Tag Archives: Social Justice

32. Sarah Falkner, Animal Sanctuary

19 Aug

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I bought this book off the Starcherone table at my very first AWP, three years ago, on the recommendation of the publisher, and it has been sitting on the to-read shelf ever since. I should give Cathy at 746Books a huge shout-out for forcing me (I mean, inspiring me) to deal with problems like this.

Animal Sanctuary is the fictional story of Kitty Dawson, a failing and somewhat desperate 1950s female movie-star who opens an shelter for big cats after having acted in many movies featuring animal disasters. Kitty’s story is mirrored by the story of lesbian university student who became her body double while on location during her last film in Africa. The student is seeking a missing girlfriend, with a complicated disaster story of her own.

Despite those improbable events, this book is not plot-driven (which goes a long way towards explaining why it sat on my shelf for so long). The pleasure is much more complex, lying in the tensions and meditations on gender, narrative and otherness that Faulkner sets up with the above characters. The first doubling, of the female ’50s screen star and the big tawny cat in captivity is great. It’s not something I would ever have thought of, but both share a combination of beauty, power and imprisonment. Both are majestic and victimized, sexy and sad. The second doubling, of the lesbian university student, herself doubled in her lover, adds a layer of intrigue: the two girls are looking for meaning, looking for a way to participate actively in their world that feels authentic to them.

The narrative progressed in a self-conscious way, with, for example, a chapter that alternates between sections in dialog between Kitty and her psychotherapist, on the one hand, and the film director and an interviewer, on the other. There are art-grant applications, summaries of scenes from movies, conversation snippets, a chapter of snippets of film theory . The changing texture of the reading experience kept things interesting. And I thought Falkner’s prose was quite good.

The second half of the book focused on the art career of movie-star Kitty Dawson’s son, Rory Dawson.

We meet Rory when he’s on vacation in Mexico with his lover David, an older, more successful, artist. The echo, here is about spectacle populations. The Mexicans are a double for the film-star/ woman/ other, while Rory and David are the doubles for the director/artist appropriating the other. I appreciated another sophisticated doubling, but the Rory perspective, with whom the reader was supposed to sympathize, made me want to tear my hair out.

Rory and David are interrupted in their Mexican vacation by some asshole rich-people collectors, the Whaleys. David explains to Rory that the price of success in the art world is sometimes hanging out with such people (this is true).  But Rory is pissy and horrified at the collectors’ culturally insensitive travel objectives. They want to see touristy things! They hire a car instead of taking the perfectly good bus! No one knows Spanish or cares about really understanding the culture! David colludes with them! He plans a new conceptual piece using a theory-concept (about gift economies) that he doesn’t really understand!

I just found this so irritating. Rory is the son of a movie star. By wanting to make it in the art world, he is setting out to make extremely high end luxury goods for the super-rich, and no amount of ideologically correct bus travel can change that. Moreover, his famous name means that he can insult the Whaleys and get away with it. And of course he does, and in later chapters is an art star himself. His mission (and later the mission of animal sanctuary employees) is to understand the other, see through their eyes, correctly use their shamanistic rituals in his art.

This is an elegant construction for Falkner’s book: She’s setting up oppositions and then trying to bridge them through understanding. I think in terms of what she was aiming for, it was successful. But I personally found the argument frustratingly useless and self-centered. Understanding doesn’t actually do anything, doesn’t change any of the underlying facts of the power dynamics she’s trying to critique.

At one point, Rory lives in a dual-chambered cage with a lion for months, allowing the lion to see him, but he can’t see the lion. Whatever Rory’s intent, only one participant in the piece is there voluntarily, and it’s not the lion! I kept wondering if Falkner’s intent was to make Rory satirically ridiculous, but I don’t think it was.

In the end chapters he comes in for critique by a female art assistant, not for his ideologically correct approach to using indigenous rituals in his art, but for basically being a successful artist and employing her. She’s not making any art of her own—kept too busy at Rory’s—but wants to be an art star herself, and blames Rory and the corrupt art system for keeping her down. There’s a hard-to-pinpoint way that the whole book felt like this to me: Of someone wanting to have their critical cake, and eat it too. I enjoyed the medium, but not the message!






4., 5., 6. Ancillary Justice Trilogy, Ann Leckie

17 Jan

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Space opera! Gender-bending space opera! With a former mercenary down on her luck in the lead role, bent on avenging a lost love. But wait, she’s an AI in a human body. Can she really love?

If anything about the setup of the first volume of Ann Leckie’s Ancillary Justice trilogy could make me happier than my current state of screaming joy, I’m not sure what it could be. Well-executed deep space-opera with a mercenary and a love plot (see my forever-love, Richard K. Morgan) is almost my favorite thing to read of all time. And this one comes with the delightful twist that the AI-character, Breq, is from a culture where there isn’t really gender and everyone uses the female pronoun. On her interplanetary travels Breq can’t tell what anyone is supposed to be, since the signifiers change from planet to planet even among humanoids, so she mostly refers to people as “she,” leaving the reader not knowing the gender of anyone unless another character from a gendered culture refers to them. It’s a really interesting thing to lose track of while reading.

[The rest of this review will contain spoilers.]

Breq is the last fragment of a destroyed hive consciousness that encompassed a starship and its staff of zombie “ancillary” workers. She served an evil empire of space-going elitists as they violently annexed and assimilated entire planets and solar systems. In the first volume she must overcome her programming and act according to her conscience. She’s helped along that path by a Captain she loves who is fighting for greater equality in the society. (The first social justice-sci fi I’ve read.)

I was not able to put this book down for three days, and I’ve now read the whole trilogy. It had uneven moments (the second book is always tricky), but I think Leckie overall did a fabulous job at character development and at executing her social metaphor.

The Radchaai are a society of powerful humanoids who bring civilization to those they colonize. The tenants of their society are Justice, Propriety and Benefit, with the idea that that anything that is beneficial (to Radchaai) must also be proper and just. That’s a neat  skewering of the self-serving mindset of the elite. Their all-powerful Emperor, Anaander Mianaai, is one person who lives  in thousands of bodies as a unified top-of-the-social-pyramid ruler. This thousand-bodies-in-one quality is also a neat metaphor for the homogeny of elites. Except, we find out in volume one that Anaander Mianaai has been fighting with herself, with part of her wanting to allow social mobility, to stop having slaves and generally to be less evil. The other half is the one responsible for the worst genocides, and she wants the tyranny of the elite to continue. (Half of her is red-state and half is blue-state). Breq, as her former slave, thinks the two sides are basically the same, and wants freedom for the AIs and the ultimate destruction of the Radchaai.

This setup gives Leckie opportunity to explore some of our current social issues of policing and inclusion. Breq is forced to work with the power structure (the blue-state Anaander) in order to achieve her ultimate goals, and fights to do police work and protect the people she wants to free in a sensitive way, supporting striking workers, offering respect to village elders, listening instead of talking, etc. One of Breq’s biggest supporters is a member of the Radchaai aristocracy, Seivarden, who has some sensitivity issues in dealing with the lower classes. This character provides rich opportunities to explore how  frustrating it can be to relate to well-meaning but clueless elites. Race in the book is inverted in the sense that the rulers have dark skin, but if you wanted to transpose Radchaai with white-American and Breq and her friends with black-American, the codes would work.

I don’t really share Leckie’s politics. Breq’s modern-PC-policing strikes me as its own creepy tool of social control—I’m all for not harming anyone, but not offending anyone seems like an unreasonable requirement. And Breq also argues that once the AIs and the stations (the most powerful members of their society, if not enslaved) are free, it will just naturally be great for everyone because those creatures really just want to take care of humans and do the right thing, which I found to be an unwittingly funny liberal nanny-state fantasy. An all-powerful government will just be fair and take care of everyone! Because people are good. (Suuure they are. Ha ha hah.) But I didn’t have to agree with the politics to recognize a  fantastic sci-fi trilogy that achieved its author’s intentions brilliantly.