The Passage versus The Passage

I used to think re-reading books was a literary sin. (Which is not a sulphur-and-brimstone sin, more a Fahrenheit 451 sin, the underworld hazy with the ashes of not just words, but something more physical and dependable than even the pages themselves.)  It was Against the Rules (or My Rules, or just my rules - I'm not sure). How could you waste time re-reading a book when there are so many unread books waiting (patiently) (and not so patiently) for you to breathe life into their characters and give them refuge in your memory?

But then I re-read The People's Act of Love, because I needed to; I started re-reading the Discworld series in order, because I like symmetry (I'm on book 29 of 41) and because they're dependable - even after 20 or 30 years, the satire still rings true and the characters are endearing or despicable for the same reasons; I re-read Special Topics in Calamity Physics because I wanted to re-read Night Film, but I couldn't re-read Pessl's second book without reading her first (right?); and now I am re-reading The Passage trilogy, not because I need to but because I want to.

My housemate and I watched the TV adaptation of The Passage in two sessions of five episodes each (each episode is 40 minutes). (Disclaimer: He slept through the last two.) He hasn't read the books and doesn't plan to - he reads fantasy almost exclusively and doesn't plan to meander into apocalyptic horror. However, he is a fan of vampire-esque movies and series and the associated 'lore' - think everything from Dracula to Buffy to Blade to Dawn of the Dead. This is important because the author (Justin Cronin) plays fast and loose with the vampire mythology. Meaning he scraps most of it.

So I am re-reading the books to see if what I loved about the books was originally in the books or if it was something I imposed onto them. Whether I wanted to love the books so much that I did the author the (dis)service of mutating his characters. I have now finished the first book (The Passage) and am taking a break before I begin the second book, The Twelve.

In the meantime, the news has come out that the network will not be making a second season of The Passage. Because of this, my housemate doesn't plan to watch the final episodes of the series that he slept through - smartly, he doesn't want to invest in something that doesn't have an obvious reward. I wish I had had that attitude before watching the third season of Twin Peaks or of Westworld. Yes, I'm still bitter.

Returning to my point (I seem to have developed a compass since last I addressed you, dear reader), while reading The Passage, I highlighted every description of the vampires to see whether I had conjured up a private vision of Cronin's vampires (which, if you read back in my posts, I found terrifying - and I find few things in this world terrifying, apart from human nature) or whether the special effects department had just gotten it wrong, whether for logistical or financial reasons. Thank you, Kindle, because it means all my highlights are now stored all in one place.

In the TV series, the vampires (the ones we see in the bunker, at least) are your standard-issue vampires: pale, reddish-amberish eyes, veins throbbing in their faces, but otherwise clothes-wearing humans. They can also pass for human, as Shauna Babcock does at the end of the season, and they have the Dracula-esque ability to seduce human beings and get them to do their bidding. Perhaps the reason for these choices is that they're a kind of shorthand - the viewer knows what kind of nasty we're looking at, leaving us mental space to focus on other elements of the plot.

One of the 'virals'

Because the vampires in the book are not standard issue. To start with, they're called 'virals', rather than 'vampires', because (obviously) the transformation is caused by a virus unearthed from a South American forest (where else?). These vampires are humanoid, but more muscled than humans and 'coiled', always ready to strike; they glow and their eyes are orange; they don't speak - they make ticking sounds; they have claws rather than hands, fangs rather than teeth; "the facial features seemed to have been buffed away, smoothed"; and their bodies are completely hairless. They hunt in 'pods' of three each, controlled by a hierarchy of twelve 'original' telepathic vampires (who do retain the Dracula-esque ability to appear in the thoughts of both humans and virals).

As I type the characteristics of these virals out, I realise how difficult it would have been to try to translate that onto the silver screen. Glowing vampires? They sound like a lumpy child's toy. But I still wish the special effects team had tried. By not trying, they were creating just another vampire TV show and we really don't need another one of those.

The relationship between the orphaned Amy Bellafonte and FBI agent Brad Wolgast sustains the first season

In addition to breathing life into a flogged-to-death genre, Cronin's strength as a writer is telling people's stories. The TV series gets this right in its casting and portrayal of the relationship between Federal Agent Bard Wolgast and a young girl named Amy Bellafonte. Wolgast is tasked with retrieving Bellafonte and bringing her to the facility where they can test the virus on her (you know, the one that turns everyone into vampires; yeah, that one) because she's an orphan and no one will miss her (I'm pretty sure there are laws against this, but ok). The writers tasked with translating the story for the silver screen fudge the details a bit, but the developing, sincere father-daughter relationship between the two characters makes this whole season watchable.

Thinking about this has made me realise how long Cronin's books are, how tedious they become in places, and how much better he is at telling people's stories than at navigating plot. The relationship between Wolgast and Bellafonte being one example. Another example is the story of Anthony Carter, who becomes one of the original virals and whose story binds the books together. The Passage alone is 760 pages long and it's only the first of three books. It covers the beginning of the outbreak, a time jump of 100 years, and a group of character's journey halfway across America, which could easily have been portioned out into two books. I'd ask: "What's left to tell?" except that I've already read the other two books, so I know the answer.

I am conflicted that there's no second season of The Passage. It would have picked up 100 years in the future (so, halfway through the first book) at a small outpost community that has lost all contact with the outside world (which, from its perspective and in typical American fashion, may no longer exist). The trailer depicts Amy as a kind of post-apocalyptic warrior princess, rather than a girl trying to survive the apocalypse, which is how she's depicted in the books and which I suppose is less appealing. If another network picks up this series, here's my compromise: I'll let you get away with warrior Amy (as opposed to survivor Amy) if I get my glowing, smooth, coiled, ticking virals.

The Twelve: why you should read a sequel

A glimmer in the eye... is two in a bush? No, that's not correct...

Folks, I finally saw that glimmer in someone’s eye. One that made me question the human soul. But it wasn’t humanity that shone from thither. It was an implant. As soon as you begin replacing bits of people with bits of poly-molecular whatnots, those of us inclined to questioning begin questioning at which point the person becomes more whatnot than whatever it is that makes a person a person, what bits of flesh and tissue harbour conscience (in the antiquated sense ‘of being’) and why-oh-why this even matters.

The last one being the most thought-provoking. It probably doesn’t matter, but I am trying to avoid finishing actual work.

I waxed lyrical about The Passage and now I think you may be very pissed off, if you read it instead of just reading my mostly projected commentary. Because if you began the second part of this treasure hunt to find our ‘consciences’, you will have found a different book. If you are pissed about that, then you are pissed at me for not warning you. In which case, you should be pissed at yourself too for taking me seriously when I go out of my way to convince you otherwise.

The second book is called The Twelve, after the 12 original Virals (these being vampiresque and bat-like humanoid creatures, except uglier, less seductive, primordial and messy eaters). We follow some of the same characters from the first book, except they are not the same and not because they have implants. The book picks up years later, which I usually find unnerving because I then have to spend time reconciling these people and the people who became my friends. Sometimes, who they have become is not what I planned for them. Not cool, author. Not cool.

Sorry, that was misleading. From my phrasing, it sounds like there is going to be however. I very much do not like who my friends became in the future to the future post-apocalypse called The Passage.

However (double mislead) the author also returns back in time to the break-outs. One of my favourites is a character who was in the military and then went to work as a sales assistant in a DIY shop. No, he wasn’t undercover. No, he wasn’t working out issues. No, he didn’t shoot or otherwise harm customers (everyone who has ever worked in retail give me a hey-ho!). Whatever the reason, after the virus breaks out, he breaks into a too-young-to-be-so-wealthy customer's apartment, with a rifle and camera, and videos and broadcasts what he can see. At night, he sharpshoots the critters and avoids being sharp-massacred.

So, what does the military do? The higher-ups (however many there are left) conclude that he is threatening morale among the survivors (there are definitely not many left – in fact, the entire city centre he is in is infested, which is what he is broadcasting, which is undermining the fantasy that anyone is alive). Logic shouts, send in military cells and murder some murderous Virals, which will improve morale. Better yet, ask the sharpshooter how he has survived in the enemy’s nest and copy him. Better yet! Send the higher-ups and he can record how they slaughter the enemy. (The enemy being despondency.)

Fear in the form of failure shouts, let’s hunt the scapegoat, and take away his camera and gun. Luckily, he has a number of lettered plans: Plan B is a Ferrari.

What I like best about this character is he is never the victim that movies convince us is the only alternative to rage. He is tortured, no doubt, but he is also considered: he knows that he is driven by his demons, but he does not judge that nor does he spend the rest of his life staring into his navel. He acts, with purpose, or he withholds, on purpose. He is kind, but he was kind before, which is why he is showing people the truth from a high-rise. He is a survivor, so he helps people survive, like the two are co-dependant.

And this is what I enjoyed about both books: the characters, even when they changed or did things I didn’t want what them to do. The author relies on certain stereotypes, but more as a diving board. It bends and the diver flies and suddenly you see them differently – as a shape or gliding projectile or missile or just purely corporeal – conscience or no conscience, meaningful or abysmal…

About-turn and march back to My Point.

That was my pitch for why you should enjoy the second book and not be pissed at me, and not because no one wants people to be pissed at them or because I warned you. The second book is self-indulgently about the characters and glimmers in eyes that have nothing to do with implants. The first book set the scene and spooked me, oh, and made me cry. The second book, at first, seems unrelated and you wonder, why would the diver walk past the board and toward the changing rooms? Keep watching.

Maybe I will write more about the actual book, and not try to convince you to keep reading or to make you think kindly - or badly - of me. Maybe I will find a metaphorical rather than literal glint in someone’s eye. Maybe. The former is more likely. Also likely is that this trilogy will turn into a nine-book epic. If it does… No, I will probably read them and review them. But I will be pissed off, too, because plots and characters are like sleeping dogs: you should let them lie. Navels are less interesting the more you stare, glimmers flicker and weaken, and, Mr Lucas, you lied to me and I hate you.

All that glimmers...

The Passage: post 3

My first retraction. One I have been anticipating for a while. Folks (and I need you to remind me of this), do not, under any circumstances, no matter the book, no matter the author, no matter where you are or with whom - ok, I'll stop - review a book you have not finished yet. Or do - I'm not the boss of you - but be prepared to lose some credibility. The ending of The Passage surprised me, pleasantly, as did the last book of Wool.

The main character in the movie, named Amy and played by Destiny Whitlock

I anticipated this almost as soon as posted my last post, a list of my own projections onto a story set in the post-apocalypse. (The author is dead, people. Figuratively. Where the 'author' is the idea of an author. So, as a reader, I can pretend I wrote the book, or something. Hang on, this does not make sense. My degree may be a sham.)

The plot holes become more obviously devices meant to reinforce the good ole themes of the apocalypse. Loss,what it means to be human, time, civilisation, and of course the eternal quest. Basically, The Heart of Darkness, except not as boring, racist or badly written. (This is a touchy subject, so please move on along.) But these themes could only develop over time, by comparison with other places and people, because they themselves progress.

I complained about the improbability of human tools being intact 100 years later. And practically this is true. (Rust, erosion and general entropy being, like, real. And language, you know, changing - ask Mr Chaucer. Seriously, my degree is a con.) But figuratively, it is like the whole world - not only the human world - is in stasis.

I could only appreciate this in the last few paragraphs of the book (thanks for that, Mr Cronin. I hate being manipulated), during which I cried. Yep. Real tears, runny nose, thick throat et al. I am still sniffling. I cried in the same way as I cried in the first couple of chapters, because those disappearing characters I complained about? Yep, like the Virals themselves, they showed up again to bodyslam me.

A scene from early in the book (c)  uncannyphantom. They had me at 'polar bear'

Wait a minute. One of the sub-plots is still hanging (pun). Because, guess what? The author's publishers want me to buy the next book. Did I mention I hate being manipulated? Well, joke's on them, because I have a pirated copy. Now, I am not proud of this. But my degree is a sham and everyone with access to spellcheck thinks they can be a writer and editor, so this is a hazardous career if you want to pay rent. But, if I didn't have this copy, I probably would buy it. And if you buy a copy of each book, I would feel justified... (This is not manipulation. This is guilt. Very different.)

I very, very badly want to know what happens and how, I want the characters in my life (although to be kind I might remove them from the apocalypse), I want to understand the sub-plot. Because the author surprised me every few pages and not because the author had attention-deficit disorder but because the surprises made sense and I wondered how I did not see these glowing, flying human bats coming. (This is not manipulation; this is errrr something else.)

This book has a plot. I am always suspicious of plots, partly because, yes, my degree is a piece of paper, and this piece of paper says that the author is dead which means I am the author and I have always been better at characters. (Never trust a piece of paper, because it is clearly false to say that all authors are dead and books are written by readers, and as ludicrous as saying you can see humanity in someone's eyes, much less that humanity glimmers.)

When I was growing up, I read all the Enid Blyton mystery books and Nancy Drews. I would lie on my bed or crouch in a tree (I was a tomboy) and read nonstop for a day or two. Then I needed the next one. Have you ever had that need for a work of fiction? Like being thirsty or wanting Monday to be a weekend day on a Sunday evening. I need The Twelve and, in fact, writing this post is time I could spend reading the sequel (this is how much I like you).

This need has less to do with the heeby jeebys than my fondness for the two main characters. I feel as though I could protect them from the big bad, but contrary to intellectuals who think books write themselves, I can't. Still, I feel as though I could. Now, the author has had George RR Martin moments (when he killed off my favourite character, I was devastated), so I need to keep my eyes peeled. Or open. Or glimmering.

Enough. You are distracting me from reading the next book. Retractions retracted, author murdered, degree burnt, emotions manipulated. Vampires called Virals, Amy. We good? Good.

The Passage: post 2 of many

85% of the way through the book is a far more respectable point at which to review a book. Or so I tell myself, as twinges of guilt twinge my fingers. The Passage. Yes. I am not prone to the heeby jeebies. But I have the heeby jeebies. (Or guilt has found a chink in my very tattered armour.) You know, that sense that someone is in the room watching you. (I promise, they are not. No one has entered my apartment in at least two months.) Yikes. Yes. I said that.

The vampires in The Passage are called Virals (for obvious reasons - we imagine a pathogen is a more plausible explanation than a homicidal maniac or evolutionary cannibal or humanoid with hollow teeth containing venom). (Really, aren't we excusing cretins like Vlad the Impaler and Dexter by suggesting a sudden impulse to kill people is excusable - provided they wear a mouth guard, of course, and have some glimmer of humanity in their eyes - how do you even see that?)

Moving on, crab-style from that rant, because you want to keep these ferals in sight at all times.

One character realises quite soon in the book that if you can see a Viral, you are for all intents and purposes dead, unless you have the reflexes of Clint Eastwood or Jason Bourne. Which is, as it turns out, true. And those who aren't killed by the Virals are killed by their fellow uncontaminated humans, which apocalyptic movies, Vlad the Impaler, war and the tardiness of the UN tell us, too.

These things are like Darkwing Duck but without the duck; Batman without the ridiculous outfit; Riddick without a single chink of humanity in his eyes (the glimmer in his eyes I can see, but I don't think that's humanity). The undead, whose souls presumably dispersed upon death, as generally happens. I hope. The undead moving so fast I can't tell you whether they walk, glide, fly or drop. But you know where they have been. Because these dead people aint ever going to walk again, soul or not.

Are you creeped out? Good. So am I. Because people are still worse.

I am projecting now. This book isn't The Road or Blindness by a long shot. I would slot it onto a shelf next to Wool. There is progressively less horror and philosophy as the protagonists walk the long road, and more human drama. But as you may have noticed, projections of these 'smokes' are snuggled in the rooms around my apartment, watching me. So I am walking around crab-like - metaphorically. Really, I think my walk is more of an amble, as I wander from room to room forgetting why I am there.

I can't tell you what these things represent to me because I have no idea. And as you can imagine, because choosing a brand of coffee is an existential crisis that takes me at least 15 minutes, I have thought long and hard about it. My unconscious is moot on this one. Maybe - and bear with me here - they aren't a metaphor for anything. Maybe they are just awful and my brain can't let chaos be. Maybe I am being unfair, because I want to find that humanity in their eyes, but I can't (partly because someone else wrote this and he's not saying; partly because, seriously, how would one do that?).

There is another reason I am annoyed with this great book: there is a sequel. I imagine the author was halfway through this book and bagged a publisher, who said, let's draw this out so people will pay more because George RR Martin and every other author since JR Tolkien figured that their landscape was broad enough to justify more than 1 000 pages. To which I say, have you read that original trilogy? Tolkien invented new languages and peoples, and wrote detailed back stories that no one who hasn't read Ulysses will ever read.

This great book has plot holes so big you'd need a canoe to cross them. For example (and these aren't spoilers because they smack you in the first ten pages) 100 years after the fall of humanity, people are using original batteries and rifles, and eating canned food. This is a plot hole the size of the one (one of the ones) in The Walking Dead: no one knows what a zombie is. Robert Kirkman (one of the creators) says that there is no zombie literature in Rick's world. Which suggests it is an alternative universe, which opens up another can of worms (as rank as the 100-year-old ones).

The author, Justin Cronin

Whatever excuse the author comes up with - and it will be an excuse - I may not want to canoe that divide, however great this book. My brain wants to expel these Virals from my dusty corners - it wants closure.

The next book is called The Twelve. Again, no spoilers: the title refers to the 12 original Virals, who were developed by the US as a weapon (they have a habit of destroying the world - first the internet, now this). But it's not what you think - just read it - because I am terrible at summarising plots, people. There was a specific sub-plot that was picked out at the beginning of the story, which has petered out, no doubt to appear in the second book, but the main plot is losing momentum now without it. Or maybe not. I am only 85% of the way and maybe the book will dislocate my brain the way The Road did.

Hopefully the smokes will get bored with my reclusiveness and go peeping Tom someone else. Although, do I want them to? And this is why it takes me 30 minutes to make breakfast.