from place to place, tasting wines, making connections, and selling to very affluent alien customers. Once I grasped the concept (and I did go into every story completely blind, not on purpose but because I didn't care and didn't read the blurbs on the back) I was pretty hyped to see what the writer would do with it, because you could do so much with that. Unfortunately the story is functionally nonsensical and I had no idea what was happening almost the entire time.
Two of the central characters in the story - the weird alien twins - act in ways that don't make sense, and Grant's in-text explanation of sorts is that well they just enjoy causing chaos. The thing is it didn't really come off like a genuine motivation as much as it did an excuse to not have to think about why anyone was doing anything they were doing. It had a very me-when-I-was-twelve-playing-with-my-action-figures vibe to it, in that the imagination is there but the thread of narrative function really, really isn't - and maybe it makes perfect sense to you, but if you can't communicate it to a less-invested reader... you just lose them. And I got incredibly lost. I wanted to like it - I wanted to like every story, desperately, because I was in a depression spiral - but I didn't like this one.
Which is not to say that I didn't see glimmers I really did like, because I did. I liked the sommelier character, and again I loved the concept to pieces. But the other thing that turned me off about this one, besides the general making-it-up-as-you-go-along feeling, was the writing itself. It was often immensely self-indulgent, and not in a good way, not in that Virginia Woolf going on for extremely long, poetic paragraphs about basically nothing way; it was in more of a "talented high schooler who has always been universally adored by English teachers and was never told when to stop" way. It was a bit much. I do understand that she possibly meant it to be a bit much, since the story was sort of about affluence and pretentions and the kind of nihilistic way rich fucks approach existence; but you have to pull it off for real if that's your angle, otherwise it's just a terrible slog. It was a terrible slog. And I realize I'm saying this about a Hugo-nominated author. Maybe she was just off with this one, or it was kind of a throw-away story she needed to put somewhere - but either way, too unfocused, too indulgent, too much of a wasted concept.
4 stars: Hear Nothing, Say Nothing, See Nothing
Add Rae Carson to the list of people I'd never heard of but now follow on Twitter. As with all the stories here, I had no idea what to expect, and in retrospect I kind of really enjoyed that; it's nice to go into things with no existing biases, favorable or not. So with a totally clean brain, wiped of all associations and preexisting assumptions, I went into this one and came out the other side immensely surprised by how much I'd enjoyed it. I wasn't sure for a long time if I was going to like it, because the story seemed a bit too derivative (poor hardworking dad, suffering from health problems, has to rescue his strong, wily adoptive daughter; action sequences ensue), but here's the thing with good storytelling: deriativeness doesn't ultimately matter, if you know what you're doing and if you pull it off with seamless flying colors - which is exactly what Carson did. And I would argue she is the best writer of the four - but she's the best writer in a sneaky way. Because Mira Grant/Seanan McGuire is flowery as all hell (obnoxiously so), and certainly has the best words, as a fascist in a terrible suit once said; but Carson can actually handle pacing, character motivations, dialogue, and payoff, in that particular kind of way you run into sometimes that's just inexpressibly satisfying. The story is derivative - it follows many expected action-movie/thriller beats - but there's a reason action movies and thrillers are often similar: because those beats, when pulled off just right, work. Rae Carson pulls them off just right.
But that alone doesn't make a good story, because there needs to be something anchoring it - like reviewers and others often say, "someone to care about". The main character in this story - a renowned masseur who nonetheless suffers in poverty (because Canto Bight is an exploitative capitalist hellscape city) - is very likable, and very genuine. He's written very well, and is not nearly as simple as he could have been in a different writer's hand. The dialogue in general here is superior, and so are the characters - even the less interesting ones (like the kid, unfortunately, who's kind of boringly nice and capable, sorry) are more interesting and three-dimensional than a majority of characters in fiction generally. It's for all these reasons that I think Carson is the best in this little anthology, and I plan to read more of her stuff (once I'm done slogging through my desperately unhappy end-of-times climate change book, maybe).
2 stars: The Ride (John Jackson Miller)
I have written many words now and I'm getting tired - in any case it kind of works out, because I think The Ride deserves the least of my time and attention going over. It was easier reading than The Wine In Dreams, in that every other sentence wasn't an eye-rolling hunk of word salad, but in some ways I actually liked it less - and that feeling essentially boils down to the fact of the story's message, which is (kind of horribly, considering the stories that went right before it, with their capitalism-is-exploitative and no-this-state-of-being-isn't-acceptable-longterm undertones) that you know what, let's just all not worry about anything and enjoy ourselves. We're at a casino, after all, let's just have fun! Why not! Things don't matter! And I'm like, uhhhhhh ????? - kind of tone deaf, John Jackson Miller, did you read the one about the uh, police violence - And I mean for sure, there's a point to be made about being able to enjoy yourself in small, meaningful ways in the face of (oncoming climate catastrophe and societal collapse?) but that's not really what it came across as, here; it rang, to me, more of those shitty guys in their twenties who don't think racism exists anymore because democracy fixed it, so we can all just relax now. So don't make a fuss huh? And so, the anthology - the anthology that also goes over police violence, class oppression, income inequality, animal rights, etc., etc. - finishes on the most horrendously unhelpful note it possibly could. I wondered maybe if it was an attempt at irony, but I really do not think it was. It seems completely sincere; I can't mental-gymnastics myself into thinking it wasn't.
So, you know. It finished things off a bit sourly, for my taste.
Basically, you could remove The Wine in Dreams and The Ride and you'd still have a perfectly cohesive (if slightly less fleshed-out) picture of Canto Bight, in all its miserable, gaudy colors. I love the idea of the city generally, and I think there's so much more that could be done with that. They scratched some of that potential here, but it missed the mark in other ways, too. But it staved off my existential dread for a little while anyway, so I'm glad I picked it up, in the end.