Darth G1nger's Realm of Review
Timewyrm: Genesys
Part 1: The author isn't getting any
It's hard for me to get excited about the 7th Doctor, Sylvester McCoy. Scottish, like David Tennant but not forced to sound like some effeminate cockney. That's about all I can recall with fondness about the guy. I watched his series when I was but a youngster; untouched by alcohol, facial hair and, yes, women.
Whilst the patron of the Dr Who Reprint Society, Al, considers McCoy “his” Doctor, I remember him having to deal with a slow-moving lumbering bad guy made of giant Liquorice Allsorts; scourge of diabetics across the galaxy. I remember a sidekick so stereotyped she actually carried a ghetto-blaster and went by the chosen name of "Ace" because she hated Dorothy; “Dot” was probably a better choice. I remember a race of people who described death as being "made unalive"; even at the age of 10 this laboured writing grated on my youthful sensibilities.
So as I pick up TimeWyrm to become introduced to the published world of Who, I'm not as pumped as I could be. So it doesn't come as enormous shock when I find that the pages aren't exactly turning themselves.
The plot revolves a round a threat to ancient Earth from a telepathic shape-shifting cybernetically enhanced humanoid. Think the Borg Queen, but without the endless ranks of sweaty cyberpunks. Her craft was shot down on the Earth of distant past and she begins her comeback by asserting herself on the local, helpless culture and in particular a certain King by the name of Gilgamesh. A reasonably typical Who premise. Fair enough.
But what's really struck me so far is how horny the author is. This might be an adjustment I simply have to make when returning to the writings of sci-fi. It may come with the territory. But Jesus somebody sort this guy out!
The prose is febrile with the female form. It turns out that Gilgamesh is a pedarist. Any Mesopotamian women exist simply to pleasure aggressive neanderthal men and have their nubile forms written about by feverish sci-fi authors. Now, I’m no historian, this may be an accurate potrayal of our understanding of the time (and therefore good writing) but could it be done with perhaps even a modicum of subtlety?
If I may, allow me to illustrate by asking which quote below (from just the first quarter of the book) is made up by me:
Which one?
None of them.
You might have thought the last one; when I read it I couldn’t believe it belonged in the same book. Where on Earth would it belong? A line from some trippy 70’s poem as read by a chilled-out cigarette-smoking William Shatner in a tux?
Read it again and try and picture Sylvester McCoy in the same scene. Shudder.
Read Part Two of this review here.
Whilst the patron of the Dr Who Reprint Society, Al, considers McCoy “his” Doctor, I remember him having to deal with a slow-moving lumbering bad guy made of giant Liquorice Allsorts; scourge of diabetics across the galaxy. I remember a sidekick so stereotyped she actually carried a ghetto-blaster and went by the chosen name of "Ace" because she hated Dorothy; “Dot” was probably a better choice. I remember a race of people who described death as being "made unalive"; even at the age of 10 this laboured writing grated on my youthful sensibilities.
So as I pick up TimeWyrm to become introduced to the published world of Who, I'm not as pumped as I could be. So it doesn't come as enormous shock when I find that the pages aren't exactly turning themselves.
The plot revolves a round a threat to ancient Earth from a telepathic shape-shifting cybernetically enhanced humanoid. Think the Borg Queen, but without the endless ranks of sweaty cyberpunks. Her craft was shot down on the Earth of distant past and she begins her comeback by asserting herself on the local, helpless culture and in particular a certain King by the name of Gilgamesh. A reasonably typical Who premise. Fair enough.
But what's really struck me so far is how horny the author is. This might be an adjustment I simply have to make when returning to the writings of sci-fi. It may come with the territory. But Jesus somebody sort this guy out!
The prose is febrile with the female form. It turns out that Gilgamesh is a pedarist. Any Mesopotamian women exist simply to pleasure aggressive neanderthal men and have their nubile forms written about by feverish sci-fi authors. Now, I’m no historian, this may be an accurate potrayal of our understanding of the time (and therefore good writing) but could it be done with perhaps even a modicum of subtlety?
If I may, allow me to illustrate by asking which quote below (from just the first quarter of the book) is made up by me:
- “Gilgamesh overlooked this, as he was trying to lap up the wine he had deliberately spilled onto the girl's breasts.”
- “The nurse at whose breasts you suckled may be Ishtar's spy if Ishtar wishes it.”
- “It took her a while to sort out the bra, but finally it was fastened and fairly comfy.”
- “Her bare breasts marked her clearly as one of the priestesses of the goddess of love.”
Which one?
None of them.
You might have thought the last one; when I read it I couldn’t believe it belonged in the same book. Where on Earth would it belong? A line from some trippy 70’s poem as read by a chilled-out cigarette-smoking William Shatner in a tux?
Read it again and try and picture Sylvester McCoy in the same scene. Shudder.
Read Part Two of this review here.