Book Review of Judas Unchained (Ass End of The Commonwealth Saga, by Peter F. Hamilton)
In a spirit of full disclosure, I think of myself as a rather lazy person. So it should come as a bit of a surprise to me (and you, if you know me) that I am inspired, nay, compelled to submit a review of Judas Unchained (and the Commonwealth Saga of which it is the ass-end). But it does not surprise me. In fact, I’ve been saying for weeks how much I looked forward to finishing this series just so I could get some things off my chest. But even then, saying the words, I didn’t really believe I’d take the time. So, I give Peter F. Hamilton kudos for one thing (well in fairness, other things too, but I haven’t written those yet) - his jostling me from my torpor was a groundbreaking achievement. Unlike Judas Unchained.
But first, let me set the mood. It was about 3 years ago that I picked up the first volume of Night’s Dawn, in my quest to find truly entertaining space opera. Anyone who has read the series knows of the commitment required to complete it. But I was blown away by the first three chapters – truly excellent sci-fi. Definitely a cut above the typical tripe. Had I finally found space opera worthy of the effort? It seemed possible. So I consumed the first book with some relish. Not that relish; the other relish. Anyway, Hamilton volumes come in at well over 1,000 pages each, and while I knew I had two more to go, I already had some metaphorical intestinal rumblings of, how you say, trepidation, regarding the trajectory Hamilton had set. But I figured, “what the hell, maybe it’s not him, it’s me.” Plus, I had already purchased the other two volumes. And since I am far cheaper than I am discerning, I continued on.
I will spare the details, but as you may have inferred from my tone, I was less than pleased. The reasons were many, but I’ll just list my top three: (1) ghosts; (2) famous syphilitic gangster ghosts; and the coup-de-grace, (3) a deus ex machina. It was a stupid plot full of stupid characters in a universe I would have much preferred see swallowed whole by a different universe wherein books, stupid or otherwise, did not exist. At least I was too old to start cutting myself, thank God (or in this case, thank the mysterious alien race with profoundly superior, utterly inexplicable technology, foresight and timing)! Now there are an infinite number of sins more off-putting than a deus ex machina in general, but few as bad as a deus ex machina after three-fucking-thousand-plus pages. And given the poignant promise of the first three chapters, so many pages prior, it felt less like bad writing and more like a literary exercise in assault by disparity.
Anyhoo, I decided to burn the books. We like to camp, so I thought I would just put the books in the car on the next drive up the mountain and burn them. Preferably while cooking bacon over them. But I never did. My car is small, and space is a precious commodity when going camping. Unlike a Hamilton tome, some people actually have to make choices to leave some things behind. So they remained home unburned. But I resolved to never, EVER, read anything by Hamilton again.
As some say, “that which does not kill us has the capacity to horribly disfigure.” Time passed, and there really is a dearth of good space opera. A friend with typically excellent taste in sci-fi happened to mention Pandora’s Star and Judas Unchained. Amid prolific spittle, wild gesticulation, and much gnashing of teeth, I recounted my Night’s Dawn experience, up to and including the planned yet aborted conflagration. He encouraged me to give it a shot. I took his word for it. He’s currently rolled up in a carpet in the trunk of my car.
I finished Judas Unchained in the wee hours of the morning. My experience with the Commonwealth Saga, as with Night’s Dawn, is the epitome of unequivocal and insurmountable ambivalence. It’s not so much that I have a love/hate relationship with Peter (may I call you Peter, Peter?). It’s that I am as intrigued as I am repulsed by the chasm between how good are some aspects and how lame are others. Examples of the good: intricate plot (an improvement on Night’s Dawn), frenetic pace of most action sequences, brilliant description and deployment of technology. Examples of meh: paucity of character development, infuriating and homogenous dialogue, puerile intrapersonal relationships and dynamics. Regarding the good stuff, the plot was particularly entertaining and I really appreciated the lack of a deus ex machina (although, for the record, he did include an aloof, vastly superior alien race with technological prowess defying comprehension, but at least he introduced them early, so whatever). The action sequences were well crafted and vivid. The tech was cool, if not at times merely convenient to further the storyline.
But there simply wasn’t enough of the good to overshadow the bad. And I’d feel differently if Hamilton stood alone on the “good,” but he doesn’t. Iain M. Banks comes to mind. Vernor Vinge is another.
And by “bad,” I mean, “wait, what?” bad. Singularly, no one flaw rises to the level of “the primary antagonist is the ghost of Al Capone” bad. But collectively...it’s more like death by a thousand cuts.
About the characters. Given the staggering number of characters introduced, they were fundamentally the same character. Correction: the men were all the same – two-dimensionally inflexible and unmemorable. Some did have Scottish accents, purportedly. The women were varied, if by “variety” one means they each embodied different stereotypes: the ambitious ball-buster politician with a weakness for hot young terrorists; the slut straight out of pre-pubescent wet dream central casting (you know, for the boy who dreams of one day becoming a sci-fi author so he can meet, and touch, women); the bawdy, military badass whose communication options are limited to “snark”, “skank,” and “snarky skank.” The women who weren’t stereotyped were less interesting and memorable, if not less annoying. None of the characters came across as believable, which is remarkable given the number of characters and the number of pages with which Hamilton had to work. I certainly didn’t care about any of them, individually or collectively, and I like to think of myself as a fairly nice guy. Seriously, for an extinction-level threat to humanity to work for the reader, it might be helpful to create a society, culture and characters one would actually mind seeing wiped out for the rest of the galaxy’s sake. I would have actually routed for the aliens, except I make of point of never throwing my hat in the ring with giant, insectoid, telepathic butternut squash.
About the “Project Runway” Effect. I must say that Hamilton does have an eye for detail and description. This is both good and bad. At times he draws a vivid tableau onto which the action unfolds in a compelling way. At other times, he becomes a bit preoccupied with women’s fashion, which comes off as rather creepy and uncomfortable, as if we have a perspective into a blind spot we were not meant to see.
About the dialogue. First, an author without a sense of humor is incapable of writing funny dialogue. I think that’s a law of physics. Banter can become freakish. Not that every author needs a sense of humor. It’s just that, if you want to write a character with a sense of humor, your own is indispensable. Second, if every character says the same things in the same ways, it’s an act of courtesy to begin or end each line of dialogue with, “Joe said,” “Jane exclaimed,” or some variant thereof. It became so difficult at times to follow who was saying what, especially in the midst of the ubiquitous “witty” repartee, until I remembered that the dialogue didn’t matter anyway and I scanned ahead to the next volley of micro-missiles.
And finally, about the sex. Stop. Just stop. I understand that some teenage boys may read these books. I’d prefer if they didn’t read like a teenage boy wrote them. This becomes particularly abrasive in the context of humans with the ability to live for hundreds of years. I mean, I like a romp in the sack as much as the next guy, but I’m thinking that my expectations might be just a bit different in 300 years, “rejuvenation” or no. Think it through a bit more. Or just stop. We have the internet, we don’t actually need to read porn.
So there you have it. If you are into space opera, have exhausted all other options, don’t mind reading books that are too long full of characters who suck but who have cool toys and blow things up this might be worth your while. But might I suggest a quick scan of Wikipedia, or perhaps take another stab at Iain M. Banks?
There, I said it. I feel better. And as every voracious reader knows, "it's all about me."
As a sage elder statesman once said, “fool me once, shame on….err….me. Fool me twice….you can’t get fooled again!” I’ve been fooled twice...for a net close to 6,000 pages worth. I guess I just can’t get fooled again.
I think I’ll lick my wounds in some non-fiction for a while.