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One can find here the top 20 science fiction films of all time, as selected by WIRED Magazine.

I haven’t seen all of their picks, so I can’t judge the list entirely. In fact, I haven’t seen seven of their twenty films, though one — Akira — is on my shelf, still shrinkwrapped and waiting to be watched. (Viewing films like Akira is logistically difficult when one’s home includes a two-year-old.) The list purports to judge films by their “adrenaline rush” and by how well the films’ worlds are realized. World-building is, of course, of tantamount concern in SF and fantasy (and, to a lesser extent, horror), so judging films on those grounds is certainly understandable. I don’t understand their third criterion, though: Precision, or how well the science holds up. Quite frankly, some of their films are so scientifically implausible as to merit serious consideration as fantasy. Star Wars is not hard SF, and that is that. How can we approach the science of a film that gives us FTL-drives as standard equipment, super-laser beams that can obliterate entire planets, a space-station the size and configuration of the Death Star (where are its thrusters?), weapons comprised by a laser beam that stops in mid-air, et cetera? And for all the wonderful gee-whizzery of Jurassic Park, that film is on no better scientific ground. Splicing ancient DNA with frog DNA, and thus being able to create full-fledged organisms? And since when do we know anything about the visual acuity of a T-Rex? I am more inclined to judge the films on the basis of their influence, their storytelling, and their worldbuilding than in judging their science. On that basis I will gladly admit both Star Wars (which is, after all, in my opinion the finest film ever made — sorry, Citizen Kane) and Jurassic Park.

I would, though, omit a number of the films on this list. I have never liked Bladerunner much, and I wouldn’t call it a “Top 20” film, and I certainly wouldn’t rank it first. I find Bladerunner anemic on the adrenaline side; its story never draws me in and excites me. As for the worldbuilding, according to this film 2019 Los Angeles looks like a futuristic Tokyo….when, given the rapid ascent of the Latino population in California, would seem to imply a futuristic Mexico City. The acting always seems flat; how Rutger Hauer parlayed this role into a career playing basically the same part over and over again is beyond me. To be fair, I haven’t seen the much-praised Director’s Cut of the film. (Bladerunner‘s music score, by Vangelis, is wonderful.)

Likewise, I would omit Alien and I would not allow any of its sequels anywhere near The List. I found the original Alien to be a fairly effective horror-in-space movie, but I also find that it loses a great deal of its punch on repeat viewings. A scare-movie that depends on horrible beasts leaping out from behind things and general gross-out effect for its suspense doesn’t have that much to offer in a second go-round; as for the worldbuilding, it’s nothing spectacular — just a claustrophobic spaceship. As for Aliens, that film has never been one of my favorites either, mainly due to its predictability. The film had no surprises for me, and again its worldbuilding is basically a series of claustrophobic sets of mostly dank metal and smoke.

I also have to reluctantly omit The Matrix, a film which I liked immensely upon first seeing it but which has suffered on repeat viewings. The film’s pseudo-myth of “The One” seems hollow the more I examine it, and the idea of a “reality beyond the reality” is toyed with intriguingly only to be tossed aside in favor of a massive gunfight at the end. And I must admit to great difficulty believing Keanu Reeves as a martial-arts genius, or whatever it is he’s supposed to be.

Tron is a film that I actually like, but I wonder if it’s more of a cult-film than one of the standing greats. Nevertheless, I can excuse its presence here. Its worldbuilding is quite amazing, really, being steeped in the video-game culture of the early 1980s. As a cyber-thriller, I find Tron to be much more inventive — and effective — than The Matrix. The same objection — that it is more of a cult-film than one-for-the-ages — applies to Road Warrior, a fun bit of post-apocalyptic dystopia that isn’t really as good as WIRED seems to believe.

There are some glaring omissions, as there will be in any such list. Close Encounters of the Third Kind maybe suffers in the worldbuilding department, simply because it’s set in the real world and thus isn’t much subject to the same kind of flights of fancy that populate a film like Star Wars. But its storytelling is nothing short of amazing, and in this film we can see many of the tropes that would later surface in The X-Files and other “government paranoia” stories. Terminator 2: Judgement Day probably deserves recognition on the list even more than its predecessor, The Terminator. T2 is a masterpiece of adrenaline-pumping action, and it features one of the most menacing villains of all cinema, in the T-1000. The WIRED listmakers were right to include two James Cameron films; I just think they named the wrong ones. The Abyss is one of the most underrated films of all time. It is loaded with SF “sense of wonder”; it shows us a new world (one on our very doorstep); it is exciting and moving and touching; and it’s even highly influential, being one of the earliest examples of the “morphing” special effect that would later be used to such amazing effect in T2 and would later pave the way for Jurassic Park and the marvels in the Star Wars prequels. (NOTE: I prefer the Director’s Cut of The Abyss to the original, despite the fact that the Director’s Cut makes the film’s ending far more preachy than it should be.) And while I personally might want to make a case for all five (and probably the sixth, when it arrives in 2005) Star Wars films, certainly a case could be made for The Empire Strikes Back, the film which fleshes out the Star Wars universe and gives its mythology its soundest basis. Plus, it’s exciting as hell — pure adrenaline — and a wonder of worldbuilding.

I also think that a historical case could be possibly made for King Kong, Forbidden Planet, and Fritz Lang’s Metropolis.

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One of Buffalo’s biggest arts events, the Allentown Art Festival, was this weekend. And I missed it by not realizing when it was, and making other plans. How revolting.

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I’ve been delayed from writing my thoughts on the series finale of The X-Files, so here they are: The episode itself was well done, but I think it came a bit too late. The show really should have gone to movies after the end of Season Seven, when Scully had been revealed pregnant and Mulder abducted. Everything that has transpired since then has felt padded. I envision a scene like this at Ten Thirteen:

CHRIS CARTER: “We’ve gotta come up with two more seasons of stuff. How about, oh, supersoldiers?”

STAFF WRITER: “What are those, Chris?”

CHRIS CARTER: “They’re government-created humans who can’t be killed, which will save us from the aliens when they come. And maybe Scully’s baby is one of them. And since David won’t be around, we’ll need a new agent to pair with Scully. Anybody like the name ‘Doggett’?”

STAFF WRITER: “What about the black oil?”

CHRIS CARTER: “I’m still talking about this guy Doggett. And of course he should have a partner….”

STAFF WRITER: “Wait. Isn’t his partner Scully?”

CHRIS CARTER: “Hmmm. Well, I’m about to make Scully a single mom, so we can’t have her flying off into unknown danger all the time. Responsibilities, you know. So we’ll do what we did six years ago when Gillian was pregnant in real life: we’ll have Scully do a lot of desk-work and autopsies.”

STAFF WRITER: “Well, OK. Not really the best use for an actress of Gillian’s talent, but then, she looks better in scrubs and a lab coat than half the women on ER.”

CHRIS CARTER: “Gillian’s a trooper. I mean, when we did ‘Humbug’ she actually ate a beetle! You can’t buy that….Now, about these Super Soldiers….”

STAFF WRITER: “Hey, is Smoking Man really Mulder’s father? We never really came out and said so.”

CHRIS CARTER: “Hmmmm. Well, if we did come out and say so, it would seem like a rip-off of Star Wars.”

STAFF WRITER: “Say, I have a question. Remember how on Frasier, when Daphne realized she was in love with Niles, someone told her that maybe it was time to stop calling him “Dr. Crane”? Well, Mulder and Scully have a kid now. Should they really call each other by their last names still?”

….and so on.

It took me a long time to really get into The X-Files. I watched it intermittently during its first two seasons, but I didn’t get hooked until the brilliant two-parter “Piper Maru/Apocrypha” from the third season. At its best, The X-Files was a smart and witty blend of paranoia, fin-du-siecle anxiety, and good old fashioned horror storytelling. I even liked the first movie, even though it admittedly was skewed a bit too much toward the show’s already-converted fans. And I still liked some of episodes from the wildly uneven eighth and ninth seasons. It was hard to watch the show peter out as Chris Carter and the folks at Ten Thirteen made a game effort to keep drawing a story out of a franchise that had really given all it had to give, in terms of its overall mytharc, two years before.

As for the finale episode, again, it was well-done. Putting Mulder on trial was a fun idea (although the way it was set up is one of the more contrived plot devices I’ve ever seen). I’m glad Mitch Pileggi got such a chance to shine, and I liked seeing the Cigarette Smoking Man living as some kind of Indian ascetic. The episode’s biggest flaw isn’t even the episode’s fault. The entire series once was clearly leading up to Mulder’s discovery, at long last, of just what happened to his sister. Unfortunately, the series “resolved” that issue a few years back, and not in entirely satisfactory fashion, either. That was really the “Truth” that was out there; for Mulder, everything revolved around that particular quest; I think that is really why everything that came after felt so deflated. When The X-Files was at its best — and it was at its best for quite a long time — it was centered squarely on Mulder, Scully, and the quest for Samantha. The attempt to make it about something else simply didn’t work (although perhaps it could have worked, given the very high quality of the episode in which Agent Doggett learned how his son was murdered).

So, the show limped through its final two seasons, bereft of the story that had been at its heart. Nevertheless, I will miss the show. Maybe sometime soon I’ll watch one of the amazing three-part episodes: Duane Barry/Ascension/One Breath, perhaps; or maybe Gethsemane/Redux/Redux II. And then there will always be the pinnacle of The X-Files: Anasazi/The Blessing Way/Paper Clip. And then some of the almost-as-good two parters: Colony/End Game, Talitha Cumi/Herrenvolk, Tunguska/Terma….and the great standalone episodes like Home, Jose Chung’s From Outer Space, Small Potatoes, Humbug, Squeeze, Tooms….the truth may not be out there anymore, but it’s sure somewhere.

“Is there any way I can get it off my fingers quickly without betraying my cool exterior?” –Fox Mulder, Tooms.

“Well, I could have done without that Flukeman thing.” –Dana Scully (I don’t recall the episode).

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IMAGE OF THE WEEK

The scene of destruction is very familiar to us all. But consider the spherical object at the lower left. This is what it looked like before 11 September 2001:

The spherical object is Fritz Koenig’s sculpture, “The Sphere”, which used to stand in the concourse between the WTC’s twin towers. The destruction of the World Trade Center carried with it an almost unimaginable loss of life. Not to be discounted, though, is the loss to the human heritage of art and creativity. The WTC was not merely a pair of very large office buildings; it was also the repository of a surprisingly large number of artworks and historical documents that are now lost. It is clearer than ever that the magnitude of what was lost that horrible day might never be known.

(The first of these images links to an AP article about the items lost in the WTC attack.)

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Sometimes I encounter a book that, upon its completion, makes me wonder: “Just why did this author feel the need to write this book?” I encountered just such a book this week. It is 3001: The Final Odyssey by Arthur C. Clarke.

2001: A Space Odyssey is one of the classics of science fiction, a truly fine novel that is often obscured by the elephantine shadow cast by its companion film. The sequel, 2010: Odyssey Two, was an excellent book, if not on the level of its predecessor. I don’t recall much about 2061: Odyssey Three, except that I wasn’t particularly impressed. 3001 gives the series some closure, which is Clarke’s biggest mistake. This is not a story that should have closure, at all.

The book opens with a comet-prospector finding a non-cometary object floating in a near-deepspace orbit. It turns out to be the body of astronaut Frank Poole, the co-pilot of the spaceship Discovery who was killed in the first book by the schizophrenic computer HAL-9000. Medical technology has advanced such that Poole is able to be revived, and the book then deals mostly with his assimilation into a society that is as far ahead of him as he was ahead of the people of the Dark Ages. The society that Clarke presents is really nothing new; it’s the standard Star Trek-style utopia in which religion has been left behind (and is even characterized as a form of psychosis), material needs are a thing of the past, et cetera. The most interesting thing in the book is Clarke’s construct of a gigantic artificial ring-system around the earth, but this strangely is left undeveloped. Clarke posits that people who live on the Rings cannot live long on Earth, and yet he never develops the hint that two entirely different societies would evolve from such a state. Do the Earthbound folks look on the Ring-people with suspicion? do the Ring-people look down — figuratively and literally — on the Earthbound? Clarke doesn’t indicate anything of the sort. His society here is conflictless, and thus not very interesting to read about. This is a pity.

The book’s most serious problems, though, come when Frank Poole journeys to the Galilean Moons (formerly of Jupiter, the gas-giant planet having been converted into a second sun late in 2010). Here he apparently means to make contact with his old friend, Dave Bowman, who along with HAL has become one with the monolith. Frank doesn’t seem to feel any emotions at all in this. Would he feel any anger toward HAL for killing him? would he feel concern for Dave’s plight? would he feel anything? Not really, if Clarke is to be believed. This was a lost opportunity. Perhaps it couldn’t be any other way; Clarke’s books and stories have never much been about emotion and feeling. But the lack of it here totally undermines his characters. They begin to feel like automatons in a plot.

The book’s climax arrives when it is discovered that the Monolith (the really big Monolith, the one on Europa, as opposed to its smaller twins on Earth and the Moon) may very well be on the verge of destroying humanity (the reasons for this involve time, distance, and the speed of light). Poole must play the vital role in defusing the threat of the Monolith in a way which is unfortunately reminiscent of the ending of Independence Day, a fact which Clarke bemoans in his Afterword. The whole threat lacks conviction, though, and instead it makes plain the book’s largest error: it explains the Monolith. What made 2001 so memorable is the fact that even at the end, after Dave Bowman has been reincarnated as the Star Child, we still don’t know what the Monolith is or who made it or why it has been left here or what its purpose at all is — we don’t even know if the Monolith is an alien artifact or an alien itself. It was this air of mystery, that sense of the cosmic unknown, that elevated 2001 to the level of a classic. Even 2010 left much of the mystery intact, even as it continued the story. But in 3001, Clarke tells us that the Monolith is a mindless automaton, and he even refers to its internal circuitry. We shouldn’t know that much about the Monolith. It ceases to be a constant pointer to the eternal reality that there will always be an unknown, and instead joins the ranks of things we’ve figured out. It has been said that the most critical aspect of the best science fiction is the intangible “sense of wonder”. 2001: A Space Odyssey had it in spades; 2010 had it but to a lesser extent; 2063 didn’t have a whole lot of it but was still a readable novel. 3001‘s biggest problem is simple: no wonder. Reading it makes me feel as if Samuel Beckett had written a second play, called Oh, There’s Godot.

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I was tinkering with my blog setup, and it occurred to me that my “current reading” section was inadequate. After all, how long could it take to read a tome on English history or a book of poetry? (In the latter case, quite a while. It’s a big book.) I realized that I was approaching some of those books differently than the others that I list there. Thus I arrived at my current metaphor: reading as a journey.

I like the idea of “companion books”. These are books that have a long-term place on the table beside my chair or on my desk, books into which I dip frequently and over a long period of time, be it a page or two or a chapter or two or a poem or two. These are different from what I now call “waypost books”, which are the books to which I actively devote more time at once — but are left behind when they are done. The waypost books yield an experience that is very different from that afforded by the companion books. All books need not be read in the same manner. A book may start out as a waypost book, but may reach the level of companion book; likewise, a companion book may become a waypost book if the journey leads in such a direction. Neither change is good nor bad; they are necessary events in the evolution of a reader and his/her relationship to the books.

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I’ve recently noticed a seasonal trend in my fiction reading. My genres of choice tend to be science fiction, fantasy, and horror. I’m likely to read horror any time of year, but as for the other two I tend to read fantasy in the fall and winter while turning toward science fiction in the spring and summer. Maybe there is something about fall and winter which lend themselves to the nature-type tropes that abound in fantasy; and maybe my summertime science fiction tendency is a holdover from my childhood, when each third summer was marked by the arrival of a Star Wars movie. I haven’t noticed any remarkable seasonal tendencies toward my nonfiction reading; my interests tend to be all over the map, and thus I tend to grab whatever looks interesting and jump in.

Anyhow, I finished a couple of books this weekend, one SF and one about baseball.

The Price of the Stars by Debra Doyle and James D. MacDonald is the first book in a series of space operas called Mageworlds. (For those unfamiliar with the various sub-genres in science fiction, “space opera” denotes those types of stories with larger-than-life heroes, staging that is galactic in scale, and generally concerned with the classic struggle of good versus evil. Star Wars is pure space opera, as is — in many of its episodes — Star Trek. The classic example of a space opera from the standpoint of literary SF is E. E. “Doc” Smith’s Lensmen Chronicles.) At first glance, Mageworlds appears to be a riff on Star Wars: scoundrels and space pirates abound, toting weapons called “blasters”; there is an order of warriors called “Adepts” (read: “Jedi”) who tap into the universe’s lide energy (read: “The Force”) and fight with specialized weapons (staffs, but in the Adept-fight scenes my mind kept substituting lightsabers).

The story involves a female space pilot, Beka Rosselin-Metadi (one of the most cumbersome names I’ve ever encountered in a novel), who is trying to make her way in the Universe despite the fact that her father is a prominent military officer and her mother some kind of Very Important Person. Beka’s life is changed forever when her mother is assassinated and her father presses her into finding those responsible, promising in exchange to give her his personal spaceship: the Warhammer, an apparently circular-shaped freighter that has been equipped with souped-up engines that make it the fastest hunk-of-junk in the Galaxy. (Yes, I kept picturing the Millennium Falcon.) As she pieces together the trail of the assassins, Beka assembles a motley crew of allies — her hulking brute of a brother, a kind-hearted medical technician whose skills extend greatly into non-medical areas, an Adept who suffers from a lack of self-confidence, and a mysterious elderly figure known only as “The Professor” (and whose voice sounded, in my reader’s imagination, a bit like Sir Alec Guinness).

The book is enjoyable as an action-romp, although the two main action set-pieces tend to ramble, and the characters are fairly interesting. The problem I had with the book was this: it feels like a rough draft for a longer work, with character motivations too often left unexplained and historical events constantly referred to but never explored. Just a day after finishing the book I couldn’t explain why Beka’s mother is killed even if I wanted to, and the “Mageworlds” named in the series title are never explained. We are told that a war with the Mageworlds has just ended, with the defeat of the Mages, and we gather that the Mages are a people to be greatly feared — but we never know why. Maybe this is all explained in subsequent novels in the series. I do plan to read them, but I’m not making that a high priority. I recommend The Price of the Stars as a quick, entertaining diversion.

The other book I read was Joe Morgan’s baseball volume Long Balls, No Strikes: What Baseball Must Do to Keep the Good Times Rolling. Joe Morgan has been my favorite baseball commentator for years (he generally provides the color commentary for games on ESPN, while Jon Miller provides play-by-play). This is because Morgan not only conveys his immense love of the game, but he also communicates his immense knowledge of it as well. I learned a great deal about the game by listening to Joe Morgan, and I learned some more by reading his book.

Baseball may be the most troubled of the four major professional sports in the United States. While only the NFL has avoided a labor-related work stoppage in the last decade (the last NFL strike was in 1987), baseball is the only sport to have actually forced the cancellation of its playoffs and championship due to a strike. It happened in 1994, when the owners and the players’ union collided mainly on the issue of a salary-cap, which the owners insist will restore financial sanity to the game and which the players reject as foolish and unfair. In the years following that strike, which forced then-acting Commissioner Bud Selig to cancel the World Series, baseball saw its attendence plummet and the sales of MLB-related merchandise suffer a related drop. Only in 1998 did baseball begin to show signs of recovery, and Morgan’s book outlines his thoughts on what baseball must do to build on the successes of that amazing season.

(A bit of recent baseball history is in order. In 1998, the New York Yankees won 115 games, nearly eclipsing the all-time record for regular season victories en route to their second World Championship in three years. David Wells pitched a perfect game. Cal Ripken Jr. ended his consecutive-games streak. And most memorably, Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa chased each other into baseball immortality as both eclipsed Roger Maris’s 37-year-old record by hitting 70 and 66 home runs, respectively.)

Morgan’s suggestions for improving the game on the field are fascinating. He is wary of the current trend toward over-reliance on the home run, noting that where it once took a player more than one hundred stolen bases to lead the league in that category over a season, in recent years base-stealing has fallen off to where season leaders in SBs now post numbers like 65 or 70. He believes that restoring base-stealing as a key to offense will liven up the game, and it is hard to disagree with him. Morgan also advocates elevating the pitcher’s mound and requiring umpires to enforce the official strike zone, which would tilt the balance-of-power back toward hurlers.

Morgan also writes about improving the game’s financial problems, arguing convincingly for comprehensive revenue sharing. Baseball’s lack of revenue sharing, a staple in the other major sports leagues (and handled with particular brilliance by the NFL), is the largest reason why teams like the Yankees can compete every year by putting forth whatever payroll they need to win, while teams like the Pittsburgh Pirates can never hope to enter into bidding for players like Ken Griffey, Jr or Greg Maddux. Contrast that to the situation in the NFL: in 1992, the most coveted football free agent was defensive end Reggie White. He ended up signing with the Green Bay Packers, the NFL’s smallest market. That would be utterly impossible in Major League Baseball, where the richest teams can pay one player more than some teams pay all of their players combined. However, Morgan doesn’t let the small-market teams off the hook, pointing out instances where the teams have made very bad decisions — such as the Pirates’ signing a few years back of B J Surhoff, a decent but unremarkable player whose salary would have been better spent on young talent and prospects for a moribund farm system.

These are all good ideas, and Morgan writes them engagingly. The book’s last chapter, though, is both remarkable and depressing. It is the book’s longest chapter, and it deals with baseball’s problems with race. Minorities are almost never hired — or even interviewed — for front office positions in baseball today, and it is a travesty. Morgan writes with barely-contained outrage that white men who have no managerial experience in baseball have been made major-league managers in recent years, while Cito Gaston — who managed the Toronto Blue Jays to four division titles and two World Championships between 1989 and 1993 — has been relegated to once again “proving himself” as a hitting coach or wherever he is right now. And it isn’t just in the front office or managerial ranks that baseball’s quiet racism rears its head. The Arizona Diamondbacks, in their inaugural season, had Devon White — a black man — as their centerfielder. White is one of the finest fielders ever, and his presence in an expansion team’s outfield — plus his experience as a member of two World Series champions (the 1992 and 1993 Toronto Blue Jays) — should have been invaluable to a group of young players. But after their first year, the Diamondbacks refused White a contract, saying they couldn’t afford him. They then proceeded to sign as his replacement the white outfielder Steve Findley for twice the amount of money for which White had asked. I found that anecdote rather saddening. Morgan further sees baseball’s treatment of African-Americans in general as a reason why so few blacks are now entering baseball, instead turning toward football and basketball.

I enjoyed this book, and I wouldn’t mind hearing what Morgan has to say on these same topics now that more than three years have passed since that great season. He has a chapter where he compares the 1998 Yankees to the 1975 Cincinnati Reds (“The Big Red Machine”), and of course he finds in the Reds’ favor. (He played for them, after all!) But then he says something interesting: for the Yankees to be truly considered great, they would have to win not one championship but two in a row — because that is a much more remarkable feat. Well, Joe, the Yankees won not one more championship but two more, and they nearly won a third. So how do they match up to the Big Red Machine now?

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Just a reminder that I will be taking the next few days off from posting. I’m a firm believer in occasionally recharging the batteries, and the time seems right. I will post again either Sunday or Monday.

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IMAGE OF THE WEEK

Detail from Tuesday, by David Wiesner.

David Wiesner won the Caldecott Medal for this book in 1992. What is so interesting about his books isn’t merely the stunning artwork, but the fact that Wiesner tells inventive, whimsical stories that are full of fantasy and charm without using any words at all. His work is visual storytelling in the purest sense of the word, and his clean pictures — with their sense of motion, as well as their simultaneous realism and fantastic qualities — make plain the events that are transpiring. He even conveys a sense of character, no mean feat for a person not using words to tell his stories. He is one of the finest authors of children’s books today.

(The picture links to Wiesner’s official website.)

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My current screensaver is the SETI@Home program, which uses those ununsed CPU cycles — the ones that would otherwise be drawing pictures of pipes or scrolling marquees or a Star Trek-like scrolling starfield — to process data collected by radio telescope, in hopes of identifying possible signals from alien civilizations. I am a big fan of the SETI project, and I am thrilled to have this opportunity to help.

This kind of “distributed computing” project is not unique. There are many such projects out there, harnessing computer time donated by regular people to process data. Using a single computer to process these data would require a machine of enormous computing power, and many of these peojects do not have the funding to secure sufficient time on, say, a Cray mainframe or a Big Blue machine to do the work. Thus, they break it up into small chunks and farm it out to people with smaller machines like the Hewlett-Packard with 1.3 GHz Athlon processor sitting on my desk. It’s a wonderfully fun way to participate in a cause in which I believe strongly.

SETI@Home may be the most famous distributed computing project, but it is by no means the only one. If looking for LGM’s isn’t your speed, you may find a more interesting project here.

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