#82 = Volume 27, Part 3 = November 2000
Verne Vindicated Again.
Edmund J. Smyth, ed. Jules
Verne: Narratives of Modernity. Liverpool UP, 2000. viii + 160
pp. $47.95 hc.; $23.95 pbk.
Rightly if perhaps a little nervously, Smyth includes early in his
Introduction a reminder that "The first issue of Hugo Gernsback’s
landmark SF magazine Amazing Stories in 1926 had a drawing of Jules Verne’s
tomb at Amiens on its title page" (1). Readers of this journal may recall
in more detail that illustration conspicuously placed at the masthead on the far
left: under a stone marker that slants over the grave at about a 45-degree angle
to create the effect of an open rectangular clamshell, from the shroud that
still drapes his lower body, Verne emerges as though flying rapidly upwards with
white beard neatly trimmed, oddly androgynous breasts, eyes uplifted, and right
hand outstretched in an up-up-and-away attitude while his open palm extends in a
gesture of benediction toward both readers and the other side of the page on
which, in large letters diminishing off toward the right, is the magazine’s
title. Under this arresting image is the legend in capital letters "JULES
VERNE’S TOMBSTONE AT AMIENS PORTRAYING HIS IMMORTALITY." Let’s not
begrudge Gernsback credit for more subtlety here than first meets the eye and
maybe therefore (what often amounts to the same thing in Smyth’s collection)
modernity. Despite its wood-block crudity, the juxtaposition of image and words
conveys a complex truth. Although the literal minded can take immortality in its
religious sense, which doesn’t square very well with Verne’s oeuvre
or with the genre to which Gernsback was playing godfather, literary immortality
is a better reading and one that works two ways: Amazing Stories
resurrects Verne by reprinting some of his works and encouraging new ones imbued
with their spirit, while conversely Verne confers something of his immortality
on the magazine and on the new genre that Gernsback pioneered. The drawing was
soon dropped but the affiliation endured and Verne remains at large, eluding all
attempts at reburial.
Smyth is quick to add that while "there has been as much debate
concerning Verne’s status within SF, as there has about his inclusion in the
French literary canon.... [I]t would be fair to state that in the popular
imagination Verne and SF are seen as largely synonymous, even if modern science
fiction has moved far beyond the narratives of travel and endeavour which are
found in Voyage au centre de la terre (1864) and Vingt mille lieues
sous les mers (1869)" (1-2). Most of the essays in this volume
reconsider from various angles what to make of the messy relationships linking
Verne, old and new-model sf, the popular imagination, and canonical literature
as viewed by its devotees and as attacked by its postmodern enemies. Smyth is
also quick to state an engaging disclaimer: "It is not the aim of this book
to provide a definitive answer to the question of Jules Verne’s status as a
writer of science fiction, let alone to supply yet another ‘justification’
of his legitimacy as a serious writer" (8). Maybe not. But the essays
rounded up by Smyth provide comprehensive and convincing if not definitive
answers to the usual questions about Verne and sf as a basis for hammering home
the variously reiterated point that now only frivolous or misinformed readers
can fail to take Verne seriously. Among the contributors there is a notable
consensus on these matters, although put in terms that dispel the depressing
sense of déjà vu elicited by book titles that proclaim
"modernity" (or worse, "postmodernity") for a writer from
the distant past. Without much troubling to define the book’s keynote term,
its essays argue for Verne’s modernity as an exemplar, though not always an
advocate, of attitudes generated by nineteenth-century social and technological
trends, and also for his modernity as a writer to whose works
twenty-first-century readers can apply in gratifying ways their own mostly
postmodern techniques of analysis.
The collection is firmly anchored in history by Arthur B. Evans’s
magisterial survey of "Jules Verne and the French Literary Canon."
Evans charts the initial fall and posthumous rise of Verne’s reputation among
the stern guardians of French literature and education in his own country,
dwelling to especially good effect on those "many social and historical
forces" (27) that finally converged to rehabilitate Verne in the years
between 1955 and 1978. Evans argues persuasively that Verne’s retrieval from
"hallowed oblivion" (27) was due to synergism created by a confluence
of developments: inventions from submarines to spaceships that validated Verne
as a prophet while also evoking nostalgia for the reassuring machine-human
relationships so often portrayed in his fiction; marketplace popularity of new
sf that generated interest in its antecedents; proliferation of theories about
literature that could be applied to or tested on Verne’s oeuvre; and
even "the progressively non-mimetic and self-conscious tendencies in modern
French fiction, creating a kind of backlash revival of more highly referential
forms of literature" (27). An implied moral is that any popular sf writer’s
ability to achieve an enduring reputation depends not only on skill but on the
contingent vagaries of scientific developments, literary vogues, and modes of
criticism.
Evans properly takes for granted that mimesis is a matter of degree: less
versus "more highly referential forms." Other essays qualify and
complicate the too-widely received notion that Verne’s works are completely or
even primarily referential. Writing on "Myth, Inversion and Regression in
Verne’s Underground Utopia," David Meakin shows that in Les Indes
noires (1877), as so often elsewhere, "Verne’s text is less a
systematically positivistic account of the present—let alone a scientific
prediction of the future—than a cultural mine in which he reworks and
dialogues with the world of myth and with the writings of his literary
forebears" (107). Meakin also notes in passing how Verne’s text is in
dialogue with representations not of the external world but of itself:
"words are not everything in a Verne text: the illustrations ... are
catalysts of desire, fuelling reader curiosity, placed always before the events
they picture" (96). This interplay of textual desire deserves more
attention from Verne’s acolytes. Timothy Unwin accepts and elaborates upon
Michel Butor’s argument that (as Unwin summarizes it) "Verne’s
descriptions are invested with an immense poetic power where the richness and
strangeness of words themselves are underlined" (47). Unwin also argues
that "Although the Voyages extraordinaires may seem to take us on an
imaginary armchair tour of the continents and the seas, we are constantly
returned to the book and to the bookish. Text is everywhere" (56).
Trevor Harris, writing on "Measurement and Mystery in Verne,"
suggests that, under the sway of Hetzel’s editorial policy, Verne’s writing
creates an "essentially childlike vision, mixing fantasy with safety,
removing the dangers and placing them in a virtual reality, reducing any ‘frisson’
to manageable proportions" so as "to bring to the reader new and
exciting facts, but to soften the blow of this potentially disturbing paradigm
shift, to feed the strange through the familiar, the unknown through the
known" (111). In further apparent agreement with those who consign Verne to
the lower depths of kiddie-lit, Harris goes on to affirm that a predilection for
stories of circular movement over the globe is another technique designed
"to deliver the narrative goodies to Verne’s expectant child
readers" (112). Countering the pejorative implications of these
conclusions, however, is the way Harris, perhaps despite himself, shows in
persuasive detail how that "childlike vision" achieves an appealing
complexity and mythic resonance that now fascinates sophisticated adult readers
(such as Harris) no less and probably more often than children. Whether as
virtue or vice or both, Verne’s hallmark in this account is vivid fantasy, not
referential didacticism. In a lucid essay on the balance of "Realism,
Utopianism and Science Fiction in the Novels of Jules Verne," Sarah
Capitano concedes the "touches of modernity" created by those
intertextual and self-reflexive elements that are at last attracting attention.
But by way of useful caution against forgetting everything else, she argues that
such features "in no way represent a wholesale debunking or undermining of
the essentially serious enterprise of instruction and high-minded ‘divertissement’....
What emerges above all from the varying generic narrative strands ... is the
interface between the historic (Realist), the a-chronic (utopian) and the
futuristic (science fiction)" (72-73).
In "Jules Verne, Raymond Roussel, and Surrealism," Terry Hale and
Andrew Hugill provide another measure of how strongly fantasy stands out in
Verne’s oeuvre—and also, not incidentally, further testimony to his
afterlife outside the Gernsbackian Valhalla of sf—by tracing his influence
through Roussel to "numerous productions of the writers and artists
generally associated with the French and Belgian Surrealist movements" and
"even more strongly ... in the writings of the Greek Surrealists,
particularly those of Andreas Embirikos" (122). David Platten takes up the
question of how to square with received views of Verne his newly discovered and
only recently published Paris au XXe siècle (1994). Platten puts the
case against taking this as written entirely in 1863, basing his skepticism on
internal evidence read in the light of scientific and social developments
subsequent to that date, as well as in the light of Verne’s later fiction and
questions about how far some of his works were posthumously revised by his son
Michel. Although these are dubious grounds for dating, as Platten recognizes,
the exercise is an expedient way of canvassing the most important themes of
Verne’s career to substantiate the claim that "Paris is a
fascinating document for two interconnected reasons: firstly, it jeopardizes
most idées reçues concerning Verne and his work, and secondly it raises
further questions of authorship and textual authenticity" (81). In
"Mysterious Masterpiece," William Butcher directs such questions to
"Edom," better known under the title "L’Eternal Adam"
(1905). He takes as unanswerable, at least for now, the question of how far
Michel and how far Jules can be credited with authorship of this story. Butcher
turns the difficulty to good account, however, by taking this mystery as
emblematic of the paradoxes posed by the story itself, and in turn taking those
paradoxes as emblematic of how Verne’s entire oeuvre has elicited and
rewarded a two-step reading process, a kind of critical double-take: "Verne’s
grossly inappropriate public reputation has, from the beginning, been the
symptom, and even the cause, of a limited first-level analysis; a deeper reading
leads to the appreciation of a number of receding levels. The works produce
complexity as if to spite the simplistic interpretation placed on them"
(151).
Butcher’s insight is borne out by the essays in this excellent collection.
If they remark complexities of various kinds as often as they do modernity
(however defined), the result is to liberate their explications from the
constraints of focusing too narrowly on features that conform to rigid and often
transitory definitions of what is modern. Jules Verne: Narratives of
Modernity is a cross-section of the best current Verne scholarship, offering
models of how his fiction can and should be read at the outset of the
twenty-first century. This is an indispensable book for those who want to see
how far we have come along the path toward better understanding of Verne, and
how we should go forward.
—Paul Alkon, University of Southern California
Sequels, Spectacles, and
Disasters
Annette Kuhn, ed. Alien
Zone II: The Spaces of Science Fiction Cinema.
Verso, 1999. 308 pp. $19 pbk.
Kim Newman. Apocalypse
Movies: End of the World Cinema. St. Martin’s/Griffin, 2000.
272 pp. $16.95 pbk. Published in the UK as Millenium Movies in 1999 by
Titan Books.
In 1990 Verso published Alien Zone: Cultural Theory and Contemporary
Science Fiction Cinema, a collection that seemed to set up a canon of sf
films in the way it privileged Alien (1979) and Blade Runner (1982).
Ten years on, forests have been felled to print articles on the latter film, and
to answer the field’s equivalent of "Is Hamlet mad?"—i.e.,
"Is Deckard a replicant?" But 1990 was a more innocent time,
postmodernism was still a recent buzz word, and we hadn’t yet gotten bored
with asking the question. Blade Runner was only available in its 1982
version—complete with hardboiled voiceover and happy-ever-after ending—and
few people knew about the unicorn. (Recently, Ridley Scott has answered our
tantalizing question in the affirmative, quite spoiling our fun and grounding a
film that was fascinating in its ambiguity.) Yet Alien Zone is a book I
still turn to, still recommend, for Barbara Creed on Alien and the
monstrous-feminine, Scott Bukatman on Videodrome (1983), and Guliana
Bruno on Blade Runner. All save three of the articles in the volume were
reprints, dating mostly from the mid- to late 1980s, with a handful from earlier
in the decade. But at least there was a page of acknowledgments, between the
contents page and the introduction, allowing you to work this out.
Cut to 1999, and Alien Zone II: The Spaces of Science Fiction Cinema.
Sequels, of course, fall into a number of categories: those that give us more of
the same, those that push ideas forward and seem quite different from the
original, and those that give us much more of the same, on a larger
budget, but less effectively. This volume, I fear, falls into the last category.
Of that original impressive threesome, only Bukatman remains as a contributor,
with a particularly enjoyable article on the sublime and the foregrounding of
spectatorship in the special effects of Douglas Trumbull. But then I enjoyed
hearing the chapter when he gave it as a conference paper five or six years ago—although
I missed the version that was published in 1995.
Not that the book makes such dating of material easy to sort out; you look in
vain for an acknowledgments page, which surely makes this a copyright minefield.
Barry Keith Grant’s piece dates from 1986 ("substantially revised"),
David Desser’s from 1991 (ditto), Janet Staiger’s from 1988 ("slightly
shortened"—courtesy of footnote two), Vivian Sobchack from 1988
("revised and expanded," from the same issue of East-West Film
Journal as Staiger’s), parts of Linda Mizejewsli’s from 1993 (footnote
three); Claudia Springer draws on pieces from 1995 and 1996, Garrett Stewart
from 1998 ("a shortened version"). That leaves three apparently
original pieces, from Brooks Landon, Will Brooker, and Catherine Constable.
There’s nothing intrinsically wrong with reprinting articles that are fourteen
years old, but they risk looking awfully dated. H. Bruce Franklin got around a
similar problem in Alien Zone by subtitling his original piece
"1970-1982." Staiger’s "Future Noir: Contemporary
Representations of Visionary Cities" simply stops in 1987, as if Dark
City (1998), Judge Dredd (1995), Pi (1998), and half a dozen
other movies don’t exist. By contrast, Vivian Sobchack, in "Cities on the
Edge of Time: The Urban Science-Fiction Film" has updated her coverage to
1998 to sneak in Pleasantville (1998) and The Truman Show (1998)—although
these are technically small-town settings.
Looking at the book as a whole, one might reasonably ask: what impact has the
past decade had on film studies with regard to science fiction? Well, the canon
of Blade Runner and Alien has apparently been expanded to include Blade
Runner, Aliens (1986), Alien3 (1992), and Alien:
Resurrection (1997). Brooker looks at Internet fandom in relation to Alien,
Blade Runner, and Star Wars (1977), a topic hardly possible ten
years ago (and I will return to his chapter in due course). David Desser, in a
piece reprinted from Judith Kerman’s anthology Retrofitting BLADE RUNNER
(Bowling Green, 1991), examines that film in terms of its treatment of
race, space, and class, as well as revisiting earlier films (there is a huge
hole in the coverage between 1936 and 1960, which remains unexplained). Desser
raises the interesting question of why the Nexus-6 androids are quite so feared,
surmising that it might be "a fear of difference—notably, perhaps, the
replicants’ alleged lack of emotions" (93). I would have thought that the
problem was the undermining of difference, and the resultant inability to
be certain who is human and who a replicant. Staiger discusses Blade Runner
in relation to Max Headroom (1985-87) and the unjustly neglected Brazil
(1985), under the heading of postmodern cities. Sobchack mercifully passes over Blade
Runner in a page (and also mentions Brazil). Garrett Stewart, in
"Body Snatching: Science Fiction’s Photographic Trace," mentions the
photographs of Rachel and her mother in Blade Runner, but ignores Leon’s
and Deckard’s snapshots as well as the celebrated scene of the computer-aided
searching of a photo.
Catherine Constable clearly outlines the scope of her chapter—the four Alien
films—and her theoretical model: Julia Kristeva via Barbara Creed. The chapter
thus draws on and offers a corrective to one chapter from the original Alien
Zone. Creed read Kane’s exploration of the alien craft as "positive
images of a parthenogenetic mother figure" (177), but Constable notes the
menace present in the scene, and offers an alternative reading of the space as
tomb. Creed read the alien face-hugger attack as Freudian—a castration, a
reabsorption into the womb; Constable prefers to emphasize the abject. Constable
notes Ripley’s transformation into a symbolic mother through Aliens’
granting her a surrogate child; the fact that in the Director’s Cut of the
film, released on DVD, we are told that Ripley’s biological child (previously
unmentioned) died of old age adds to this move. The mother-child dyad, enriched
by the genetics of the alien queen, is clearly central to Alien: Resurrection,
and Constable argues persuasively that this film reverses the modified
explorations of the abject in Alien and Aliens, given that Ripley
is now mother to the queen rather than impregnated by the queen. Does the mere
passing mention of Alien3 invalidate the argument? Constable
notes Ripley’s role there as outsider threatening a male environment, but
there is much more to be said on what is perhaps the most intriguing installment
of the saga. After all, Alien3 starts with the killing off of
characters Ripley had worked so hard to save in the last half hour of Aliens,
and then procedes to dispense with any character with whom we get too close to
identifying. As a part of the ALIEN sequence, it is least comfortable, but on
its own terms and in relation to David Fincher’s directorial career, it
requires some attention.
As I have noted, Will Brooker discusses fandom, but he can’t avoid that
ever-so-slight tone of patronizing coyness academics often tend to adopt when
talking about fans. He reveals that fans "even arrange their own social pub
meets—I have myself travelled to Lincoln, London and Birmingham for such
reunions" (56). "Lincoln" doesn’t quite have the dying fall it
might if mentioned instead after the metropoli of London and Birmingham, but I
fail to see what is so remarkable about people meeting in bars to discuss sf.
After all, academics never adjourn to pubs and the SFRA conference isn’t
anything like a reunion…. Clearly the points Brookner makes about Internet
fandom have to be taken as typical of the ten websites (although his Works Cited
ultimately lists just seven), and even then only on those few days he visited,
but I have to say I don’t entirely recognize his portrait of the scene from
the corners I hang out in. The missing piece is the whole raft of conversation—in
pubs, at conventions, on discussion lists—which isn’t about sf. Some
science-fiction fans, as opposed to fans of science fiction, take great pride in
never allowing the subject to come up. But if he has problems with the
structured anarchy of the broad church of fandom, in all its overlapping and
schismatic factions, he comes a cropper on basic bibliographic matters. Alan
Nourse’s novel The Bladerunner (1974) is misrepresented as a
short story, and K.W. Jeter is transformed into William K Jeter.
"Consensual hallucination" is described as "Gibson’s term for
‘cyberspace’" (71) rather than as one prominent definition of it in Neuromancer
(1984). The endnotes slip between The Alien V Discussion Forum (note 19)
and The Alien 5 Discussion Forum (notes 25-27).
Most of the essays feature, of course, not what academics think fans think,
but what academics think. Reading Barry Keith Grant’s "‘Sensuous
Elaboration’: Reason and the Visible in the Science-Fiction Film," you
start to wonder if the piece contains an original idea. He begins firmly enough
with the assertive phrase "I want to argue," yet his rhetoric quickly
shifts to the obsessively allusive: "not to claim, as some critics
have," "what Darko Suvin calls…," "As Robert Heinlein
notes…," "according to Lester del Rey…," "As such
critics as Robert Scholes and Bruce Kawin have argued…," "According
to Robin Wood…," and (my favorite) "… Sam Moskowitz, quoting Rollo
May…." I could actually go on: these quotations are just from pages 16
and 17. It’s one thing to ground your argument in the ongoing debate, but
quite another to be unable to complete a paragraph without such a support. The
authorities cited are from various disciplines: sf novelists, editors,
theorists, and fan historians—but each piece of evidence seems to be granted
the same relative weight. Grant also tends towards the list, skipping through
titles that illustrate a given theme with barely a pause to explain how they do
so, or even the significance of the theme itself. Given Grant’s placement at
the outset of the book, his essay might be thought to be a cursory survey of the
field, but it remains too breathless for even that.
Grant laments the shift from the traditional sense of wonder to the
contemporary age of the spectacle, lamenting the infantilism of fans’ delight
in special effects. Two essays, Landon’s and Bukatman’s, focus on just such
effects. Like a number of the pieces in the book, Landon’s "Diegetic or
Digital? The Convergence of Science-Fiction Literature and Science-Fiction Film
in Hypermedia" begins with Méliès, perhaps as a means of returning to the
origins of cinema to trace out a different tradition from classical Hollywood.
Just as the trick shot was the point of many early one-reelers, so the narrative
in a number of sf movies (and Landon too can rattle off the lists) becomes a
structure to hang special effects on—a narrative that pauses whilst the effect
takes place, rather like (although Landon does not say this) those musicals that
put their narratives on hold for a song and dance number. In making his
argument, Landon cites Bukatman (presumably material parallel to his chapter
later in the book), Garrett Stewart (definitely material later in the book), and
film genre theorist Stephen Neale. Neale offers the tremendously common-sense
observation of how films build up to bigger and bigger effects throughout their
narratives, as if gangster or Western movies don’t observe similar build-ups;
Landon himself mentions Titanic (1997) in passing. Surely the most
interesting thing about special effects is quite how far from sf they have
spread: car crashes, landscapes, birds, explosions, all of these now routinely
call upon computer-generated digital imagery. Scott’s Gladiator (2000)
probably had more effects than did Blade Runner. An overarching, less
genre-specific theory of special effects seems critically essential today.
Scott Bukatman goes some way towards offering precisely this in his grounding
of FX in the history of the tromp l’oeil and the sublime in painting.
Just as J.M.W. Turner’s paintings invite our gaze, or panoramas offer a
substitute for tourism, so the effects of Douglas Trumbull take us on a journey;
indeed, Trumbull invites us to wallow in the touristic display. Bukatman notes
the cutaways to "an astronaut’s frozen features, Spielberg’s typically
slack-jawed observers, the crew of the Enterprise, or the disembodied eye
that holds the infernal city reflected in its gaze" (259), as we are
invited to gaze upon gazing. Sometimes this doubled spectatorship can play
against the realism of a sequence: Deckard seems at his most emotional when
being flown across a city he must have seen a hundred times before. But the
camera offers us a chance to see things we otherwise could not see, whether
realistic or fantastic.
Taken as a whole, Alien Zone II is weaker than its predecessor: the
structure seems awkward as the dialogue between the various authors cuts across
the order of the book. Kuhn’s division of the book into a number of sections
relating to space—cultural, urban, corporeal, and sensuous—seems arbitrary
and is, frankly, a distraction. A number of inconsistencies occur: is it Clockwork
Orange or A Clockwork Orange (1971), is H.G. Wells’s novel The
Shape of Things to Come 1934 (Staiger, 108) or 1933 (Landon, 19)? Why does,
say, Invisible Ray (1936) get a filmography entry when neither of the
versions of The Thing (1951, 1982) do? And why am I left with the nagging
sense that most of the contributors are more interesting on the contexts
they explore—the history of architecture, theories of the sublime, and so on—than
on sf film itself?
An anthology can never really offer a complete survey of the field without
overlaps, and of course features a multitude of voices. Kim Newman’s Apocalypse
Movies speaks with a single voice, surveys hundreds of films, and fits them
into some sort of system, but sacrifices depth in the process. Originally
published in 1999 in Britain as Millennium Movies, the retitling for the
American edition (a tad inefficiently on the proof I saw) is clearly an attempt
to jump off a now-obsolete bandwagon. Newman is a science-fiction novelist and a
reviewer of some repute, especially in British film magazines such as Empire and
Sight and Sound. In Britain genre reviews tend to fall either into the
pointlessly positive fanboy school (particularly in genre publications) or the
equally pointlessly negative (in the general market). Newman is a critic I
trust, even if I don’t always agree with his judgments; above all, he does not
treat a film as excellent or atrocious merely because of its genre status.
Newman wears his erudition lightly, as he examines dozens of films about
alien invasion, disease scares, nuclear annihilation, and so on. At times he
does little more than list; more often a sentence is sufficient to sum up a film’s
worth (if there is a canon here, it is outlined by stealth). When he can relax
and spend two or three pages on a film—for example, Independence Day
(1996), Mars Attacks! (1996), or The Day the Earth Stood Still
(1951)—the result is some of the clearest, most incisive criticism that one
could hope for. There are faults: the index lists films but not directors, so an
oeuvre cannot be efficiently examined; a date is missing from a couple of
titles. But then, Newman’s book isn’t really scholarly, nor does it pretend
to be. It would, however, give anyone with an interest in sf film a good
grounding in a vast area of the field, a claim I’d be reluctant to make for Alien
Zone II.
—Andrew M. Butler, Buckinghamshire Chilterns
University College
Ingenious Feats of Sophistry
H.G. Wells. When
the Sleeper Wakes: A Critical Text of the 1899 New York and London First
Edition, with an Introduction and Appendices, ed. Leon Stover.
McFarland, 1999. xii + 465 pp. $55 hc.
When the Sleeper Wakes (1899) was the fifth and last of H.G. Wells’s
"scientific romances" to be published in the nineteenth century.
Literary critics, including the author himself, have consistently rated it the
poorest of the set. Interest endures, however, chiefly because it would appear
to be one of the first full-fledged dystopian novels, the prototype of the
classic texts of Yevgeny Zamyatin, Aldous Huxley, and George Orwell. Leon
Stover, as ever the iconoclast, seeks to prove in this immensely annotated
edition that Sleeper is a work of considerable artistic merit and that
(gasp!) it is actually a utopian novel. He correctly observes that a utopian
fiction describes a place that its author thinks is desirable, not necessarily
that its readers or critics would think is desirable. Since Wells was the
adoring herald of the twentieth-century total state—as we learned earlier in The
Prophetic Soul: A Reading of H.G. Wells’s THINGS TO COME (McFarland,
1987), Stover’s merciless unmasking of the fascism in Wells’s 1936 film—the
world of A.D. 2100 depicted in Sleeper is therefore, for Wells, a utopia.
Stover’s logic is impeccable. If A equals B and B equals C, then A clearly
equals C. So far, so good. And yet ...
But for those who have not read When the Sleeper Wakes, let us begin
with a brief outline of the yarn. The Sleeper is an Englishman known only as
"Graham," who falls into a coma in A.D. 1897 and wakes up 203 years
later to find that his investments have made him the nominal master of a
plutocratic world order. He is soon manipulated by a dissident oligarch named
Ostrog, who overthrows the regime in Graham’s name, only to become its
all-powerful dictator himself. As the novel reaches its climax, Graham helps
lead a proletarian revolution against Ostrog, but dies heroically in an air
battle over London. Whether Ostrog or the proletariat will prevail is left
uncertain as Graham plunges to his death. Throughout the novel, the workers are
represented as exploited and oppressed underdogs, and Graham figures as a
compassionate humanitarian resolved, once he learns their true plight, to
liberate them. In Wells’s prescient description of twenty-second-century
England under the heel of, first the plutocracy, and then the proto-fascist
dictatorship of Ostrog, he anticipates much of the technology of behavioral
engineering later perfected by Bolsheviks, Fascists, and Nazis alike.
Thus, Sleeper is a dystopia, Ostrog is the villain, and Graham is the
hero. Right? Wrong, and dead wrong, argues Stover. Citing scores of quotations
plucked out of context from Wells’s writings over a more than fifty-year span,
he paints a picture of Wells as an unregenerate authoritarian state socialist in
the image of the baleful father of all elitist and statist utopias, the early
nineteenth-century French social philosopher Henri de Saint-Simon. Wells, like
Edward Bellamy, Vladimir Lenin, and Benito Mussolini, was a confirmed "totalist"
in the Saint-Simonian tradition, and an equally confirmed foe of the
communitarian, proletarian socialism of Karl Marx. He loathed the common man and
foresaw a future in which Platonic Guardians, an elite of technocratic experts,
would tell common men what to believe and what to do. Or else. It follows that
Graham was a pathetic, ineffectual anti-hero, a futile sentimentalist, and that
Ostrog, after all, was just the sort of man who could set things straight.
To help document his contentions, Stover reprints, among his seven
appendices, the texts of an 1899 interview with Wells and of Wells’s Preface
to a 1921 reprint of Sleeper. Of course, both pieces flatly contradict
Stover, but he indulges in some not so ingenious feats of sophistry to try to
overcome the obvious. In the interview, for example, Wells remarks: "When
he [Graham] wakes up, he finds the world as I hope it will never be, but I think
as it might conceivably become, if [the] humanitarian instinct ... is really
going to slumber for those two centuries" (388). What could be more plain?
If one depicts a future world that he or she hopes "will never be," he
or she is writing a dystopia. Stover wiggles around this by dwelling on an
earlier part of the interview where Wells proclaims the democratic age at an end
and the reign of "an aristocracy of organisers" imminent. He
conveniently ignores Wells’s fear that these "organisers," these
captains of industry and finance, will simply turn into "bosses and
exploiters" (387). In context, Wells is not cheering on the bosses but
simply forecasting the world of our own time, where the bosses and exploiters do
in fact wield most of the power and do in fact use it to perpetuate their
dominion.
Never mind. What Stover has done is to confuse intentions and hopes with the
sordid realities of twentieth-century totalitarianism and multinational big
business. Indeed, Wells did deeply distrust parliamentary democracy, as well as
the wisdom of the common man and woman. He was surely an elitist, in the sense
that he wanted men and women of exceptional intelligence, expertise, and humane
vision to take charge of a faltering world, re-educate it, unify it, and manage
it rationally and benevolently. But if the best of us betrayed our trust by
becoming robber barons or self-serving demagogues, then the end in sight was the
desperate, decadent world of The Time Machine (1895) and When the
Sleeper Wakes.
Meanwhile, we have Stover’s critical edition to deal with. Except for some
of the appendices and a stray thought here or there, it is all but useless.
Anyone who wants to read Sleeper should look elsewhere. Stover’s 263
absurdly intrusive footnotes, many of them lengthy tirades designed to support
his thesis, clog the text from start to finish, occasionally crowding the text
right off the page. A particularly grim case is #221, which extends for more
than three pages (329-32), two of which allow no space for Wells at all. The
"Editor’s Introduction" rambles on for 63 pages. It does contain a
plausible—although overinflated—argument for tracing some of the forming
premises both of Wells’s worldview and of the totalitarian regimes of the
twentieth century to early nineteenth-century positivism, as propounded by
Saint-Simon and his erstwhile secretary, Auguste Comte. Stover is a clever and
widely read scholar. But his fifteen-year crusade to defame H.G. Wells is a
wonder for which I can contrive no explanation.
—W. Warren Wagar, SUNY Binghamton
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