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Your future is pastede on, yay!
I am very torn about this book I'm currently reading.
The book is "Polaris" by Jack McDevitt (who I've never heard of, but it was in my bargain-paperbacks pile). And it's a fun book! It's swashbuckly space opera, a murder mystery in a sci-fi setting. The main characters are treasure hunters who explore asteroids, abandoned spaceships, etc. for stuff they can sell, and Get Mixed Up In Something Greater Than Themselves. As one does. I like the characters, and the mystery is good, and the book is well-plotted, at least so far.
... but. You can sense there's a "but" coming, can't you. :D
The problem I'm having is that the book is very ... I don't even think dated is quite the word I'm going for here. It's just that it's set thousands of years in the future, after humanity has been in space for millennia and empires have risen and fallen, and yet it feels exactly like late-20th-century Earth. EXACTLY. Except with spaceships and AIs. Not everyone can come up with bizarre, alien future societies, and not everyone wants to -- and I really don't need that level of verisimilitude (I'm perfectly fine with, say, a Bujold rather than a Banks), but this is more on the level of "... dude, you aren't even TRYING, are you?"
For example, here's a passage from early in the book. The characters are looking at pictures of a woman who's gone missing.
Here was Madeleine at age six, with ice cream and a tricycle. And at thirteen, standing with her eighth-grade class in the doorway of their school. First boyfriend. First pair of skis. Maddy at eighteen, playing chess in what appeared to be a tournament.
Tricycle? Eighth grade? I did mention this is several thousand years in the future, right? Come on, man, at least throw in a random hoverboard or something.
And THE WHOLE BOOK IS LIKE THIS. And not just with the weird retrograde technology, but the gender relations are at least as antiquated. The book -- which was published in 2004 -- has that sort of faux-progressive feeling of 1980s sci-fi, where the writers are trying but they don't quite get what "gender equality" actually means. The opening scenes in the book, for example, takes place on a spaceship that's full of the leading scientists of their day ... all of whom are male. ALL. The only women on the ship are a talk-show host and the pilot, who is described (on multiple occasions throughout the opening chapters) as super hot, but cold and untouchable. For example:
She was a beautiful woman, with blue eyes, lush blonde hair, perfect features. But there was no softness in her, no sense that she was in any way vulnerable.
And four pages later:
She looked positively supernatural standing there, silhouetted against the [supernova]. A first-class babe, she was. But there was something about her that warned Don't touch.
And so on. Once again, the whole book is like this! It's not that any one single example is necessarily awful or couldn't be made to work; it's the fact that it just keeps happening over and over again, with multiple characters doing this strangely antiquated dance of the sexes that feels very outdated even for 2004, let alone for 4000-whenever A.D.
It's frustrating. I really like the main narrator, Chase (who is female), and her semi-platonic friendship with her treasure-hunting partner Alex is rather adorable. But ... then there's the weird, anachronistic stuff, which keeps unsuspending my suspension of disbelief. For example, it's mentioned at one point that she and Alex had a brief love affair in the past, but she gave it up because "he wasn't husband material". Because ... that is obviously the most important thing to a 40th-century treasure-hunting Indiana Jones-esque space pilot. :/ It could even be a fascinating point of characterization if that's something which is particular to Chase as a character -- maybe she really wants to find someone to settle down with, a character trait which plays tug-of-war with her galaxy-trotting lifestyle. Except it's not. It's just kind of matter-of-factly tossed out there: obviously all women want a husband, amirite, girls?
Or there's this bit in which Chase and Alex attend a party hosted by their mutual friend Windy:
Windy was in a white and gold evening gown. I should comment that Alex always knew how to dress for these occasions and -- if I may modestly say -- I looked pretty good myself. Black off-the-shoulder silk, stiletto heels, and just enough exposure to excite comment. I got a knowing smile from Windy, who made a crack about the hunting available that night. Then she was all innocent modesty while Alex fondled her with his eyes and told her how lovely she looked.
DID I MENTION THE WHOLE BOOK IS LIKE THIS? Of course formal dress attire several thousand years in the future is exactly what it would be in 1990. And I don't think Alex is supposed to be a lecherous dick. He's just a "regular guy" (AIRQUOTES) ... circa 1955.
Naturally, there is never the slightest hint that anything other than monogamous M/F relationships might exist in 4000whatever A.D., either.
I suppose it's possible that at least SOME of this might be a deliberate attempt to use detective-novel genre conventions in a sci-fi book, except if that's what the author is trying to do, it's very clumsily handled, and just reads as lousy worldbuilding to me. Which is annoying, because it's a fun book otherwise, but the anachronistic tone keeps throwing me out.
... or (this might be more alarming) it is also possible that fanfic has ruined me for mainstream sci-fi. >_>
Edited to add more, because I am thinking more about this:
I think there's a sort of sliding scale of cultural change in SF, in terms of both what writers will write, and what readers like to read. For most SF-reading people, there's a personal breakpoint somewhere, beyond which things just become too weird to relate to. I know that my breakpoint has moved closer to the "out there" end as I've grown up and seen more cultural change in my lifetime; I think that what I considered "weird and different" in sci-fi as a teenager is closer to normal for me now than it used to be.
People in the future are going to think differently. And do things differently. They just ARE. Some SF engages with that directly. In other books, it's a background thread that only comes up occasionally. Some authors write about a future that is so different and weird that we can hardly wrap our minds around it. Others write about a future in which people are basically like people today, except for the small, subtle ways in which technology and cultural change has changed their day-to-day lives.
SOME authors, however, don't even manage "small subtle ways". This would be one of those.
The book is "Polaris" by Jack McDevitt (who I've never heard of, but it was in my bargain-paperbacks pile). And it's a fun book! It's swashbuckly space opera, a murder mystery in a sci-fi setting. The main characters are treasure hunters who explore asteroids, abandoned spaceships, etc. for stuff they can sell, and Get Mixed Up In Something Greater Than Themselves. As one does. I like the characters, and the mystery is good, and the book is well-plotted, at least so far.
... but. You can sense there's a "but" coming, can't you. :D
The problem I'm having is that the book is very ... I don't even think dated is quite the word I'm going for here. It's just that it's set thousands of years in the future, after humanity has been in space for millennia and empires have risen and fallen, and yet it feels exactly like late-20th-century Earth. EXACTLY. Except with spaceships and AIs. Not everyone can come up with bizarre, alien future societies, and not everyone wants to -- and I really don't need that level of verisimilitude (I'm perfectly fine with, say, a Bujold rather than a Banks), but this is more on the level of "... dude, you aren't even TRYING, are you?"
For example, here's a passage from early in the book. The characters are looking at pictures of a woman who's gone missing.
Here was Madeleine at age six, with ice cream and a tricycle. And at thirteen, standing with her eighth-grade class in the doorway of their school. First boyfriend. First pair of skis. Maddy at eighteen, playing chess in what appeared to be a tournament.
Tricycle? Eighth grade? I did mention this is several thousand years in the future, right? Come on, man, at least throw in a random hoverboard or something.
And THE WHOLE BOOK IS LIKE THIS. And not just with the weird retrograde technology, but the gender relations are at least as antiquated. The book -- which was published in 2004 -- has that sort of faux-progressive feeling of 1980s sci-fi, where the writers are trying but they don't quite get what "gender equality" actually means. The opening scenes in the book, for example, takes place on a spaceship that's full of the leading scientists of their day ... all of whom are male. ALL. The only women on the ship are a talk-show host and the pilot, who is described (on multiple occasions throughout the opening chapters) as super hot, but cold and untouchable. For example:
She was a beautiful woman, with blue eyes, lush blonde hair, perfect features. But there was no softness in her, no sense that she was in any way vulnerable.
And four pages later:
She looked positively supernatural standing there, silhouetted against the [supernova]. A first-class babe, she was. But there was something about her that warned Don't touch.
And so on. Once again, the whole book is like this! It's not that any one single example is necessarily awful or couldn't be made to work; it's the fact that it just keeps happening over and over again, with multiple characters doing this strangely antiquated dance of the sexes that feels very outdated even for 2004, let alone for 4000-whenever A.D.
It's frustrating. I really like the main narrator, Chase (who is female), and her semi-platonic friendship with her treasure-hunting partner Alex is rather adorable. But ... then there's the weird, anachronistic stuff, which keeps unsuspending my suspension of disbelief. For example, it's mentioned at one point that she and Alex had a brief love affair in the past, but she gave it up because "he wasn't husband material". Because ... that is obviously the most important thing to a 40th-century treasure-hunting Indiana Jones-esque space pilot. :/ It could even be a fascinating point of characterization if that's something which is particular to Chase as a character -- maybe she really wants to find someone to settle down with, a character trait which plays tug-of-war with her galaxy-trotting lifestyle. Except it's not. It's just kind of matter-of-factly tossed out there: obviously all women want a husband, amirite, girls?
Or there's this bit in which Chase and Alex attend a party hosted by their mutual friend Windy:
Windy was in a white and gold evening gown. I should comment that Alex always knew how to dress for these occasions and -- if I may modestly say -- I looked pretty good myself. Black off-the-shoulder silk, stiletto heels, and just enough exposure to excite comment. I got a knowing smile from Windy, who made a crack about the hunting available that night. Then she was all innocent modesty while Alex fondled her with his eyes and told her how lovely she looked.
DID I MENTION THE WHOLE BOOK IS LIKE THIS? Of course formal dress attire several thousand years in the future is exactly what it would be in 1990. And I don't think Alex is supposed to be a lecherous dick. He's just a "regular guy" (AIRQUOTES) ... circa 1955.
Naturally, there is never the slightest hint that anything other than monogamous M/F relationships might exist in 4000whatever A.D., either.
I suppose it's possible that at least SOME of this might be a deliberate attempt to use detective-novel genre conventions in a sci-fi book, except if that's what the author is trying to do, it's very clumsily handled, and just reads as lousy worldbuilding to me. Which is annoying, because it's a fun book otherwise, but the anachronistic tone keeps throwing me out.
... or (this might be more alarming) it is also possible that fanfic has ruined me for mainstream sci-fi. >_>
Edited to add more, because I am thinking more about this:
I think there's a sort of sliding scale of cultural change in SF, in terms of both what writers will write, and what readers like to read. For most SF-reading people, there's a personal breakpoint somewhere, beyond which things just become too weird to relate to. I know that my breakpoint has moved closer to the "out there" end as I've grown up and seen more cultural change in my lifetime; I think that what I considered "weird and different" in sci-fi as a teenager is closer to normal for me now than it used to be.
People in the future are going to think differently. And do things differently. They just ARE. Some SF engages with that directly. In other books, it's a background thread that only comes up occasionally. Some authors write about a future that is so different and weird that we can hardly wrap our minds around it. Others write about a future in which people are basically like people today, except for the small, subtle ways in which technology and cultural change has changed their day-to-day lives.
SOME authors, however, don't even manage "small subtle ways". This would be one of those.
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I think for a lot of people who haven't thought about it, there's something called "essential human character," which often looks a lot like white American ideals. And to them, "essential human character" doesn't change, because it isn't cultural. And this idea is so important to reinforce that you end up pretending that tricycles and eighth grade aren't cultural either, so that you can shore up the kind of "essential human character" you have in mind.
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I think you're very right about this, and it also makes me think about the debate going around a little while back about "grim and gritty" in fantasy, and how some people assume that certain things like rape and subjugation of women and such are going to be human universals in every culture everywhere.
But it's also true that human psychology, in fiction, operates under restraints that technology doesn't -- that is, we want to sympathize with protagonists, and in order to do that, they need to have at least some things in common with us (for certain values of "we" and "us"). It's not just far-future (or far-past) humans we do that with; we also write aliens that act like humans and computers that act like humans and rabbits that act like humans and anthropomorphic toys that act like humans. And obviously this is filtered through a particular idea of "how humans act" that doesn't cover the full range of human experience -- but it's also a Thing We Do that seems to be, if not universal, then at least pretty common in storytelling. We anthropomorphize stuff.
I think this is why I've never quite been able to get behind the "... but dragons!" argument about fantasy (i.e. you have dragons; why can't you accept people acting differently than they do on Earth?) -- because even though I agree with the basic underlying argument, it seems like it's comparing apples and oranges to me. I can accept dragons much more readily (and on a completely different level of suspension of disbelief) than I can accept human characters who violate my ideas of how people would plausibly act under XYZ circumstances.
... but the problem, of course (and I'm preaching the choir, I know), is that our concept of "how people would act" is SO hugely cultural -- and so narrow. In some sense it's less a problem of imagination than a problem of empathy. And we don't have to go to space for it; we have that problem with cultural differences and neurological differences right here on Earth. We have a lot of trouble conceiving of people who think differently than us. I'm aware of that tendency in myself; I don't really like it, and I do consciously try to spread the net wider and read outside my comfort zone when I can, but I'm also aware that some kinds of storytelling are a lot more comfortable and fun for me, and easier to "get", because they're what I grew up with. Sometimes I want to be challenged, and sometimes I just want the comfort of the familiar.
And I'm also pretty sure different people have a different point where their sense of comfortable and familiar breaks down. I know mine has changed in my own lifetime; I remember bouncing off certain books in my teens because it was just too unfamiliar, too much for me, whereas I can accept it just fine as a more broad-minded and better traveled adult. I think that I naturally lean rather heavily on the conservative end of the "familiar to different" spectrum and have to fight against that.
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Also no one wore helmets. :p
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