I was not disappointed in the slightest. Passage At Arms is the tale of military journalist attached to a special unit called a Climber. The Climbers are long range patrol ships, seeking out the enemies of humanity in the vast, lonely reaches of space.

Cook’s eye-of-the-storm storytelling takes the reader by the collar and drags them into a claustrophobic world of nano-second violence and nerve crushing waiting.

The battles occur in milliseconds, with casualties far apart, little more than light blips on high tech sensors. The removal of the combatants from the horrors of war is near complete. The enemy then becomes themselves, their nerves and will power. As the ship molds and festers around them (bacteria grows in a sealed ship like a peatrei dish) and the crew itself becomes scurvy and filthy, the mental strain becomes unbearable. Glen Cook manages to convey this sense with split second timing and monotonous trials of patience. His ability to play with time makes events stream by or cause it to dilate to absurdity.

The characters become strangers to one another as they open to the reader, their inner-selves unfolding like neurotic origami. As the pressure of long-duration space battle build, we see man at his worst and his finest.

A sci-fi war novel, Passage At Arms sports only two or three actual battles, spanning (story-wise) less than three minutes. Regardless, the battles are intense and well planned, demonstrating the author’s knowledge of hard science and his ability to mitigate boring physics with actual story telling. A must read.

So the author’s use of space… is awkward. Each and every scene seems to occur in a vacuum, only the briefest attention given to the details of the location. Settings become rough layouts of rooms with noticeable obstacles. The fine details that we would expect our narrator to present to us through the magnificently observant eyes of young Ender Wiggan don’t occur.

It is possible the author intentionally left the settings sparse for mood and out of logical reason; space is cold and empty, extra clutter is dangerous and Ender lives in a cold and empty world. But that’s cheating.

Ender is not cold and empty, thus even though the world he lives in might be immaculate or sparse, Ender’s perceptions should have colored it a multitude of hues, from a tiny spittle of rust on a seldom used access hatch, to a flicker or twitch in the eyes of his arch-nemesis, Bonzo.

Further, Ender’s insight came from nowhere. The more I ponder this the more troubling it becomes. The character saved the world – but how? His magical intellect grew from what seem to be two very average parents. In the beginning of the book, some pretense is made towards the monitoring and selection of special children. This is fine in the beginning, but as the world’s hopes come to rest squarely on Ender, his abilities outstrip even the most senior of military commanders. As readers we need more. We need some assurance of plausibility; some reason that this is all possible. The author fails to deliver.

The last time I was urged to read the book, I was given a little biography of Orson Scott Card. Having, as most artists, writers and creative-types do, mostly liberal friends, Card’s political and social views were brought up immediately.

“Great book,” they all said “but he hates homosexuals.”

Intrigued, I went right to the bookstore and picked up a copy of Ender’s Game. It was good. I took issue with some of the pacing, but just when I was frustrated enough, the scene shifted and we the readers were propelled forward in time to a more interesting and active moment in the hero’s tale.

As I read, however, I noticed distinct moment of strangely potent homo-eroticism. The hero, a boy named Ender, is sent to live in a co-ed battle school, where he will be transformed into the ultimate soldier. He is barely eight, but has an intellect and maturity level rivaling most adults. By the time he is twelve, he has killed two other boys (though he doesn’t know it) and defeated every enemy he’s ever encountered.  While at the Battle School, Ender is constantly removing his clothes, wrestling and fighting in the nude and ignoring the nudity of any present (of which there was only one) females.

The Author goes so far as to make sure we all know that some of the other students (boys) are sleeping in the nude. In one touching and strangely disturbing scene, Ender offers to share his bed with a young student who is too young to find his way “back to the barracks.”

Orson Scott Card is perhaps one of the armchair military philosophers who believe in the Ancient Greek Military Discipline, where young boys were “tutored” by older soldiers. This was not, of course homosexuality. It was in fact, the most masculine way to be a pederast.

After discussing the book and this bevy of very Ancient Greek fraternity described in it, one of my compatriots suggested of Card, “Perhaps he doth protest too much?”

Regardless the book was a good story. It was well written by an author with a good understanding of developmental psychology and… fear. All that said, I feel guilty for purchasing the book and however indirectly, giving financial support to such a radical and fundamentalist worldview. Looking at Orson Scott Card’s bibliography, it seems there is a bevy of great stories that I’ll never read.

The feature was in 3D, closer and closer to real-life. Scratch that, it was better than real-life. It was high resolution too.

The story, I’ve avoided since I learned of Lewis Carroll’s reportedly inappropriate infatuation with a girl for whom he wrote the tale. Once again, real life lacks the luster of fantasy, no? Anyhow, I can’t give an accurate comparison of the screenplay to the book. I can however, comment on the film’s native attributes. Those being plot, pacing, production design and acting.

For perhaps the first time in my life, I’m keeping my comments to a minimum, however. The film was good. I’ve forgotten all about the word-play that pestered the novel, plagued the dialogue and made mimsy gribblesnitch of our so delicate english language. I, for one, like people who make up words. It shows a certain integrity of character – their determination to be understood, despite the limitations of their native tongue, which ever one that may be.

I’d forgotten all about the Mighty Jabberwocky and the Vorpal sword, both of which caused a rush of memories. I remembered Dungeons and Dragons treasure hordes, each time the player sorted through the pile of gold and gems and prizes, they secretly hoped to find the awe inspiring and rueful Vorpal Sword. I thought instantly about the old 1977 film entitled Jabberwocky. I thought about my lascivious 9th Grade english instructor, a Mr. Narry*, who seemed to delight in making the cheerleaders in class stumble through paragraph after paragraph of nonsensical words (he also delighted in having them interpret the lustful passages in Romeo and Juliet – thus earning his moniker, Naughty Narry and in retrospect, considering Lewis Carroll’s predilections, perhaps it’s best that Naughty Narry took us on our virgin exploration of the Jabberwocky).

All the while, the 3D screen was bludgeoning me with scenes of wonder and absurdity, voice talent that was so accurate and tightly cast, and a ruinous host of characters ghostly-familiar and yet disturbingly alien.  Alice in Wonderland was another of Tim Burton’s triumphs of the imagination. Alas, this voyage is one to undertaken on the big screen. No matter how large your television (and come on, lads, I know you buy some big ones), nothing can compare to the high-resolution, 3D experience that is Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland. Not even real-life.

*names are always changed to protect the guilty, innocent and misguided

The film’s refit was only slightly improved when it came to clarity of myth, though that all fell quickly to the wayside when the cameras panned for the first time across beautiful Argos (though, admittedly, my least favorite of Greek cities).

One thing filmmakers need to understand is for this genre of film, expectations have become so high, that had Argos been anything less than epic and astounding and beautiful, it would have been sub-par.

The story itself was easy, solid, typical. Humans, with their hubris have offended the Gods. While I found it odd that Mighty Zeus the Thunderer would wear full plate armor, circa 1200 AD Europe (or from the set of Excalibur – which, by the by, would make a fine remake as well), Liam Neeson was an acceptable choice for the role.

The “pretty face” that played Perseus did a fine job, mostly because it was an action movie requiring little acting. The film’s true mistake, however, was the twenty minute battle with the scorpions, in place of the two-minute confrontation with the Kraken. Technically speaking, the film had no falling action from the plot climax. There was about sixty-seconds of “Good Job, here’s your prize,” and then credits.

Of course, I loved the film, being a fan of the Greek myth cycle and anything that dares attempt to render it for the modern audience. One thing I can’t shake, however – The Kraken is straight out of Norse/Finnish mythology and never was a Titan. I can accept that a creature of a magnitude would be considered a Titan (sort of) but Medusa, was a Gorgon. I suppose Clash of Norse Kraken and Gorgon just didn’t roll off the tongue like “Titans.”

Being something of a mythology researcher, I’ve found no mention in Christian Biblical Lore about angels becoming mortal when they cut off their wings. In fact, this is an invention of the writer/director Kevin Smith. So, right off the bat, the basis for the film Legion is something Kevin Smith coughed up between bong hits.

The rest of the plot is a mish-mash stolen from films like The Prophecy, revolving about the classic “Hold-Out-And-Run” template. Aliens, 30 Days of Night, Dawn of the Dead (remake), The Mist and about a thousand other films of the genre share the same “story” arc; the characters are presented with an impossible challenge, one steels their wills to survive and they fortify until they realize they must move to stay alive. This decision invariably costs the characters that which they sought so hard to preserve – each other.

An ensemble piece, the cast of characters were there merely to add to the body count. Their deaths however, were nothing less than ignoble, usually getting chewed up by some file-toothed “angel” who has inhabited a human body.

The details of the plot are inconsequential – God wants to kill humans, but the Archangel Michael disagrees. Gabriel flies down after an hour of forced character development and begins to kick ass.

As a writer, you are obligated not to assault your audience’s sense of plausibility. Many will argue the “suspension of disbelief” is elastic and should be stretched – if I can accept that angels are real, I should be able to accept that angels would swoop down and enact God’s will.

However, this film left so many loop holes, even the most devout may begin to question their faith. The only new elements added to the archangels arsenal were bladed, bullet proof wings (stolen, if I remember correctly, from a Marvel Comics character named Archangel) and of course, a mace straight from the MI6 labs – a bludgeoning weapon that whirred and twisted and changes shape, extended and transformed, though likely too heave for even the new James Bond to heft, he was no doubt drooling over the versatility of this ridiculous weapon.

To spoil an already predictable plot, the good guys win and Michael gets his wings back, having taught the omniscient and omnipotent God a lesson in mercy. Gabriel flies off, beaten and the main characters, a trailer-park hussy/new mother and a bumpkin named Jeep (whose only heroic act was to machine-gun a child possessed by an angel) drive off into the post apocalypse desert to rebuild humanity, enacting a sloppy Joseph and Mary/Post Flood analog.

Overall, a  forgettable film.

The plot centers around a vampire who doesn’t like being a vampire (what, eternal youth, power and indestructibility not as much fun as you thought they’d be?), who by chance encounters the dwindling human resistance.  Proving himself a  friend to sheeple everywhere, the bipedal cattle bring this hematologist in on their plan to cure the vampiric infection.

The film is filled with those clever little gimmicks, like “daylight” driving windows, tinted 100% opaque, and a warren of underground tunnels that allows the leeches to travel during daylight hours. Willem Dafoe plays a blue-collar vampire who accidentally cured himself, and with the help of Ethan Hawke, intends to help cure all of humanity. Meanwhile, the blood supply is out, and the vampires are tearing off their neckties and degenerating into the nosferatu-esque and savage true vampiric form. Gross.

Half-developed characters stumble through subplots, while the audience is treated to constant barrage of surreal gore, squishing noises and vampires that are so starved, they turn on one another.

The films true weakness comes in the form of the cure – a shake and bake solution requiring neither hematologist nor faith nor garlic/silver oxide solution to achieve. Not impressed.

True vampire fans will enjoy this classic tale of moderate redemption wrapped in Big Business Dystopia, but those demanding substance will find the film without much of a bite.

While I, and perhaps other members of the audience were expecting something more akin to a mystery, I found myself delighting in the pacing. The lightning quick scene-to-scene action slowly but surely redefined Holmes and the indefatigable Watson. There were moments in the film where I felt they were more like Dr. Hunter S. Thompson and His Attorney, than the legendary sleuth.

The dismissal of layered mystery and sub-plot worked for this action adventure film. Sherlock, it seems, has been re-invented.

Reader’s will notice I always gloss over the acting. Well, I’m not changing my pattern. Downey Jr. was excellent, as well as Jude Law, both tried and true performers. I expected no less. In fact, considering their past roles, this might have been a screw-off project for them. Supporting cast was adequate. (Sidenote: I’ve heard rumors that Brad Pitt is cast as Moriarty – dashing my own aspirations – while Pitt has performed some excellent roles, it is my belief that he needs heavy interaction with the director – how else could you explain his “blah” portrayal of Achilles, perhaps the most archetypical character in the history of man?)

A mystery/thriller necessarily must play upon the audiences limited perspective, elsewise we would figure out the mystery well ahead of the main character. Thus, during the big reveal, we see Holmes’ perception of details the audience simply wasn’t shown. That’s cheating.

All said, I loved the film, it will definitely go into my Blu-Ray collection, right next to Iron Man.

Some hardcore film folk will suggest this is the down fall of cinema, the day the actor and director no longer interface is that day we’re all watching cartoons written my mad children.

And I would tend to agree. Jar-Jar Binks is my primary evidence.

But Avatar, all three hours of it, was something special. The plot itself was simple – to quote my uncle “a child could have written it,” and that’s okay. Most of the best stories are those that we all understand on a primal level. This film was nothing more complicated than Dances With Wolves in space. Which is okay too, since Alien was Jaws in Space and Attack of the Clones was just Star Wars in space (that last one was a joke).

The plot, essentially runs like this – Marine agent goes native. Saves people. Aside from the spectacular setting, there was nothing new or interesting about the story itself. Ancient as the plot may have been, it resonates with audiences because of some very simple and all too human elements: loss.

A sub-textual critique of the plight of Native American peoples can easily be read into Cameron’s somewhat heavy-handed action flick, but the secondary plot thread is entirely unnecessary.

I was disappointed to see that Cameron’s treat of space marines has changed little since the days of Aliens – the jarheads are mostly without conscience and still even talk the same. “Get some!” seems to be a common phrase in all centuries of Jim Cameron’s military vision. While I find his view of our own warrior caste somewhat two dimensional, I must applaud is continued use of powered armor.

Plausibility was kept at an all time high for a sci-fi action flick, and lord in heaven, this was a beautiful film. Simply gorgeous to look at.

I won’t comment on the acting. Sigourney Weaver is a professional who simply cannot deliver a poor performance. Our hero did most of his work in voice over mode, as well as the love interest. Michele Rodriguez (of Resident Evil fame) is sassy and sharp, but her character was a combination of Vasquez and Ferro from Aliens (can Jim never leave LV-426 behind?)

This story picks up with a Commissar-Colonel Gaunt wondering just how soft he’s gotten. One is reminded of the opening scenes of Apocalypse Now, where Martin Sheen stares out of his window wondering he’ll get orders to leave Saigon.

Gaunt’s Ghosts are no different than any other combat veteran, an entire regiment of soldiery so tuned up and keyed to self=preservation through violence, it’s no wonder that the Ghost’s run astray.

The novel opens with a gruesome scene wherein the infiltration of the Sabbat Crusade’s HQ world is cleverly explained. I won’t give too much more detail for fear of spoiling a fun read.

I did note, however, that it was page 67 before I felt the old interest, that Abnett page-turning, pulse-pounding sci-fi pulp action returning. Aside from the Blood Pact infiltration, I honestly can’t remember what happened in those first 67 pages.

As a long time Gaunt’s Ghosts fan, I think my patience for their antics is higher than would be for a new reader. I also found myself reflecting on the characters, it feels as if most of the original Ghosts are gone now. The replacement characters have yet to become fully endeared to me and I wonder, how will this regiment end up?

Gaunt’s capture and torture in the last book were cleanly glossed over, and any residual trauma he may have had has yet to make itself known…