House of the Drag-on

Pace. I'm told - constantly - that pace is the key to anything. No more so than in narrative. It has to shift, increasing and decreasing as appropriate. The conventional wisdom is to start slow and to build up to a rapid conclusion. John Le Carré was the master of this; just see Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy for confirmation.

House of the Dragon, Sky and HBO's Game of Thrones prequel, needs to learn a lesson when it comes to pacing. And, for that matter, focus. This isn't to criticise too strongly; there are so many elements of House of the Dragon deserving of praise that there are times it is possible to forget issues of pacing, timing, and narrative focus. The problem isn't those times; it's the blank spaces in between. Game of Thrones was more narratively daring, while based on A Song of Ice and Fire, than many other TV series. It was one of the reasons it was successful. The cut and thrust of faux-medieval politics didn't lend itself to a single-thread narrative, and so the ensemble came into its own. Add to that, nobody was safe. There was no guaranteed 'point' to a character or a narrative thread. They could be snuffed out in an instant while having little bearing on the overall plot. Key characters could reach stupid endings, even without bearing the finale in mind. And this was a strength. Unpredictability, a refusal to conform to norms, and a glorious pacing - interspersing realpolitik with action-adventure - led to a compelling watch.

This was the great strength of George R.R. Martin. For those of us who have read more than just A Song of Ice and Fire, we're aware that he doesn't do 'normal'. Fevre Dream, an earlier work of Vampires on the Mississippi, had similar pacing. It wasn't an instant hook, that's true, but it maintained attention, had moments of dread, of fear, and of action that meant it never got dull.

Now compare to House of the Dragon.

King Viserys reigns. Not the hot-headed, borderline insane brother of Daenerys, Mother of Dragons, but his ancestor. A man who had the good fortune to inherit a peaceful kingdom from his predecessor, but who equally inherits the seeds of the dynastic conflict that became known as the Dance of the Dragons. His inheritance over the Princess Rhaenys set a precedent; women cannot inherit the iron throne, so when he bestows the throne upon his daughter, the realm's delight Princess Rhaenyra, he sets up the struggle between his later-born son Aegon and his eldest child.

So far, so good. The initial set-up may be slow, but it creates the intrigue we like, especially with characters like Otto Hightower and his daughter, Alicent. Alicent marries Viserys when his first wife, Aemma, dies in childbirth. Here we see the setting up on factions and the development of relationships and rivalries. We see the fall-out of this internal politicking as it affects the court of Viserys. We see, crucially, how ineffective the good man Viserys is as king.

 I'd be lying if I said early episodes weren't interesting. I'd be lying just as much if I said later ones weren't either. The drama is interesting, it's just... glacial. And after the finale of the first series, who can blame the showrunners for wanting to go slow? It's a welcome return to gradual building and plotting, it just lasts too long. Add to that one of the series' biggest flaws: what happens off-screen. We're told of war in the Stepstones. We even get to see a glimpse of it when Viserys' brother, the scene-stealing Daemon (played by Matt Smith, so that shouldn't be a surprise) pitches up alongside Corlys Velaryon - better known as the Seasnake - to produce a rare early action scene. But we're kept in the dark about its significance and most of the action surrounding it. We never really see the Seasnake's power in action; we're told of it, but when push comes to shove we only see Daemon Targaryen doing things based on the rule of cool. Later we're told of deaths and injuries, but we don't see them. The significance is hidden from us.

To a point this makes sense. The narrative is intended to focus on the court of Viserys and the two rival factions for the throne after he passes, but the overall effect is to render the pacing consistently glacial. Very little feels like it happens. Characters are established, yes, but their wider significance to the Seven Kingdoms isn't made clear. Beyond the central cast, too, characters come and go almost without introductions. Outside Viserys, his wife, his eldest child, his brother and his Hand, everyone feels transitory, entering a tiny world and leaving it again without explanation.

Then there are the jumps in time. The series takes place over the better part of 20 years. We see half a decade skip past at times between episodes. Changes of actors are necessary - and for the most part the newcomer fills the previous incumbent's shoes without a hitch. While fidelity to the source material is laudable, I'm of the view that this has created an unnecessarily jarring situation for a more casual viewer. It's impossible to simply pick up a thread and run with it.

Put all of these issues together, and House of the Dragon is almost disappointing. Almost, but not quite. In and among the criticisms, there are some real nuggets of gold. The narrative direction is, in general, bold. Action, when it does come, is satisfying and serves real purpose; the flip side of keeping the narrative slow and character driven is that when the pace is increased, along with the stakes, it really matters. The showrunners have also learned from some of the big mistakes of Game of Thrones, most notably in the toned-down sex and language.

But at no point is House of the Dragon a comfortable watch. The issues of misogyny from Game of Thrones still exist. No matter the justification that some seem to believe - that misogyny was a medieval staple - there's still no excuse for some of it; if we can believe in dragons, we can tone down some of the dialogue to cancel some of the needless comments of 'whore' and such. Equally, there was a big problem with childbirth in the series; again, I understand the need for fidelity to the source material, and that childbirth was particularly hazardous for women in medieval (or pseudomedieval) society, but was there really a need to show multiple deaths in childbirth and stillbirths? So much went on off-screen that surely some of that could have been moved off-screen. It seemed to be there for a shock factor that was unnecessary. Had the darkness been leavened by humour at some points - something the Tyrion Lannisters of the original series provided - maybe it could have been more bearable, but House of the Dragon made itself almost unrelentingly dark.

Will I return for season two? Yes. For all its failings, House of the Dragon offered a return to form for the Game of Thrones universe and created enough in terms of compelling characters and storylines to keep me engaged. But would I like to see some changes? Absolutely yes. There was little by way of relief, and by the end the pacing was starting to really drag. Thankfully, with the advent of the Dance of the Dragons, more pace is promised next time around.

Bleak House

For three weeks I have toiled, worked, engaged my senses upon a reading task of mammoth proportions. My experience is that I am the richer for it. At a time when I am reacquainting myself with many classic works, Bleak House has been a task in itself. No faint heart had I in taking the challenge of reading this over a period of time when that very commodity was at a premium. And rewarded I found myself at each turn. Dickens' classic - argued my many to be his best - ostensibly tells the tale of the chancery case of Jarndyce v Jarndyce, a case once about a disputed will now taken over by the question of costs. Its beneficiaries, such as they are, frame the story as the case enters its very latest stages. The matter, it is made clear, was a great one of chancery. The opening chapter spells out most clearly just how murky the waters of the court have become. Nobody seems to know what is truly happening in the case. In true Dickens fashion, the case has descended to farce, with twenty-one barristers in court, some seeming to speak and to never speak again, melting into the wonderfully evocative mists of nineteenth century London. As a lawyer, Bleak House has long been recommended to me. I now see why. Daunted as I was at its prodigious length - running to almost 1,000 densely-printed pages in paperback - it has taken me some twelve years to finally read it since being recommended it as part of a law and literature unit at university. It is a book about law and about its more farcical elements. It is about reform. It is about wider society and Dickens' usual zeal for improvement. At once about nothing and everything, it is regarded by many as one of the greatest novels ever written. I can very much see why. But for that, it is a book of frustrations. Bound by its times while being a novel of social liberalism, we see women damned for children out of wedlock. We see the attitudes of the time both damned and accepted. We see the reformers forced to work within a stringent framework of a society out of touch with the needs of the most desperate. African reformers fail to see the world around them, obsessed as they are by their own projects. And all of this, running as a satirical seam throughout the substance of Bleak House, is what makes Bleak House a great book.

The Green Bone Saga

Fantasy. Sword and sorcery. Game of Thrones. Wheel of Time. To many, these are synonymous. Fantasy has a particular aesthetic. It must be medieval, western European, feudal. Even games like Skyrim riff heavily off Norse influences. Going further afield, the original formula for Final Fantasy was heavily European in its influences - sword and sorcery, knights in armour, paladins (yes, Final Fantasy IV, I'm looking at you), and so on. Only later did we see a change in the approach taken by the creators, with Final Fantasy VII and VIII being distinctly cyberpunk while retaining many more traditional fantasy elements.

What I've already said is a generalisation, but it holds true in many a case. Recent years have seen a more nuanced approach to fantasy developing. No longer is it exclusively the realm of JRR Tolkien and his disciples. Yes, many settings have remained the same, but narratives have grown away from the McGubbin quest. The genre has been refreshed by the likes of China Miéville, Jen Williams, Joe Abercrombie to name but three leading proponents of modern fantasy. Developments such as magical realism, combined with the influence of mythology outside the Norse standard (Neil Gaiman, do it please ya), outside genres (see: The Dark Tower), and ideas from tabletop (and video) gaming have revitalised a flagging genre. Add to that, we have seen outstanding writers writing truly magnificent multi-trilogy series. Robin Hobb is still the queen of fantasy.

But all of that has been distinctly medieval (at least, if we discount real-world set urban fantasy, which I've traditionally not enjoyed particularly). What has been missing, to really give new ideas, has been a modern world-inspired series that does something different.

Enter Fonda Lee.

"99p? Can't go wrong!"

I can't claim to have known of her before Amazon put Jade City on a 99p daily deal a couple of years back. My thinking was simply: 'it's fantasy, it's 99p, if I don't like it I haven't lost anything.' I've since learned she was an up-and-coming young adult writer with one successful series under her belt, turning her hand to adult fantasy for the first time. Since then, I've been hooked on the Green Bone Saga - Jade City, Jade War, and Jade Legacy - and will be looking for more of her work. Say what you like about Amazon (I normally do) but those 99p deals do work to promote newcomers.

Set in an east Asian-inspired island nation, Kekon, the Green Bone Saga follows one of the two main 'clans' in the country, the No Peak clan. Led by the Kaul family, there are strong overtures of the Godfather in the way the clan operates. Although legitimate and heavily involved in running the country, alongside rival/enemy clan, the Mountain, much of what the No Peaks do is shady. Murder, extortion, smuggling, you name it: it exists alongside the legitimate business side of the clan. There's a military side to the clan, led by the Horn. There's a business side, led by the Weather Man. And at its head there's the Pillar of the clan, Kaul Lan, grandson of a war hero who helped Kekon throw off the chains of Shontar in a previous war.

Uniting the clans is bioreactive jade, a substance that gives its wearers enhanced combat powers, such as the ability to deflect bullets, show super strength, perceive what others think, and (almost inevitably) jump far higher than ordinary individuals. Jade is seen as a Kekonese birthright, its wearers known as green bones, bound by an honour code known as aisho. Other nations want it, but cannot wear it without suffering madness. Even jade-wearers can suffer from its effects, as is seen throughout.

Set over a quarter of a century, the Green Bone Saga is a combination of family story, turf war,

This one wasn't 99p. Worth it though.

international political epic, and cultural reset for fantasy. In around 1,800 pages we see relationships grow, blossom, be snuffed out in an instant. We see rivalries used and subverted. Characters we grow to love are forced into situations we're desperate to see them escape from, knowing that they are not safe. Society changes and morphs in reaction to outside events, and we see how traditions are clung onto and altered in the face of overwhelming pressure.

This is not a series of good and bad, where evil is obvious. I nearly opened this review with the word of Obi-Wan Kenobi: 'Many of the truths we cling to depend greatly on our own point of view.' We root for the Kauls and No Peak in their struggle against the Mountain because we see things from their perspective. We rarely see anything from otherwise. We grow used to seeing Espenians as jadeless outsiders. We dislike the opponents to jade. But when we see glimpses of those alternative perspectives we start to see that they are not bad guys. In fact, several of the characters we're rooting for could be monsters from another point of view. We see the characters we grow to love commit unconscionable actions, and yet we find ourselves almost justifying what they do. In that regard, it's a masterpiece of shades of grey. The justifications - the other side would do it if we didn't, we're protecting ourselves, it's the way it's always been - seem reasonable, but they ask questions of us. What could we justify for ourselves?

Neither is this a series where there's a truly overarching driving plot. Yes, there's an arc from beginning to end, but each character treads their own path within that arc. Sometimes they diverge from the path and disappear for a time. Sometimes they make missteps setting them back. The narrative is not conventional, but it is organic and it is utterly compelling.

Look, just read them.

If the story keeps you turning the page, the depth will keep you hooked. This isn't a conventional western fantasy by a long chalk. Yes, we see western elements - such as Espenia, which stands as a proxy for the USA - but the dominant cultures are inspired by Korea, China, and Hong Kong. In fact, Janloon, the main city of Kekon, reminds me very strongly of Hong Kong in its depictions, its post-colonial status, and its independence. The whole culture of modern east Asia, rich in history and tradition separate from the west, runs as a thick seam throughout the narrative. Clan sensibilities and psychology are based on that way of thinking, and it makes for a refreshing viewpoint. Fonda Lee has used non-western culture to change the whole vibe around her urban fantasy, and I cannot praise her highly enough for it.

This is a magnificently-realised world where modern technology and ideas clash with traditional culture. The characters are wonderfully and lovingly created. It has been a breath of fresh air over the past couple of years to indulge myself in Lee's masterpiece, and it has been an eye-opener as a writer. Every fantasy fan should read this trilogy.

Watership Down

 According to its own author, Watership Down is simply an adventure story told to his own children about rabbits. I, for one, don't buy it. On one level, it absolutely is that adventure story - and one with heart and soul and spirit - but on another it serves as allegory for totalitarianism, for human spirit, and for those freedoms enjoyed in democracy.

It may surprise you that I hadn't read Watership Down until now; I suppose some would argue that I still haven't. It was my monthly listen on Audible, with Peter Capaldi providing the narration. For a fortnight, between work and home, I listened to the adventures of Hazel, Fiver, Silver, Captain Holly, and - my own favourite - Bigwig, actively hoping for short delays just to listen that little bit longer. For seventeen and a half hours I was engrossed in the tale of a hardy bunch of rabbits forging their new home on Watership Down. And every second was worth it.

A good book for children works for all readers. It works for both child and parent when they read together as a shared experience, and it's possible to admire the skill that goes into its creation. I'd certainly argue that listening to a story like Watership Down makes you feel a child again, but with adult sensibilities. Those things that drift over a child's head are absorbed by the adult, so the literary references, the historical placements, the epigraphs at the beginning of each chapter, and wider social context all find their mark alongside the qualities of the story.

And what a story. On the one hand, we have the rabbits who leave their warren to escape its destruction by men as part of a housing project, attempting to find their own home. They think they find it, only to discover that secrets are being kept by their new hosts, and they set out again to find Watership Down itself. As the new warren comes under threat, the greatest crisis faces the rabbits of the warren in the form of General Woundwort and the dictatorship of the warren of Efrafa.

A child will love the adventure and the characters; an adult will love the adventure and the characters, but on a different level. For this is no simple tale. Interwoven with the main plot is the lore of the rabbits, that of the spiritual El-ahrairah and his adventures, told through tales and legends. The world of the rabbits is so well-realised, the characters so well-drawn, that they are more human than many - perhaps most - characters and tales you'll find elsewhere.

This is Watership Down's greatest strength: the characters. You care for them, and they are real. Not real in the sense of being physically real, but in the sense that they matter. The fact that they are rabbits and not anthropomorphised rabbits actually helps; these aren't rabbits who make their own tools, they do real rabbit things - from eating their own tods to eating their own young. This isn't glossed over, which is to Richard Adams' credit; too many children's books sanitise reality rather than tackle it. One of the reasons Horrible Histories is so popular is because kids don't want to be talked down to about the world, and Watership Down certainly doesn't do that.

But the characters... I find it hard to put into words the quality of the characters. There are no characatures here. What we have are rabbits that have their dominant traits, it's true, but which are never beholden to them. They may normally show good judgement, but they can become prideful and learn from that. They may be able to inspire loyalty, but make mistakes. They may have a set way, but eventually come around to a different way of thinking. And it's this humanity to them that generates so much empathy and sympathy. This is true of every character in the book. Even minor characters firstly play their part, and secondly find themselves being so well fleshed-out that you can't help but support and hope for them. The main antagonist, General Woundwort, is no different; yes, he's mad, yes, he's very much a sociopath, yes, he's a mortal threat, and yet... and yet... He's still so human in his way. Parallels can be drawn between him and every dictator of the twentieth century, every strongman who used violence 'for the greater good', to use a term from another beloved book.

Better commentators than I have linked Efrafa to the dictatorships of the twentieth century - especially notably East Germany and the erection of the Berlin Wall 10 years prior to the publication of Watership Down - but it is worth mentioning. This in spite of the author's own insistence that this is just a book about rabbits. I normally listen to the author and I'm inclined to believe them as they know their own art, but I can't help but think Richard Adams was being coy for the sake of this being a children's book.

Should a very young child read this, or have it read to them? Probably not. But should a child of ten be allowed to experience it? Absolutely. This should be a gateway book to literature. As an adult I regret not reading it when I was younger, only to experience it anew as an adult so I could see both levels of Adams' mastery. As an adult, I absolutely loved what I experienced.