There
are poorly written books, and then there is The Affinity Bridge, by George
Mann (born 1978).
We have
admitted in the past our admiration for well-written science fiction. (Apologia
coming.) Many of the finest
adventure novels of the past hundred or so years fall into that category of
fiction, and there are several important contemporary novels that inhabit the
genre as well -- consider Philip Roth’s
The Plot Against America, for
example. The science fiction genre is plagued by myriad problems, including a
rabid and largely unintelligent fan-base, a surfeit of series novels and/or
novelized movies and television shows, and an uneasy alliance with comic books. Add to that list of ills a slew of subgenres
within science fiction that do little to help elevate the field to literature,
and you have a pretty mess.
One of
these subgenres is steampunk, which
is one of those concepts that sound delicious on paper, but always fall flat in
execution. For the uninitiated, steampunk
is the reimagining of a historical period (almost always the Victorian era),
altered by a different strain of scientific progress. In steampunk it’s not impossible to find
steam powered robots attending the Queen, for instance, or airships robbed by
the James gang. The major problem with
the subgenre is that it is almost always … silly. More damning, steampunk seems to always be
written by people who learned all they know about the Victorian era or European
history from comic books, bad television shows, or other, silly steampunk
novels. Those who are familiar with an
actual historical era are more than happy to swallow any number of 007-type
gadgets if the small historical details are observed. Otherwise, the whole subgenre is just
thrillers in bad fancy dress.
Which
brings us to The Affinity Bridge. In
Mann’s novel, consulting detectives Newbury (interested in the occult, takes
drugs, ripped off from Sherlock Homes)
and his sidekick, Hobbes (Mrs. Emma Peel
in a bustle) investigate a crashed airship, a series of ghost-policemen
murders, and a plague of zombies. (Yes,
you read that right.) Now, there is
nothing at all wrong with puffery like this … when it’s well written. When it’s poorly written, the results are
excruciating.
Mann’s
grip of both dialog and prose is loose at best.
Characters speak in the most stilted manner imaginable (thank heavens
for ‘he said/she said,” or we would never know who is speaking), and the prose
has a studied artificiality, as if that is somehow “Victorian.” One wonders if Mann has actually read the great popular writers of the era, who are as fresh and exciting today as
they were in fin de siècle
Britain. There is nothing in the prose
of such writers as Sir Arthur Conan
Doyle or H. Rider Haggard that
does not read easy and contemporary – creating layers of faux artifice is not
“Victorian,” it’s simply bad writing.
This bad
faux Victoriana is largely the fault of comic book scribe Alan Moore (born 1953), whose stories about The League of Extraordinary Gentleman read more like parody of bad
Victorian women’s books rather than a pastiche of more accomplished
thrillers. Steampunk has followed Moore's lead with dire results. He has much to answer for.
Opening
the book at random, here is Mann at his ham-fisted best:
Newbury glanced at Veronica, a
sardonic expression on his face, and then turned his attention to Inspector
Foulkes. “Do you know if Sir Charles
will be attending the scene?”
“Not initially, sir. He has ceded responsibility for the case to
me for the time being. He’s still caught
up in this damnable Whitechapel situation.
They found another body this morning.”
“Indeed. Miss Hobbes and I were present at the
scene.” He glanced back at Stokes, who
was attempting to clean the dirt from his shoes by rubbing them on the grass. “Do you know how long it’s been since the
vessel came down?”
The other man didn’t look up from
his ministrations. “Witnesses are
reporting seeing the vessel come down between ten and ten thirty this
morning.” He emitted a tutting sound as
he continued to rub the side of his shoe on the wet grass, to no avail.
Newbury flushed red. “Damn it, man! Fifty people are dead! Show some decency, and pay attention to the
issue at hand.”
All of
the pointless stage-managing goes on for page after page (including a servant
who is sitting in his master’s home – harder to believe than zombies! – with
his hands behind his back; try that at home), and none of it ever
crackles. From an eighth grader with
literary aspirations, it would be promising.
From a published author, it’s simply sad.
Here is
the truly amazing thing about it all – Mann worked as an editor for Outland Magazine. Yes, a man who writes likes this edited the
work of other people for a living … A development more astounding than anything
to be found in The Affinity Bridge.
