The New York Review of Science Fiction, Issue 297 May 2013
Author: Kevin J. Maroney
Date: 2013-06-02 04:00:00+00:00

The New York Review of Science Fiction

ISSUE #297 May 2013 Volume 25, No. 9 ISSN #1052-9438

ESSAYS

- Christopher S. Kovacs: The reality and mythology enveloping Zelazny’s Lord of Light, the FBI, the CIA, and Ben Affleck’s Argo

- Hannah Means-Shannon: Deweaponizing Stark: Powering the Culture Hero in Jon Favreau’s Iron Man and Iron Man 2

- REVIEWS

- It Walks in Beauty: Selected Prose of Chandler Davis, edited and with an introduction by Josh Lukin, reviewed by Mark Rich

- Brian Aldiss’s An Exile on Planet Earth, reviewed by Darrell Schweitzer

- Phillip Schewe’s Maverick Genius: The Pioneering Odyssey of Freeman Dyson, reviewed by Gregory Benford

- The Empire Shotz Back: Six Plays, reviewed by Jen Gunnels

- PLUS

- Screed, photos, and an editorial.

Samuel R. Delany, Contributing Editor; Kris Dikeman and Avram Grumer, Managing Editors.
Alex Donald, Webmaster; David G. Hartwell, Reviews and Features Editor; Kevin J. Maroney, Publisher.

Staff: Ann Crimmins, Jen Gunnels, Heather Masri, Lisa Padol, Christine Quinones, M’jit Raindancer-Stahl, Eugene Reynolds, Jason Strawsburg and Anne Zanoni.

Special thanks to Arthur D. Hlavaty and Eugene Surowitz.

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- June 11, 2013
- Sabrina Vourvoulias & Barbara Krasnoff
- July 2, 2013
- Kate Elliot & E.C. Ambrose

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The reality and mythology enveloping Zelazny’s Lord of Light, the FBI, the CIA, and Ben Affleck’s Argo

Christopher S. Kovacs

Lord of Light is arguably Roger Zelazny’s best and most finely crafted novel. It won the Hugo award, was a finalist for the Nebula, has ranked in the top 25 of four separate Locus Polls for All-Time Best novel, and remains available today in print and audiobook. The novel is heavily steeped in Hindu and Buddhist religion and mythology. Surprisingly, multiple layers of mythology and pretense now surround the book and the people and events that it inspired. Some of the highlights include: characters who pretend to be gods of the Hindu and Buddhist pantheon; a man with no Hollywood past who claimed to have raised an unprecedented $400 million in 1979 (~$1.27 billion in 2012 dollars) for his Lord of Light screenplay and major theme park; members of the production crew and Aurora, Colorado, city council whose covert activities prompted an FBI raid that shut down the Lord of Light film project; the film’s Oscar-winning makeup artist who was also the CIA’s master of disguise; CIA agents and American fugitives who pretended to be scouting locations in Iran for a movie called Argo that was really Lord of Light; a script and storyboards with obvious Hindu and Buddhist elements that was considered close enough to pass scrutiny as an Islamic film; and Ben Affleck and others who pretended to be these real-life people while inventing new myths about the CIA caper.

In this essay, I will attempt to separate reality from myth in recounting the true origins of the Lord of Light novel and what subsequently happened to involve Hollywood, the FBI, the CIA, and Hollywood once more. In doing so, I expand on elements of the Zelazny biography that I wrote (“‘And Call Me Roger’: The Literary Life of Roger Zelazny”) and which was published in the six-volume The Collected Stories of Roger Zelazny (NESFA Press, 2009). That text contains additional references not listed here.

The novel in a nutshell

Lord of Light takes place hundreds of years after the starship Star of India reached a planet far from Earth (“vanished Urath”). Descendants of the original colonists have been raised in ignorance and medieval conditions. They are ruled by Hindu gods who walk among them, suppress all technological advances, and demand their fealty. These Hindu gods are in reality the former starship crew who kept all modern technology to themselves and coopted aspects of Hindu religion and mythology to suit their purpose of ruling as deities. They possess weapons and devices that give them godlike powers in the eyes of the ignorant masses. They are also made effectively immortal through reincarnation technology that transfers the mind and soul (the “atman”) to younger bodies while most of the common people continue to die after normal life spans. As the generations have passed, the cultural and knowledge gap between the former crew and the common people has increased dramatically.

Into this steps former starship crewman Sam. He had also masqueraded as a Hindu god for some time and was responsible for subjugating and imprisoning the planet’s original inhabitants, the Rakasha, an incorporeal, demon-like life-form. Sam now feels guilty about the ongoing suppression of the common people, and he starts a cultural, technological, and religious revolution. He assumes the role of Siddhartha Buddha as the means to challenge control by Hinduism, but he is a Buddha with a sardonic and dry wit: “His followers called him Mahasamatman and said he was a god. He preferred to drop the Maha- and the -atman, however, and called himself Sam. He never claimed to be a god. But then, he never claimed not to be a god.” Ultimately, Sam succeeds in freeing the people, but it comes at great personal cost to himself and to his former crewmates and friends.

Zelazny wrote the novel in seven relatively self-contained chapters, each of which is preceded by a pair of epigraphs that give it fable-like tones. The first section takes place before the final battle that wins the day for Sam and his followers, while the second through sixth sections flash back hundreds of years to tell the story that led up to that point. The concluding section resumes the story where the first chapter left off.

Really, It All Began with a Shaving Accident

Like most sf authors, Zelazny was frequently asked where he got his ideas. Sometimes his replies were deliberately irreverent and humorous: leave a bowl of milk and some crackers on the back stoop at night and you’ll be rewarded with a stack of crazy ideas in the morning, or become a member of the SFWA and receive a free subscription to Journal of Crazy Ideas from Schenectady, New York. But in the case of Lord of Light, the outrageous but apparently true story is that it was conceived in a shaving accident. In May 1965, on the morning that he was supposed to speak on a convention panel, he cut himself badly while shaving. He segued from cursing the cut and wishing he could exchange bodies to avoid showing his lacerated face in public, to conceptualizing much of Lord of Light. He spent much of that panel discussion in a distracted state as the characters and plot took shape in his mind:

When, on the final morning of Disclave a couple years back, I cut myself shaving and lapsed into a long pre-sentient chain of free-associations which somehow ended up at transmigration, I found myself with the sudden (and not too profound—but then, it was early in the morning) realization that not much had been done in U. S. sf and fantasy with respect to Hindu culture. Ben Jason and I drove back to Ohio that afternoon, and by the time we arrived that evening I had pretty much roughed out the whole story in my head. (“Musings” 20)

George R. R. Martin wrote that Zelazny claimed to have written the novel for the sole purpose of conveying a horrible pun (“Then the fit hit the Shan”) in the second chapter. “Roger loved his pun. Once upon a time in Santa Fe, he told me that the entire novel sprang from that pun. I refused to believe him. . . .I figure he had to have been putting me on” (Martin xii). I’m inclined to agree with Martin. Others believe that the entire scene was solely created to deliver that pun, which is also unlikely. While the pun was not mandatory, the scene depicts a necessary plot development. Sam’s body is aging, and he doesn’t trust that his former crewmates—the supposed Hindu gods—will allow him to reincarnate. The unwitting Shan of Irabek is placed under a compulsion so that he believes himself to be Sam and convinces others as well. The Shan is reincarnated in a body afflicted with a severe form of epilepsy. In that way Sam avoids treachery and confirms his suspicions. His rebellion begins when he takes control of the reincarnation machinery in order to secure himself a new, healthy body.

A Fix-Up Novel?

Some critics and readers derided Lord of Light as a “fix-up” novel—a set of connected short stories—but it never was. After the novel was completed and before book publication, two chapters appeared as the stories “Dawn” and “Death and the Executioner” in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. Editor Edward L. Ferman wanted to publish all of the novel but couldn’t due to its length. The other five chapters were sold to New Worlds, except that it temporarily folded, and when it resumed publication, it was too close to the novel’s publication date to allow these chapters to be printed. Zelazny conceived and wrote Lord of Light as a novel but deliberately structured it in seven self-contained chapters:

I had decided on seven or nine chapters of approximately 13,000 words each, so that I might be able to sell a few as novelettes if no one wanted to chance on using it as a series or serial. For this reason, I figured that each chapter would have to be somewhat independent of its fellows. . . . I wanted to separate the chapters in space and time, and so produce a sort of folk-story quality. I could have had nine chapters, but I threw out what I was thinking of using in two of them, because there is a breaking point in anything like this and I didn’t want to just pile up incident. . . . (“Musings” 20)

After writing the novel in these sections, Zelazny discovered to his dismay that his writing hadn’t remained wholly consistent:

I like Lord of Light for the color and smoke and folk-tale effects I wanted to achieve. I dislike it because I unintentionally let my style shift. The first chapter and the final chapter, which succeeds it temporally, are farther apart in terms of tone than now strikes me as appropriate. Everything that came between caused me to drift from an initial formalism. If I had to do it again, I would rewrite the first chapter, though, rather than rewrite the rest of the book. (“Musings” 20)

Science Fiction or Fantasy?

Lord of Light was well received from the beginning, but arguments immediately arose over whether it should be considered science fiction or fantasy. Even today, modern reviews of the book differ on how it should be categorized, and some suggest that Zelazny committed a “faux pas” by writing a science fiction novel with unexplained fantasy elements. But Zelazny deliberately wrote it that way:

Lord of Light was intentionally written so that it could be taken as a science fiction or a fantasy novel. On the one hand, I attempted to provide some justifications for what went on in the way of the bizarre; on the other, I employed a style I associate with fantasy in the telling of the story. I wrote it that way on purpose, leaving some intentional ambiguity, because I wanted it to lie somewhat between both camps and not entirely in either. I did this because I did not see much stuff being written at that time which fit that description; because I wanted to see whether I could do it; and because I was curious as to how such a book would be received. (Schweitzer 25)

In another letter he was more adamant:

I intentionally set out to destroy whatever distinction may exist between science fiction and fantasy. I have never come across a really satisfactory definition of that distinction—and if I were to, I would attempt to violate it in my very next story. (“Letter to Ms. Barraford”)

The ambiguity included the motivations and fate of the character of Sam, about whom Zelazny wrote:

I wanted to leave it open to several interpretations. . . . With Sam, I do not say that he did not receive illumination, whether he believes in himself or not. . . . With Lord of Light I came up with four endings and decided, what the hell! When it comes to something like a legend there are always variations. So why not use all four? So I did.” (“Musings” 20)

It is notable that the novel continues to be recognized as both science fiction and fantasy. It had previously ranked #10, #11, and #14 for best novel in Locus All-Time Polls completed in 1975, 1987, and 1998, respectively. In the 2012 Locus All-Time Poll for best novels from the twentieth century, Lord of Light ranked #23 as science fiction and #66 as fantasy. Had the tallies been combined into one, it would have ranked much higher.

Characters and Author Coopt Elements of Hinduism

Some knowledgeable readers and critics have decried that Zelazny made mistakes in depicting the Hindu gods and culture and that these errors detracted from the novel. Such readers may have mistaken Lord of Light for a pure fantasy novel that depicts the true Hindu gods. But it doesn’t. Zelazny’s characters are rogues who have deliberately coopted enough of the mythology to suit their schemes, and they have discarded or conflated elements at whim.

Zelazny had extensively studied religions and mythology throughout his formative years and through the completion of his M.A. degree in English and Comparative Literature from Columbia University. He also did extensive background research for Lord of Light in order to achieve the desired tone and authenticity in the writing:

I began soaking in Hindu background. I drew dozens of books on the subject out of the Cleveland Public Library and I spent about sixty bucks on books which they didn’t have that I felt I’d need. That’s how Lord of Light began.

I’d say that I actually employed only a small percent of what I learned from the background reading. But then, you never know where you’re going to come across something useful. It you want a thing like this to have an authentic-seeming air to it, you’ve got to go in for a bit of this kind of saturation. (“Musings” 20)

He was also helped significantly by his neighbor and fellow author Andre Norton, who had worked at the Library of Congress and owned many relevant reference books. She recommended the massive The Wonder that Was India by A. L. Basham; Gods, Demons, and Others, a retelling of Indian myths and legends by R. K. Narayan; and Shilappadikaram (The Ankle Bracelet) by Prince Ilango Adigal “from which I stole many metaphors for chapter two” (“Musings” 20).

I then picked up Traditional India, ed. O. L. Chavarria-Aguilar. . . . I read Ramayana, which influenced my fourth chapter, and The Upanishads (trans. Swami Nikhilananda) and Buddhist Texts Through the Ages (ed. Conze, Horher, Snellgrove, & Waley). . . . Then I read Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha, which probably influenced chapter three [“Death and the Executioner”]. This same chapter was also influenced by the novel-length poem The Light of Asia; or, the Great Renunciation (Mahabhinishkramana) by Sir Edwin Arnold (1879). . . . The Light of Asia gave me the four Lords of Sumeru with whom Yama does battle in the dream sequence in chapter three. . . . And Dom Morae’s Gone Away gave me some pieces for chapter four’s settings, as did the Ramayana. . . .

I wanted color, almost garish, so I dwelled often in my thoughts upon Hindu paintings of the eighteenth century. I threw the color into costumes and settings. I wanted a sort of baroque style, because I figured that would be best for a folklore/legend-type thing. (“Musings” 20)

But overall he did not intend a faithful retelling of Hindu myth, folklore, or legend. In the same way that his characters coopted aspects of Hindu and Buddhist traditions that suited their purposes, so too Zelazny coopted only those aspects that suited his needs. As he explained:

My intention was to abstract out from a body of tradition those elements which most interest or amuse me, hint at a lot of the rest which are not actually pertinent to my telling, and to make up a few elements out of whole cloth which just “feel” appropriate. (“Musings” 20)

Epigraphs Masquerading as Authentic Hindu Texts

Another misconception concerns the two epigraphs at the start of each chapter. The first epigraph recounts Sam’s story in folk-story tone and deliberately makes each chapter independent of its fellows. The second, poetic epigraph establishes the Hindu and Buddhist atmosphere of the novel by quoting a religious text. Most readers and critics have assumed the second set of epigraphs to be quotes lifted from authentic Hindu and Buddhist texts, but that assumption is only partly correct. Zelazny did find similar quotations in the books The Upanishads and Buddhist Texts through the Ages, but he recast them in his own words and poetic voice. He called these “Lowellian interpretations” or “imitations” and not exact or literal translations. He was inspired by the poet Robert Lowell, who had once published a collection, Imitations, in which his poems were based on the work of foreign language poets. Lowell considered his poems to be imitations or limited recreations, not translations. Zelazny explained that in this process, “you read translations till the meaning is clear to you, then recast the meaning into an English version to your own taste” (Sneyd 13). The result was that “they are all of them authentic—and although I took the liberty of paraphrasing each somewhat, I retained the sense of the original” (“Musings” 20) “I was pleased with the results, whatever their relationship to the originals” (“Introduction” 2).

Zelazny noted that Lowell had been unlucky, because “even though he’d publicly pointed out that his versions weren’t intended to be literal, he was still taken to task by reviewers for not doing exact translations!” (Sneyd 13). But luckily for Zelazny, most everyone thought he had used exact translations.

The Author was Sam, the Buddhist? Or Nirriti, the Christian?

Zelazny’s unusual last name and his focus on Hinduism and Buddhism in Lord of Light prompted readers to speculate whether he followed either religion, and in particular, whether the rebel Sam expressed Zelazny’s beliefs. Zelazny withheld personal information from his fiction as much as possible—“I believe a piece of writing should be considered of, in, by, and for itself, a thing independent of the person who wrote it” (“Interview” 1)—confusing readers who expected to find the author’s beliefs revealed there. Not finding them, many concluded that Zelazny was an atheist or an agnostic.

It may surprise some readers to know that Zelazny’s parents were Catholic and that he was raised in that faith. In 1970, he declared, “I still consider myself a good Catholic” (Kelly 9). But he later retracted that remark in a pair of letters:

I did have a strong Catholic background, but I am not a Catholic. Somewhere in the past, I believe I answered in the affirmative once for strange and complicated reasons. But I am not a member of any organized religion. (“Letter to Paul Walker, March 10, 1972”)

If you mention my Catholic background, I hope you also mention that I became a retired Catholic at age 16. I do not consider myself a Christian. (“Letter to Paul Walker, March 18, 1972”)

Star of India’s former chaplain Nirriti is the sole Christian in Lord of Light. He raises an army of zombies to attack the Hindu gods and opposes Sam’s efforts to use Buddhism to overthrow the leadership. Nirriti is defeated. An interviewer wondered whether these fictional themes of religious battles mirrored Zelazny’s own beliefs: “One can detect a conflict of influences, something of a battle between piety and reasoned agnosticism. Is there anything to this observation?” Zelazny equivocated:

That’s hard to say. When I began writing I used a lot of religious and mythological material. I did this intentionally because this was a body of information I just happened to possess. For a time, it had me labeled as a writer of mythological science fiction. . . . Eventually I wanted to get away from the label. So I wrote other things, like Doorways in the Sand, which is considered pure science fiction. (Thompson 40)

Asked if it was significant that, apart from the defeat of the sole Christian in Lord of Light, none of his works dealt with Christianity (the interviewer had overlooked Deus Irae and “The Last Inn on the Road”), Zelazny replied,

No. The reason Lord of Light tended toward Hinduism was because most of the people who colonized the planet had a Hindu background. In fact, the name of the ship that took them there was Star of India. But that’s not to beg the question, or justify. No, I don’t think I have any special feelings for one religion over another to that extent . . . I’ve never really had an idea for a good story that involved specifically a Christian background. If I did, I’d write it. (Becker 25).

Additional correspondence and statements made in interviews corroborate that Zelazny gradually fell away from Catholicism, feeling no need for formal religion. His acquaintances assert that he did not return to religion at the end of his life. And so if Sam represented any aspect of Zelazny’s own beliefs, it was the self-doubt or agnosticism, and not Buddhism.

Irreverent Humor and Anachronisms

Lord of Light tells a largely serious tale that ends tragically for some of the key characters. Consequently, many readers were unprepared for Zelazny’s unexpected use of the outrageous pun about the Shan, and other humorous anachronisms such as cigarette smoking and twentieth-century curses and games. Although some readers accused the author of being lazy or inappropriate for his use of these elements, Zelazny did it deliberately. Unexpected and irreverent humor fit perfectly with Zelazny’s extensive background in Elizabethan and Shakespearean drama:

That’s one thing I like about Elizabethans. No matter how serious a scene was, the author always had time to slip in a pun when they were talking. (Krulik 86)

In another place, he acknowledged the influence of Elizabethan drama:

My fascination with the Faust theme, with bits of grotesque humor, with low counterpoint to high action, with an occasional pun—all owe much to this period. I would be a very different sort of writer had it not been for early exposure to “Bloody Elizabethans.” (Lindskold 68)

He’d already used puns, irreverent humor, and deliberate anachronisms in This Immortal and Creatures of Light and Darkness. And, critics be damned, he would continue to do so in his writing.

Zelazny Cashes in on Lord of Light?

The last myth about Lord of Light the novel is that Zelazny was prompted by its critical and commercial success to “sell out” by writing a purely commercial work. Nine Princes in Amber is the first of ten novels that form his most financially lucrative and popular work. But this view of his motivations is incompatible with the historical timelines. He finished writing Lord of Light in 1966, and for a change of pace, he chose to write something completely different on spec and without knowing how it would end. When Corwin woke up in hospital at the story’s onset, even its author did not know where the plot was headed. He finished writing Nine Princes in Amber during the first week of February 1967, and immediately began work on the first several chapters of its sequel, The Guns of Avalon. (“Letter to Ashmead”).

In April and June 1967, two chapters from Lord of Light appeared in F&SF: “Dawn” (chapter 2) and “Death and the Executioner” (chapter 3). The complete novel Lord of Light was published by Doubleday in August 1967. Therefore it is obvious that Zelazny couldn’t have known how the novel would be commercially or critically received when he chose to write Nine Princes in Amber during early 1967. Zelazny shelved the Nine Princes in Amber manuscript, and it remained unpublished until April 1970.

But in retrospect, it is probably notable that Zelazny’s best and most finely crafted novel (Lord of Light) was written back-to-back with his most commercially successful work (Nine Princes in Amber). In April 1967, Andre Norton acknowledged the numerous awards and critical acclaim that Zelazny had received in the previous two years and prophetically added, “He has only his own work to best and there is little doubt he will do just that in the months and years to come” (Norton 3). At that time, Lord of Light and Nine Princes in Amber had already been written, but neither had been published. Some critics later argued that Zelazny’s writing never surpassed Lord of Light or his novelettes and novellas of the mid-1960s; all of these had been written before Andre Norton wrote her remarks.

Lord of Light: The Motion Picture and Theme Park

Seemingly out of nowhere in late 1977 stepped Barry Ira Geller to option Lord of Light. A man described as “a geeky beatnik and aspiring producer with a dream” (Jensen), Geller had no credentials as a Hollywood producer, screenwriter, or financier, but he was about to convince people to commit the equivalent of $1 billion in 2012 dollars to see his vision fulfilled.

Geller’s autobiographical summary reports that he had worked in tech industries in his early twenties before taking classes in filmmaking and creative writing at UCLA. He then worked for a unnamed producer in prime time television and wrote TV and movie treatments, but no produced projects of his have ever been identified. (Cf. Geller, “WHOIS,” Geller, Master Plan.) Even today there are no listings of TV or movie contributions by him in the Internet Movie Database or other sources. Geller recalled that:

I was working with a director who had originally optioned [Lord of Light]. I was a screenwriter, and I dropped another job to take up the screenwriting on that one, and ultimately he left the project and I just bought it. . . .I was really pushing science fiction for several years as a screenwriter. I got turned down all over the place. In 1975, I was living on options, and I did have a small film produced, but no one would listen to me. . . .I bought the first option [Lord of Light] in late 1977 or early 1978. (Morrow 22)

He was then 30 years old.

The plan started with a motion picture based on Geller’s own Lord of Light screenplay. Because of the vastness of the set design and production values needed to realize Geller’s vision for the film, permanent sets were planned that could be utilized as the foundation for the largest theme park in the United States, Science Fiction Land. And an enormous theme park it was to be. Three times the size of Disneyland. 3M to build a Buckminster Fuller dome three-quarters of a mile wide and half a mile high to enclose the entire facility. A Japanese-style bullet train traveling at 250 miles per hour to connect to the nearest city. True three-dimensional billboard-sized holography on the rides to create shock and horror as one passes right through a suddenly appearing solid creature. A train with magnetically levitating cars operated by voice command to carry passengers around the theme park. A floating ice-skating rink seemingly suspended in space. A 38-story Ferris Wheel. Eighty foot tall statues of Sam. A thousand-lane bowling alley attended by robots. Flying security guards equipped with jetpacks. New technologies developed for the park to be commercially licensed in order to generate revenue for scientific, educational, and research foundations set up by the parent company (Geller, “WHOIS,” Geller, Master Plan).

Geller has more recently said, “The plan as stated was to bring the future into the present, expand the imagination of children, and become a sanctuary for the great scientists of the world to do pure research. New technologies would be first utilized for attractions in the Park, then licensed to the world industries to prevent vested interests’ control” (Geller, “WHOIS”).

In 1978, the master plan described development in three phases. The movie would be shot for $50 million ($158 million in 2012), followed by the building of Science Fiction Land in two phases costing $75 million each ($237 million each in 2012). The world premiere of the movie and the opening of the theme park were planned for December 1981 (Master Plan 121).

And so Geller started seeking investors and scouting out potential locations for the theme park near Reno, Nevada; Toronto, Ontario; Montreal, Quebec; and Aurora, Colorado. He also sought out key names to be involved in the project and give it credibility. The famous comic book artist Jack Kirby (Fantastic Four, X-Men, The Hulk) was hired to create the initial design for the theme park and to remain in charge of art production for the movie and theme park. The Oscar-winning makeup artist John Chambers (Planet of the Apes) was brought on board. Other consultants included futurist Buckminster Fuller, the architect Paolo Soleri, and Ray Bradbury.

Jack Kirby became involved because “I am a concept man. I can get to the nut of the story. My way of looking at things is exactly what this film needs. . . .This is a very special project. It’s very challenging . . . and it’s also very powerful . . .” (Master Plan 147). But some of Kirby’s thoughts about the movie were quite over-the-top. “This film is going to have a tremendous impact in the world, it will show enormous strength. It will allow the Eastern Man and the Western Man to relate to each other. And once mankind relates, they will never have to fight. They will understand each other’s needs and idiosyncrasies. . . .I believe that this film and the way we are conceiving it could contribute to saving the world. I had to be involved” (Master Plan 147).

Kirby reportedly wanted to leave DC Comics and Marvel to work in Hollywood, but previous offers had fallen through. Geller’s offer looked far more promising. A former assistant of Kirby’s described that Geller “seemed to have money. He went to Jack and said, ‘I can sell a gazillion-dollar movie based on your designs.’ Jack thought he was designing a whole Disneyland” (Higgins and Kit). He was actually designing something three times the size of Disneyland.

John Chambers became involved because “This film has a tenderness, it has a mysticism, and even though I don’t seek out challenges anymore, this film is going to be one that I want . . . and it’s going to fulfill all my needs. When Maurice Stein told me of it, and I heard Jack Kirby was involved, I knew I had to be too. It’s going to be something very remarkable. . . .There is too much negativity in this world. I’ve always had a feeling towards humanity and this film will deal with the positive side of humanity” (Master Plan 160).

Geller produced a Science Fiction Land book to give to prospective investors. In it, Geller described himself as “a poet, playwright, and screenwriter” with “a number of film scripts, TV treatments, and plays under his belt.” He also said that he was a “student of scientific innovation,” an “organizational executive,” and someone who had studied “various cultural mythologies and oriental religions” (Master Plan 134). The book also contained biographies of Kirby and Chambers, outlined the planned financing of the project, described the movie sets and theme park attractions, and featured reproductions of Kirby’s artwork. The addition of Kirby and Chambers to the project were key in gaining the confidence of investors. Kirby’s Middle Eastern- and Hindu-influenced designs were especially important. Geller did write to Ray Bradbury to ask him to participate, but it’s unclear that Bradbury ever committed to the project.

By November 1979, Geller had chosen Aurora, Colorado, as the site of the theme park. Projected costs had risen, and completion times had been pushed further into the future. Remarkably, the apparent funding commitment from investors had more than kept up with the projected costs. A press conference was held on November 28, 1979, and attended by Geller, Kirby, and Chambers. Zelazny and Bradbury did not attend. A press kit incorporated Kirby’s artwork. Most of the details at the press conference were conveyed by Jerry Schafer, the project’s supervising producer, a former Hollywood stuntman who had some experience producing Las Vegas shows. Set construction was announced to begin March 1980 with filming scheduled to start in July 1980. The theme park itself would not open until Spring 1984. A 99-year lease on 1,000 acres in Aurora, Colorado, had been signed with additional acreage to be used in conjunction with the project. Another 10,000 acres were to be used for a technological and business park called Science City.

Geller’s charisma and chutzpah were seemingly enough to convince potential investors, thereby overcoming his lack of credentials from Hollywood or from any project of this magnitude. At the press conference, Schafer announced that they held an irrevocable letter of credit from the Royal Bank of Canada for $400 million ($1.27 billion in 2012) (cf. Mitchell and Ferguson; Ashton). In addition, there were statements of interest from “65 of the largest corporations in the country asking for participation in the theme park” including Coca Cola, McDonalds, IBM, and General Motors (Mitchell and Ferguson 56).

In a 1996 interview, Geller recalled somewhat lower amounts of funding had been secured. “We had raised commitments for about a quarter of a billion dollars ($790 million in 2012) from a Canadian entity, and $20 million hard cash ($63 million in 2012) from an American entity” (Morrow 25).

Finally, in late 1979, after more than a year of preliminary development and fundraising, “we started breaking ground on the theme park in Colorado” (Morrow 25).

Lord of Light Meets the FBI

On December 13, 1979, two weeks after the press conference, authorities raided the new Denver production offices for Lord of Light and Science Fiction Land. According to Geller, it was the FBI. Schafer was arrested. Geller was also named in the warrant but was “reportedly . . . in Europe writing the script” for Lord of Light (Weiss “Arrested,” 4; Geller “CIA”). The former mayor of Aurora and other city council associates were also charged with fraud and securities violations. And with that, the enormous vision died.

What really happened?

Geller recalled that the FBI had discovered fraud and security violations by Schafer and members of the Aurora city council, who were caught making secret real estate purchases involving the land that Geller had leased for the theme park (Morrow 25). Geller also described that his supervising producer stole about $50,000 ($158,000 in 2012) in order to buy enough land to “have his own zip code” (Geller, “WHOIS”; Higgins and Kit). There were rumors of Mafia involvement in some financial deals as well. Geller later explained, “I basically assigned too much responsibility to certain people who did things, and I didn’t see it. We had some people who forged my name, forged my signature, and were bilking people out of money, and I didn’t know about it. They were looking at doing all these land deals around the land that I had optioned, and it came out” (Morrow 25). The initial $10 million “was in the bank, and I’d optioned 1,000 acres of land in Colorado for the park. That’s when the government stopped everything. I was in the process of talking to directors and scientists” (Morrow 25).

Newspaper reports from that time period differ from Geller’s recollections. Rocky Mountain News said that reporters were skeptical of Geller and Schafer during the November press conference. They described Schafer as apprehensive and were not satisfied with his vague answers to questions about sources of funding, where the sewer and water supply would come from, and how realistic the project truly was (Ashton 6C, 11C). They doubted that movie sets could become the infrastructure for a theme park. Nine days later, an investigative reporter for Rocky Mountain News disclosed that Schafer had declared bankruptcy in a federal court the year before and that officials with the Royal Bank of Canada had confirmed that the credit note for $400 million simply did not exist (Weiss “Bankrupt,” 8). Geller was further described as someone who “until several months ago . . . lived in a dilapidated, cockroach-infested basement apartment in downtown Hollywood” and had to “pay his rent in cash because he once bounced a $175 rent check” (ibid.).

Four days after that article appeared, it was not the FBI but local police, backed by the local District Attorney, who raided the offices of Science Fiction Land (Weiss “Arrested,” 4). Schafer and his associate Larry Chance were accused of bilking an immigrant out of his life savings of $50,000 to help fund the theme park; in a meeting with the investor, Chance allegedly impersonated Geller and forged his signature on the security document. (Weiss “Arrested” 4; Weiss “Felonies” 4). Schafer and Chance were not licensed in Colorado to sell securities and had not registered the sale with the state, which has to approve such sales. Together Schafer and Chance faced eight state (not federal) charges that included securities fraud, theft, conspiracy, and impersonation (Weiss “Felonies” 4; UPI 5). Geller was charged with three counts of securities fraud and conspiracy; he surrendered to authorities two weeks after the initial police raid and was released on bail (Weiss “Felonies” 4; UPI 5). Four Aurora officials, including the former mayor, the Mayor Pro Tem, and two members of the city’s planning commission, were each indicted by a grand jury for using inside information to buy land adjacent to the proposed park in the hope of making a profit (Asmar “Tourist Trap”; Weiss “Indicted” 5). A Los Angeles judge was also accused of colluding with Schafer in unscrupulous efforts to finance the theme park in Colorado and at the earlier potential sites in Canada (Farr A10).

Geller has said that the supervising producer and city officials were all later convicted, and that he was exonerated of any wrongdoing (Geller “CIA”; Morrow 22, 25). “It took me about a year or so to straighten it all out afterwards. And I decided to just put [the movie and theme park] on the shelf at that point” (Morrow 25). It’s difficult to confirm Geller’s claims because Colorado newspapers from that time are only available in microfilm and not searchable by key words. But Geller’s 1996 recollection of having held a quarter of a billion dollars from a Canadian entity must be incorrect since it was previously confirmed by the Royal Bank of Canada to be false (Weiss “Bankrupt” 8). A recent follow-up article reported that “after the very public charges and indictments were announced, the accused were allowed to plead down their charges. No one served jail time” (Asmar “Fake Movie”).

Geller retains the film rights to Lord of Light but has not developed it further.

Lord of Light Meets the CIA

On November 4, 1979, protestors stormed the US Embassy in Tehran and 66 members of the staff were initially taken hostage. Six others fled, hid for a few days in various locations, and later remained in hiding under the care of the Canadian Embassy. Two stayed at the official residence of the Canadian ambassador, Ken Taylor, while the other four were welcomed at the home of the embassy’s second officer, John Sheardown. The Canadian embassy alerted the Americans that they were keeping these six in hiding, and that launched an effort by Canadian and American authorities to rescue them before they were discovered. The safety of the Canadian ambassador, his family, and staff were also at risk because it was believed that the Iranians knew that six Americans were at large; the American press had also compared the lists of hostages and Embassy staff and realized that six people were unaccounted for. At Ken Taylor’s residence, an anonymous caller asked to speak to two of the fugitives before hanging up, while a military helicopter buzzed the Sheardown residence. The Iranians were painstakingly pasting together shredded top-secret documents, and these were eventually published by the Iranian government.

In mid-December 1979—within hours or days of the Lord of Light project being shut down—enter CIA agent Antonio J. Mendez, charged with engineering plans for exfiltrating the six Americans from Iran. Cover identities should normally be dull so as to escape interest and close enough to the person’s own experience so that the person can convincingly act out the role. But as Mendez later explained, “In this case, however, I believed we should try to devise a cover so exotic that no one would imagine it was being used for operational purposes” (Mendez “Hollywood”). Among several options, he conceived the notion of a Hollywood production crew scouting locations in Iran with the six Americans being part of that crew.

Oscar-winning makeup artist John Chambers had served for ten years as makeup consultant and disguise creator to the CIA. Mendez called him for advice, and Chambers told him such a scouting trip would typically involve eight people: a production manager, a cameraman, an art director, a transportation manager, a script consultant, an associate producer, a business manager, and a director (Mendez “Hollywood”). Their purpose would be to look at potential shooting sites from artistic, logistic, and financial points of view.

Mendez traveled between Ottawa and Washington and worked on getting approvals. He also needed funds to set up the front for a movie production company in Hollywood. Studio Six Productions (the “Six” to reflect the escapees) was created in mid-January 1980 to occupy offices recently vacated by Michael Douglas after working on The China Syndrome (Mendez “Hollywood”). Chambers enrolled another makeup artist, Robert Sidell (The Waltons; E.T: The Extraterrestrial), to be the nominal producer of the company. Sidell had known nothing about Chambers’s secret identity and was floored to discover himself suddenly sworn to secrecy in a covert CIA operation (Higgins and Kit). Chambers and Sidell set up the office and immediately drew the attention of Hollywood colleagues who wanted to be involved in this film (Mendez “Hollywood”).

It was undoubtedly Chambers who suggested a science fiction movie and in particular the script for Lord of Light that was in his possession. Some recent press reports and even a Discovery Channel documentary suggest that the script was something in Chambers’s “slush pile” for consideration, but this is incorrect because Chambers had been visibly attached to the Lord of Light movie and theme park since 1978. The major press conference for the Lord of Light movie and theme park had taken place just six weeks before Studio Six Productions was created. Chambers also had bound copies of Jack Kirby’s illustrations of the theme park design, which could plausibly be passed off as illustrations of the film sets. Lord of Light was deemed suitable because it was science fiction, it used mythology, and it contained Middle Eastern (actually Hindu and Buddhist) references that were deemed “close enough” to Islam to make a shoot in Iran plausible (Bearman; Mendez “Hollywood”).

Mendez later explained, “This script fit our purpose beautifully, particularly because no uninitiated person could decipher its complicated story line. The script was based on an award-winning sci-fi novel. The producers had also envisioned building a huge set that would later become a major theme park. They had hired a famous comic strip artist to prepare concepts for the sets. This gave us some good ‘eyewash’ to add to a production portfolio” (Mendez “Hollywood”).

And so the plan was that Mendez and another undercover CIA agent would pose as location scouts for a Hollywood movie in Iran. The fugitive Americans would pose as Canadian members of the scout crew and escape the country with them. Geller’s script was repackaged with the name Argo, and the author’s name was changed to Teresa Harris. Why Argo? Chambers had told a profane knock-knock joke that ended “Ah, go fuck yourself.” They also recalled that “Argo” had mythological meaning and confirmed that it was “the name of the ship on which Jason and the Argonauts sailed to rescue the Golden Fleece from the many-headed dragon holding it captive in the sacred garden. Perfect! This precisely described the situation in Iran” (Mendez “Hollywood”). The phrase itself became a recognition signal and battle cry for the CIA team, a means of breaking tension.

The Hollywood press became curious about an upstart outfit hiring an Oscar-winning makeup artist. The Agency ran full-page ads in The Hollywood Reporter and Variety, held a press conference, conducted interviews, and contacted actors’ agents. This activity fostered authenticity should the Iranians check the bona fides of the “Canadian” crew in Iran. Three phone lines were installed at Studio Six Productions, with the third being a special CIA line for use in emergencies only. Sidell’s wife answered the phones and other Sidell and Chambers family members staffed the office. No one in Hollywood or Iran ever realized that the project was a ruse. “By the time Studio Six folded several weeks after the rescue, we had received 26 scripts, including some potential moneymakers. One was from Steven Spielberg” (Mendez “Hollywood”). That special third line rang just once to announce that the fugitives had been rescued. No one from Iran ever called to confirm the credentials of the scout crew or the production company.

Mendez carried the only copy of the script and the book of illustrations (also repackaged as Argo) to be shown if needed, such as if they were questioned at the airport in Tehran (Mendez “Hollywood”). This was fortunate because a cursory reading of the script should have revealed the Hindu and Buddhist gods, and nothing of Islam. Also, several of Kirby’s drawings were boldly labeled “BRAHMA, the Hindu god of creation.” Efforts on the Canadian end included arranging false passports for the six Americans; a secret session of Parliament was convened in order to approve this unusual measure. Mendez and his CIA colleague were denied Canadian passports because the special law allowed fake passports for special humanitarian purposes but not for secret agents. Mendez recalled that the organization and approval of efforts happened much more rapidly on the Canadian end than the American; many plans were in place before he had official approval from his own authorities. There was also some patriotic reluctance to rely on non-American resources for this rescue. After a delay, the necessary final approval from President Jimmy Carter was in place the night before Mendez flew into Iran to start the mission.

The caper succeeded in rescuing the six Americans. Mendez overslept his 2:15 A.M. alarm by 45 minutes but made it to the airport in time for the planned 5 A.M. rendezvous. The critical exit at the airport on January 28, 1980, went as smooth as silk despite all the advance concerns about everything that could go wrong. Mendez was prepared to double-talk their way out of trouble. “I was armed with the Argo portfolio and would overwhelm anyone standing in the way with Hollywood talk. The Iranian official at the checkpoint could not have cared less. He stamped each of us out and collected the yellow forms” (Mendez “Hollywood”). The script and art portfolio never had to be shown. However, they experienced true anxiety when the Swissair flight was delayed an hour due to mechanical difficulties, before finally having an uneventful short bus ride to the plane. They discovered the Swiss regional name “Aargau” written on the nose of the plane and took that as a good omen. Upon clearing Iranian airspace they were finally able to give thumbs up and order celebratory drinks. The six Americans later kissed the tarmac in Zurich, to the astonishment of the other passengers.

It was decided that the CIA involvement had to remain secret, especially because at that point in time 53 Americans still remained in captivity. And so the rescue operation was initially described as involving only Canadian agents and government. The Canadian Embassy was also closed; the Ambassador, his staff, and family exited the country by air within hours of the Americans. It wasn’t until fiftieth anniversary celebrations of the CIA that it was decided to declassify the documents and reveal details of the CIA’s involvement to the public. The operation was first described in a 1997 CBS News report, and later detailed in a CIA report and book, both written by Mendez. Mendez also appeared in the episode “The Little Gray Man” on Bravo Television’s First Person, where he revealed that he had never read the script to find out how the story ended. He’d lacked the time and found Lord of Light too complicated to follow (Morris).

Lord of Light Meets Ben Affleck’s Argo

The 2012 Academy Award–winning film Argo was based on a book by Antonio Mendez (Master of Disguise) and an article from Wired magazine (Bearman) that also briefly recounted the fiasco of the Lord of Light movie and theme park. George Clooney purchased the rights and Chris Terrio wrote the screenplay. The first half of the film adheres reasonably well to the plight of the hostages and the six Americans in hiding but makes no mention of Jack Kirby, Roger Zelazny, or Lord of Light. Instead, Mendez is portrayed as coming up with the idea not only for a motion picture caper but a sci-fi flick in particular. A fictional producer named Lester Siegel assists Mendez and John Chambers in organizing Studio Six Productions and making the Hollywood end of the production appear real. They peruse a slush pile of film scripts and come up with something suitably schlocky (robots, princesses, desert) that is already called Argo. The script is legitimately purchased after Mendez and Siegel badger the scriptwriter’s agent to sell it to them. Jack Kirby makes a nominal appearance as a CIA artist who does some quick sketches and storyboards for the portfolio that Mendez takes to Tehran. The phrase “Argo fuck yourself” is proclaimed frequently by Mendez, Chambers, Siegel, and others.

Why were Zelazny and Geller not mentioned, while Jack Kirby’s name is used only for that of a minor character? The producers probably didn’t want a Hollywood motion picture to portray the possibly illegal use of a film script, while display of Kirby’s artwork required permission of the Kirby Estate and Geller, who owns the rights to reproduce the artwork. The plot of this thriller might also be slowed by the additional backstory needed to explain why a full script came complete with elaborate artwork and storyboards. The character of Siegel was invented by the screenwriter who wanted “a guy from a different era—the last of the dinosaurs, a guy who’s been around but who is kind of sad. In a way, Argo is Lester’s last movie, and it’s a movie that’s never made, but it’s also the most important movie he ever made” (Higgins and Kit).

The last hour of the movie descends into invented Hollywood drama. They unwillingly meet with an Iranian contact to scout locations and are photographed and nearly captured. The rescue is cancelled, prompting Affleck’s Mendez to heroically decide that he will go ahead against orders. In turn, that prompts shouting and chaos in CIA headquarters and the White House as another character goes over the head of his boss in order to get President Carter’s approval. The electronic airline reservations aren’t in place when they arrive at the airport but appear moments later (airlines used paper-based tickets in this era). Mendez and the rescued Americans are detained in the airport on suspicion that they are not who they claim to be. Many tense and sweaty moments pass. A phone call is made to Studio Six Productions but no one is answering. The art portfolio is used by one of the Americans in an impassioned ad lib effort to convince an Iranian security agent that the film is real; he gifts the artwork to their new Iranian fan. After boarding the plane, their true identities are uncovered, a call is made to abort the flight, and the plane is chased down the runway by armed Iranian agents who seem intent on forcing the plane off the runway with their angry gestures. Of course, the actual escape was notable only for the one-hour delay due to routine mechanical difficulties.

The Canadian involvement in the rescue plan was also downplayed. When the film was first screened at the Toronto Film Festival, former Canadian Ambassador Ken Taylor was indignant. In a conciliatory response, Affleck allowed Taylor to reword the film’s coda which acknowledges Canadian efforts. But that wasn’t sufficient for former President Jimmy Carter, who declared on CNN that “90 per cent of the contributions to the ideas and the consummation of the plan was Canadian.” The true balance of efforts may never be clearly established.

Lord of Light Meets the Science Fiction Land Documentary

A 2002 documentary from Discovery television, Covert Action, described and reenacted aspects of Mendez’s rescue operation. Again, Lord of Light isn’t mentioned at all; instead, it is claimed that “from scripts lying around the studio [of the just-established Studio Six Productions], the team finds a mythological science fiction story. A Middle East location would be the perfect backdrop. The name of the movie is Argo.” Mendez doesn’t mention Jack Kirby, either, but suggests that he had artists create the artwork for the film, when it was really Kirby’s artwork that he took to Tehran. An edited version of this same documentary was re-issued in 2013 under the title “Argo: Inside Story” but still failed to correct those details. Of course, the documentary would have needed permission to show Kirby’s artwork on screen.

A forthcoming documentary Science Fiction Land, directed by Judd Ehrlich and produced by Flatbush Pictures, began production long before Affleck’s Argo and is set to be released in 2014. It explores the complex backstory that Argo leaves out, beginning with the development of the Lord of Light theme park and motion picture by Barry Geller; the involvement of Jack Kirby, Ray Bradbury, John Chambers, renowned architect Paolo Soleri, and futurist Buckminster Fuller; how and why that dream collapsed in a police (or was it FBI?) raid in 1978; and how the script and Kirby’s artwork later came to be used by the CIA in their rescue operation.

Zelazny Gets the Last Word

Through all of this, Geller’s infamous Lord of Light screenplay has remained unseen and unread. It may never be published or filmed. Since Geller had no published credentials as a screenwriter in 1979 or even today, especially for a major motion picture, it remains unknown whether the Lord of Light script would have held up to the hype and enthusiasm that Geller and his team generated in 1979. One can’t help recalling Antonio Mendez’s comment that he’d found the script too convoluted to follow.

Where was Zelazny in all of this? After several years of researching his archived correspondence at the University of Syracuse, the University of Baltimore Maryland County, Indiana University, and in other private collections, I can say that I found no letters from Zelazny that mention the motion picture or theme park. As far as I can tell, Zelazny had no active involvement in this project. This would fit with his previously published remarks about the hazards of an author getting involved with Hollywood. He knew that any author who dealt with Hollywood had his or her work altered considerably. He’d been burned first with Damnation Alley, a disappointing movie that resembled his novel in little more than the title and the names of a few characters. The second time was with Lord of Light. He was scorched a third time with the three film outlines he wrote on contract for Twentieth Century Fox in 1981, one of which was based on his Nebula Award–winning “He Who Shapes”/The Dream Master. The final product was the 1984 film Dreamscape, and by agreement it did not have his name in the credits:

Frankly, in cold contemplation, I think that they may have just wanted to use the gimmick of entering a person’s dreams and wanted to avoid a lawsuit from me, because it could be construable as a ripoff of my novel The Dream Master. At least, that’s what they were advised, I gather, after their researchers told them that the dream-entering gimmick was unique to my book. I think they may have hired me so as to have something in file with my name on it, to defuse the lawsuit possibility. (“Letter to Bill Willingham”)

And so this brings us to Zelazny’s reflections on Hollywood, which he summed up best by quoting Ernest Hemingway:

Hemingway once said that the best way to deal with Hollywood is to stay on the other side of the California state line and have them toss you the money so you can catch it and run. Because they are going to do what they want with your book. (Nizalowski 7)

As the reports of the police or FBI raid and subsequent criminal charges reached the press, Zelazny’s disappointment over the project’s collapse was likely balanced by relief that he’d had no direct involvement in it. The experience may also have prompted him to think twice about who tosses that bag of money to you.

And of course, Zelazny never knew that his novel—more correctly, the script based upon it—figured in the joint Canadian-CIA effort to rescue six Americans from Iran. He had a special fondness for Lord of Light; it was one of his five all-time favorite books. He’d created characters who coopted elements of Hinduism and Buddhism to suit their schemes to deceive the common people into believing they were gods; so too the CIA coopted a script about those Hindu and Buddhist characters in a bold rescue caper that deceived the authorities in an Islamic country. The CIA report wasn’t declassified until two years after Zelazny’s untimely death from complications of colon cancer. But knowing Zelazny’s appreciation for practical jokes and irreverent humor, I suspect that he would have been very amused.

On long vanished Urath, Christopher Kovacs dwells in Paradise, Newfoundland, Canada.

Works Cited

- Ashton, John. “Look out, Disneyland—Science City is coming.” Rocky Mountain News, November 30, 1979.

- Asmar, Melanie. “Argo’s fake movie started out real, and was supposed to include a theme park in . . . Aurora?” 2012. . Accessed April 1, 2013.

- ——. “Science Fiction Land could have been Aurora’s biggest tourist trap, if its backers weren’t crooks.” 2012. <blogs.westword.com/latestword/2012/04/science_fiction_land_aurora.php>. Accessed April 1, 2013.

- Bearman, Joshua. “How the CIA Used a Fake Sci-Fi Flick to Rescue Americans from Tehran.” Wired Magazine. 2007. <www.wired.com/wired/archive/15.05/feat_cia.html>. Accessed March 31, 2013.

- Becker, Matthew. “Interview.” Alternities 6, Summer 1981.

- Farr, Bill. “Indicted L.A. Judge Tied to New Probes.” Los Angeles Times February 13, 1980.

- Geller, Barry Ira. “CIA—Lord of Light.” 2008. <www.lordoflight.com/cia.html>. Accessed March 29, 2013.

- ——. Lord of Light: Science Fiction Land: Book One: Master Plan #1. Los Angeles: Barry Ira Geller Productions, 1978.

- ——. “Welcome to Barry Ira Geller’s personal WHOIS and Wiki.” 2012. <www.barryirageller.com>. Accessed March 29, 2013.

- Higgins, Bill, and Boris Kit. “The Odd History Behind Ben Affleck’s Argo.” The Hollywood Reporter. 2012. <www.hollywoodreporter.com/news/ben-affleck-argo-odd-hollywood-history-374054>. Accessed March 29, 2013.

- Jensen, Jeff. “The Real Story of the Fake Movie in ‘Argo’.” 2012. <www.ew.com/ew/article/0,,20639826,00.html>. Accessed March 30, 2013.

- Kelly, Patrick. “How About This? Roger Zelazny.” Phantasmicom. 2, Winter 1970.

- Krulik, Theodore. Roger Zelazny. New York: Ungar Publishing, 1986.

- Lindskold, Jane M. Roger Zelazny. New York: Twayne Publishers, 1993.

- Martin, George R. R. “Introduction.” In Lord of Light. Roger Zelazny. London: Gollancz, 2006.

- Mendez, Antonio J. “CIA Goes Hollywood: A Classic Case of Deception.” Central Intelligence Agency 1999. <1.usa.gov/12klxCU>. Accessed March 31, 2013.

- ——. Master of Disguise: My Secret Life in the CIA. Niagara Falls, New York: William Morrow, 1999.

- Mitchell, Blake, and James Ferguson. “Lord of Light: More Than Just a New SF Movie.” Fantastic Films 3.1, May 1980.

- Morris, Errol. “The Little Gray Man.” First Person. Bravo Television 2001. <www.youtube.com/watch?v=AQJa4xk5rss>. Accessed March 31, 2013.

- Morrow, John. “Seeking the Lord of Light: Producer Barry Ira Geller.” The Jack Kirby Collector 3.11, July 1996.

- Nizalowski, John. “An Interview with Roger Zelazny.” The New York Review of Science Fiction 18.7 (#211), March 2006.

- Norton, Andre. “Roger Zelazny.” Marcon II Program Book. April 1967.

- Schweitzer, Darrell. “Roger Zelazny Answers Questions.” Procrastination 13, November 1977.

- Sneyd, Steve. “The Song Beneath the Skin: Roger Zelazny Interviewed.” Critical Wave Magazine 33. November 1993.

- Thompson, W.B. “Interview: Roger Zelazny.” Future Life 25, March 1981.

- UPI. “Space-age park plan attacked as fraud.” Lodi News-Sentinel, December 29 1979.

- Weiss, Bob. “Aurora park backer bankrupt in ’78.” Rocky Mountain News, December 9, 1979.

- ——. “Aurora’s ex-mayor, 3 city aides indicted.” Rocky Mountain News, April 4, 1980.

- ——. “Fantasy park planner is arrested.” Rocky Mountain News, December 14, 1979.

- ——. “Promoters hit with 11 felonies.” Rocky Mountain News, December 28, 1979.

- Zelazny, Roger. “An Interview with Roger Zelazny [self-interview].” Luna Monthly 43, December 1972.

- ——. “Introduction.” In Hymn to the Sun: An Imitation. Roger Zelazny. Radford, Virginia: DNA Publications, 1996.

- ——. “Letter to Bill Willingham at Texas Comics.” 1983.

- ——. “Letter to Doubleday Editor Lawrence P. Ashmead dated February 13.” 1967.

- ——. “Letter to Ms. Barraford dated September 11.” 1975.

- ——. “Letter to Paul Walker dated March 10.” 1972.

- ——. “Letter to Paul Walker dated March 18.” 1972.

- ——. “Musings on Lord of Light.” Niekas. 21, 1977.

Deweaponizing Stark: Powering the Culture Hero in Jon Favreau’s Iron Man and Iron Man 2

Hannah Means-Shannon

More than any other superhero currently active on the silver screen, Tony Stark is associated with the allure of technology, allure that extends to his Iron Man suit and beyond to the wider products of his teeming brain. Technology is no new factor in the superhero genre, whether in comics or film, nor is it new to the historical superhero genre with its roots in myth and epic tradition. In fact, superheroes such as Tony Stark put technology back into the equation and bring back the merging of the human with technology in the formation of society’s modern superhero. A major branch of heroic tradition in antiquity consisted of the exploits of the “culture hero,” standing alongside related but distinct categories such as the adventures of the social hero. A culture hero, noted primarily for bringing technology and organizational structures to society, is the social hero transformed—the bringer of public protection transformed into the bringer of public prosperity.

Tony Stark and his alter ego Iron Man take the screen in Jon Favreau’s Iron Man (hereafter Iron Man 1) and Iron Man 2, depicting a hero capable of fulfilling both a combative, protective role and also a creative, generative role in prompting substantial social change. Similarly, Irish mythology provides us with a striking parallel to the combination of unique skills and knowledge with a military application of technology in the person of Lugh Lamfhada of the Tuatha de Danaan. Tracking the mythological development of Lugh Lamfhada from the more typical role of social hero into the especially dynamic role of culture hero, and comparing this pattern to Tony Stark’s rise as a social and culture hero highlights the latent influence of technology on this remarkable journey, suggesting that a modern culture hero simply cannot exist without the trappings of technological advancement.

The Social Hero and the Culture Hero

Jungian analytical psychology has contributed significantly to the field of hero studies due to its careful analysis of mythological motifs and consideration of the role of the hero in his own personal development. Carl Jung in his discussion of Archetypes of the Collective Unconscious, Erich Neumann in his amplification of these concepts to include seminal mythologies, and Joseph Campbell in his close study of the relationships between hero narratives and the personal journey in The Hero with a Thousand Faces, have all contributed to an understanding of the crucial role of hero narratives as a continuum of personal and cultural experience. It is from Jung and Neumann, particularly, that modern scholarship can trace its concept of the culture hero (Jung 117, 129; 211–12).

The life cycle of a culture hero possesses a number of striking features which help to delineate the culture hero classification. These include previous successful development through the role of the social hero, a versatile and multi-talented persona, qualifications as a strategist, the pursuit of the conquest of death, practical application of their skills to social good, and assuming an advising role in society that may result in kingship or rule as a culminating phase. The culture hero may also arise in a time of social need, particularly those in which old modes of social operation are in decay or when threatened by superior external technology from a rival nation (Leeming 241). The one-to-one identification between the hero and society enables the culture hero to represent the high water mark in social advancement and also as an indicator of social expectations and values within a hero narrative.

Jungian personality development concepts can help explain the relevance and popularity of social hero narratives; he outlines a pathway from learning, through crisis, to forging the (heroic) identity, suffering through self-conflict, and finally arriving at a “eulogistic phase” wherein the hero receives social praise and recognition. Such a sequential development is presented in Favreau’s Iron Man 1. Rather than moving on to further adventures of the social hero in Iron Man 2, Stark proceeds toward culture hero status, a more ambitious route but complimentary to character development presented in Iron Man comic storylines, particularly Matt Fraction’s recent Invincible Iron Man: Stark Resilient.

Erich Neumann classifies culture heroes as “Type Two” heroes who are not only “culture-bringers” but also “redeemer/savior” figures (202). Magic, art, religion, and science are their particular domain, and their eventual achievement will include the “conquest of death” (Neumann 221).

It is useful to keep in mind the dangerous aspect of a culture hero’s generative power identified by Sir James Fraser. While not necessarily used as a weapon, the neutral force of a culture hero’s creative energies were traditionally handled with care (Fraser 244); the culture hero, closely associated with divinity, can essentially power a culture with creative energy. However, their power retains its essential ability to destroy.

Lugh Lamfhada as Social Hero and Culture Hero

The Irish hero Lugh Lamfhada belongs to a mythological race known as the Tuatha de Danaan, a people who had “learned magic and every sort of craft and liberal art, so that they were learned, wise, and well-skilled in every branch of these arts” and Lugh stands as a paramount representation of these qualities (Sjoestedt 18). It is the coordination and organization of these arts in which Lugh excels. Though their knowledge of magic may elevate the Tuatha de Danaan to semi-divine status, a blending of the “sacred and the magical,” their mortality and fallibility also align them closely with humanity (Sjoestedt 24). “Political events” position them in conflict with the race of the Fomorians in Ireland, when their king, Nuada, is maimed and a Fomorian, fostered by the Tuatha de Danaan king, replaces him. Bres, the replacement king, fails to live up to Danaan standards of civility, and after a period of decline and suffering, rebellion breaks out, spearheaded by Lugh.

Marie Sjoestedt classifies Lugh as a “chieftain god” because he establishes many of the traditions associated with later sacral kingship, and his own kinship group includes god-like figures such as the Dagda, Nuada, Ogma, Goibniu, and Dian Cecht, all of whom possess signature magical abilities (57). Lugh is associated with weaponry from a young age,and is particularly known for the use of throwing implements including the javelin, spear, and sling. In this way he contrasts with the “older generation” of his kinfolk, representing “technical progress” and a movement away from “antique weapons,” such as the club, associated with the Dagda (Sjoestedt 57). While he possesses many skills and may usefully be compared to the god Mercury, the correspondence is not exact as Lugh’s remarkable abilities lie both in warfare and in magical knowledge; in essence, it is both what he knows and how he uses that knowledge that render him remarkable. Sjoestedt also suggests that, in the context of his cultural milieu, Lugh is both young and “fashionable,” attaining a degree of popularity through his advanced methods and vision for the future (59).

Lugh’s origin and birth narrative correspond well with archetypical patterns in the life of the universal social hero, presenting aspects noted by Otto Rank, Joseph Campbell, and Carl Jung concerning the child-hero archetype such as the “precarious birth” (Jung 161). His birth is both royal and a near-impossibility with various factors working against his conception. His grandfather, Balor of the Fomorians, has been warned via prophecy that his grandson will one day kill him, and therefore he sequesters his daughter Ethlinn in a “tower of glass” off the coast, “never to see or hear of a man” (Gregory 38). Cian, brother to the Danaan smith Goibniu, decides to take revenge on Balor’s thieving by killing him and approaches the island by magical means with the help of a druid woman (Gregory 38–9). Finding Ethlinn there, he woos her, and Ethlinn’s son is eventually carried away by druidical magic and returned to his father Cian (Gregory 39).

Little is known of Lugh’s childhood but that he was raised by his Danaan kin-group and became learned in all the arts of his relatives. Most narratives concerning Lugh “open” dramatically with his arrival at Tara, the seat of Irish kings, to join his uncle Nuada’s household. This arrival represents a change of name for Lugh. He was previously known as “Lamfhada,” “long-arm,” for his skill with weapons, but the encounter at Tara reveals a new aspect of his identity as he receives the name “Samildanach,” or “he who possesses at the same time many skills” (Sjoestedt 58). Because “no one without an art” may enter Tara, Lugh is obliged to cite his craft at the door (Gregory 37). When carpenter, smith, and champion fail to impress the porter, Lugh must continue listing his impressive resume. After recounting nine crafts in which he is proficient, Lugh cannily instructs the porter to “go and ask the king if he has any one man who can do all of these things” (Gregory 37). Nuada gives him the benefit of the doubt, and Lugh is admitted under his new title, “Master of all Arts” (Gregory 37). It is clear from Lugh’s initial name “Lamfhada” that he has already attained the potential of the social hero, and from his new name that he is being publically acknowledged as a “versatile persona,” capable of the culture hero role. Nuada already has a hero role in mind for the young Lugh, thinking “by his help” to overthrow the “tyranny” currently held over the Danaans by the Fomorians (Gregory 38).

Lugh readily considers the problem at hand on behalf of his uncle and is placed on the throne of Tara for thirteen days “so they might all listen to the advice he would give” (Gregory 38). His multifaceted abilities have convinced the people that his skills as an advisor are needed, and their gamble pays off. During this time, Lugh emerges as a keen strategist, planning how to use the Danaan workforce to best advantage against their formidable foe. It is at this juncture that Lugh’s abilities shift from employment as a social hero, who might simply be a leader in combat, to a managerial role, suggesting his potential as a culture hero. Lugh goes to a “quiet place” and “put[s] his mind to work,” making “secret” plans with his kin-group over the course of three years of preparation (Gregory 40).

Alongside his managerial brilliance, Lugh brings various personal alliances to the aid of the Danaans, including his foster-brothers, the sons of Mananaan, the sea-god, and he raises a military troupe known as the “Riders of the Sidhe.” Amassing this following, he returns to Tara as a war leader, in “brightness” like the “setting sun” (Gregory 41). Lugh’s already consolidated skills as a social hero are formidable, complete with hero weaponry. He brings with him from Mananaan’s “Land of Promise” his foster father’s magical horse, breastplate, helmet, and sword to engage the Fomorians in an initial skirmish (Gregory 41). Though the skirmish is successful, King Nuada becomes cowed at the concept of full-scale civil war and loses his nerve. It is Lugh who pushes the cause forward and essentially replaces Nuada as the leader of the Danaans.

Lugh’s behavior as military leader and strategist displays key aspects of his character. He offers a peace treaty and reparations to Bres and the Fomorians rather than engage in war, in exchange for Danaan freedom, reminding them that he, Lugh, is also half-Fomorian. Avoiding massive bloodshed is clearly a goal, and his willingness to put aside already rankling feuds in the public interest shows his potential as a governor of his people. He employs a practical application of peacemaking in the interest of public good. When the Fomorians refuse to negotiate with him, he nevertheless spares Bres’s life in order to engage in an organized, decisive conflict rather than continuing with guerrilla tactics. Despite all of Lugh’s earlier “plans” in “secret” as a leader and an emissary, he acts openly and decisively in the hopes of quickly resolving the conflict.

As the Fomorian army begins to arrive on the plain of Tuireadh, Lugh, who already has assumed the high seat in Tara, calls upon his “druids, smiths, lawmakers, and chariot-drivers” to make plans for the ensuing battle (Gregory 58). Drawing together the various strata of his society, he asks each what they can do and creates a composite plan based on their abilities (Gregory 58). The druids are employed in the production of enchantments and curses, while Goibniu the smith stands ready to repair weaponry hour by hour. Dian Cecht, the physician, and his son prepare to resurrect slain soldiers in a magic cauldron.

There is a distinctive narrative parallel between the skills discussed in preparation for battle and the skills originally listed in Lugh’s repertoire. Because he is a master-craftsman in these areas, he understands the significance of each to military success and also knows best how to arrange optimum results. Aside from arranging those “making things,” Lugh also gives a speech to the entire army and “put[s] strength in them, so that each had the spirit in him of a king or a great lord” (Gregory 63). Lugh’s two-fold role is evident here as a captain of industry in the arrangement of industrial products for wartime and as temporary ruler, assuming all the duties of a chieftain-king.

The Danaans recognize the cultural value of these divergent roles. Lugh is no longer seen as merely a social hero who can ensure a rallying point on the battlefield through the use of his own weapons. This is reinforced by the Danaan response to Lugh’s position during wartime. Once plans are in place for battle, Lugh is forcibly relegated to a guarded safe zone and prevented from acting in the role of a social hero any longer (Gregory 63). Because of the great skill he has shown as a strategist and as a leader, they are determined not to risk his death. He is to be preserved for the future of the culture.

On the last day of the battle of Magh Tuireadh, following the death of Nuada and the severe wounding of the Dagda, Lugh escapes his enforced prison and rushes toward the front in his social hero gear. Fearing that the men of Ireland are near defeat, he “hearten[s]” them to “fight well” and “not be in bonds any longer” (Gregory 65). This sets the stage for the long-predicted face-off between Lugh and his grandfather Balor, who possesses a magically poisonous gaze. When Balor turns his “evil eye” on Lugh, Lugh pierces it with a spear-cast, thereby removing the Fomorians’ weapon of mass destruction, when otherwise “the whole of Ireland would have burned in one flash” (Gregory 65).

Following this fateful duel, the tide of battle turns in favor of the outnumbered Danaans, until only four Fomorians remain alive. In the pursuit of the Fomorians, Lugh overtakes Nuada’s foster-son Bres and is once again asked to spare his life. Lugh asks, in neatly repetitive fashion, what useful knowledge Bres may be able to give to the Danaans in return for his life. When Bres offers specific information about plowing methods, reaping methods, and the use of the calendar, Lugh readily agrees (Gregory 66). The Danaans, who were primarily cattle herders before this time, have been offered an opportunity for cultural advancement and increased livelihood. Lugh, wisely, seizes this prize from his captive. This is the most pointed moment at which “king and craftsman . . . unite” (Reese 143).

At the close of the conflict, questions of future direction, rebuilding, and leadership remain. Lugh, who was primarily a wartime governor, could easily have resumed his social hero role at this point in the narrative, and surrendered the high seat at Tara to another. As suggested by the Danaan’s previous actions in sequestering Lugh from combat, however, the public had other goals in mind. He is officially made king over the Danaans, confirming not merely an advising role in the future but that of direct rule. Significantly, had Lugh contained his “many talents” for personal use and offered neither them nor his increasing knowledge of agriculture to his people, he could have become a “tyrant” ruler, hoarding technology for his own purposes. Instead, during his peaceful rule, Lugh establishes not only agricultural practice, but also many of the ritualistic aspects of kingship at Tara, including seasonal games and competitions, and the use of the Lia Fal, the Stone of Destiny, to confirm a newly chosen king (Cross and Slover 14). Lugh’s role as a “ritual king” becomes clear in the course of his exploits as he firstly “defeat[s] the powers of evil” and secondly “ensure[s] the growth of crops” (Reese 142).

As is the case for many culture heroes, Lugh’s destiny stretches forward in time. In particular, he is associated with a transcendence of death. After a long and wise rule of the Danaans, he eventually surrenders the kingship to his uncle the Dagda and disappears from Ireland, to be “seen again in later time” in an immortal state (Gregory 68). He is seen by the historical kings of Ireland when they use the Lia Fal to confirm their rule, and he is reputed to live in a “magical house” of splendid workmanship wherein a young woman who serves the drink of “sovereignty” to the newly initiated kings also dwells (Gregory 69). He has taken up a role beyond death to monitor the future governance of Tara. These associations make it clear that Lugh is viewed as the cultural progenitor of the rites of kingship, and his Danaan nature has relegated him to the realm of the divine, mysterious patron of Tara.

From the icon of sovereignty, to the bringer of new methods of combat and agriculture, Lugh represents the culture shaper par excellence. His roots as a social hero with military skill to offer are equally present, displaying the possible flowering of the social hero into the culture hero under propitious circumstances. His double naming emphasizes this transition, first as “Lamfhada,” a social hero, and then as “Samildanach,” a culture hero. Both names have “promise”—“one of skill, the second of success” (Reese 242). The key to Lugh’s success and developing role is, however, “knowledge,” as a “source of power,” and “from which man expects mastery of the world” (Sjoestedt 58).

Tony Stark as Social Hero

Tony Stark in Iron Man 1 changes from a celebrity with powerful economic status into a social hero. While his literal birth is not necessarily “perilous,” his rebirth as a hero is highly unlikely, even though he is brought back from the dead via his artificial heart. Famed for his narcissism and playboy attitude toward life, he nevertheless possesses “another side,” that of the technological genius whose wealth only informs his abilities to develop experimentally.

In a partial inversion of the usual heroic progression, the potential for the culture hero is embedded in his early development as a teen genius at M.I.T. Only dramatic conflicts and life-and-death experiences trigger the practical application of Tony’s full potential. Captured by a terrorist group in Afghanistan, Tony begins to realize the negative impact of indiscriminate arms dealing among the civilian population. He must use technology to fight for his life and escape with the help of Dr. Yinsen. The technology serves as midwife for his rebirth. The first Iron Man suit enables Tony to become a social hero, a protector and military force. True to the long comics history of Iron Man’s development, Tony is no superhero without his technology.

Tony’s suit, remade into its red and gold format stateside, becomes a visual indicator of difference and also functions as hero-specific weaponry. Just as Lugh is known for his radical use of the spear in battle, Iron Man is known for his repulsor beams and powered flight. This clear visual identification of method and identity, reinforced by the use of the visor-mask, marks the first stage of Tony Stark’s social role as the Iron Man hero.

Other social hero phases that he moves through are distinctly Jungian: he maintains a dual public-private identity, opposes a “shadow” form of himself in the person of competitor Obadiah Stane in his Ironmonger suit, and chooses to harmonize his personality by a public admission of his dual identity. Unlike Lugh, however, Tony Stark is not perfect, and we see his struggle as we cannot and do not see Lugh’s.

Revealing his identity concludes the first Iron Man film and hints at developments in a later sequel, raising questions about the function of a hero in society once his ordinary—or in this case celebrity—status has gone public. At this point, Tony has breezed through all the major phases of the development of the social hero and emerged as a survivor. The surviving social hero may remain in this category, continuously risking his life as a protector force, or, if the potential is present, begin the process toward the role of the culture hero.

Tony Stark as Culture Hero

Several features of Tony’s personality present in Iron Man 1 hint at his potential as a culture hero as is the case in Lugh Lamfhada’s youth. The first marker of this potential is extreme versatility and a “master[y] of all arts” (Gregory 38). Since the culture hero role functions on practical application, the term “crafts” is just as applicable. Tony has proven in his youth that he is capable of maintaining a weaponry-based industrial complex, but what other crafts is he capable of? The Iron Man suit itself is not solely a weapon but also an agent of flight and rescue. This ambiguity in the function of the Iron Man suit characterizes Tony’s own potential. In Iron Man 1, Tony questions the “zero accountability” of his weapons manufacturing and claims to have his eyes opened. He wants to move ahead with the “highest good for this country” and is seeking a venue to do that.

In Iron Man 2, Tony faces a congressional hearing on the subject of his suit’s role as a weapon, questioning whether this technology must be surrendered for military purposes. He does not consider the suit a “specialized weapon” but rather a “high-tech prosthesis.” Tony’s own inclinations toward accountability and away from weapons manufacture are reinforced by this determination on the part of the military to claim the weaponized aspects of the suit and develop it for their own purposes. The most obvious functions of Tony Stark’s very personal invention have been commandeered by the military, and so he must reconsider his own function.

In Tony’s lab, the viewer gets a glimpse of other potentials Tony has explored, working on cars, robots, and sophisticated computer systems. The J.A.R.V.I.S. operating system, in particular, functions both as lab manager and as the Iron Man armor’s operating system. In the presence of this versatility, the viewer must wonder whether Tony is capable of applying his technological expertise toward the practical application of social good. The Stark Expo, originally founded by Tony’s father Howard Stark, seems to suggest this as, historically speaking, World’s Fairs have been using to showcase new technologies, arts, and crafts for the public’s perusal. Though the Expo takes on a military slant in its floorshows, the goal of the Expo is to delight and entertain, a public-oriented motive that reveals Tony’s desire to reach out to his public. Tony is searching for alternatives to the solely weapons-based application of his inventions.

Tony’s versatility and his ability to function as a social hero is first threatened by the limits society and government attempt to place on him, as seen at the congressional hearing wherein even James “Rhodey” Rhodes points out the “threat” inherent in someone who “does not operate within an definable branch of government.” Like Lugh, Tony is not required on the front line. Rhodey takes on the role of military advisor, and the great genius is left with his laboratory, expected to continue to support the military and work toward future good. Rhodey, with the help of crooked contractor Justin Hammer, arms the requisitioned Iron Man suit to the point that it is “capable of reducing the population of any standing structure to zero,” a far cry from anything Tony had envisioned. To use Hammer’s own comparison at the senate hearing, Hammer has turned the suit from a “shield” into a “sword.”

Tony’s abilities are threatened again by a challenge from the past in the form of Whiplash, aka Ivan Vanko. A Russian scientist’s son who feels that his father’s contribution to Stark “repulsor” technology has gone unacknowledged, Whiplash’s vendetta is essentially one between his father and Tony’s father, now both dead. Nick Fury of S.H.I.E.L.D. informs Tony, however, that Anton Vanko was only out for material gain in arc reactor technology, unlike Howard Stark, hinting at the misdirection of technology solely for material gain. Whiplash, along with posing as a suitable science-villain foil to Tony’s expertise, has a greater function. He challenges Tony’s potential to become a tyrant. Should Tony choose to use his new technological advances to dominate society and amass selfish wealth alone, then he has failed as both a social hero and a burgeoning culture hero. Whiplash offers him the opportunity to face that reality and reject it. Whiplash uses technological expertise against Tony because he feels Tony has become a symbol of usurping power.

A combination of these two challenges, joined by a third, contributes to Tony’s final discovery of a new element and the recognition of his cultural potential. The third challenge Tony faces is impending death. Tony discovers through the second film that he is running on borrowed time. His initial power source, a “palladium core” replaced once in Iron Man 1, cannot function indefinitely without poisoning its human host. As J.A.R.V.I.S. puts it, “the device that is keeping you alive is also killing you.” Tony’s initial triumph over death in Iron Man 1 proves to be limited. The private tragedy of his descent contrasts with his bravado as a public playboy confronting the realities of his own mortality. While he struggles to come to terms with this personal reality, he faces the impediments of government and anarchic powers in the pursuit of his social hero role. The pursuit and conquest of death is a prime feature of the culture hero, but in Tony’s case, rather than posing as a final struggle, the struggle with death becomes central, an organizing factor around which cluster his other gathering conflicts.

The centrality of the conquest of death to Tony’s progress as culture hero takes the form of saving himself before he can aid others. Having conquered death in Afghanistan with Yinsen’s help, Tony, alone now, grapples with directing his energies toward self-salvation. Relieving himself of his position as C.E.O. of Stark Industries and deprived of his ability to function as the social hero Iron Man, Stark faces his darkest days. Alone with his secret, he returns to exploring his past via footage of his father discussing the original Stark Expo. It is significant that his eureka moment, realizing that the layout of the original expo encodes clues from his father on the construction of a new element, involves returning to the past, to his heritage and inherent potential, akin to the way in which Lugh’s knowledge of smithcraft and other family skills lead to his plans to take on the Fomorians. Tony essentially hears from his own father from beyond the grave in this decisive step. Howard Stark, via a home movie, informs Tony that “everything is achievable through technology” and that the pursuit of a new power source is the “key to the future,” something which can viably “change the world.” Nearing death himself and hearing from the dead, Tony completes his underworld journey.

Having walked a dark road, visibly represented by the darkly poisoned veining on his chest and neck, a road that passes through his personal Hades, Stark emerges with the clear blue light of pure energy in time to face the greatest dangers of his previous creation: the purely weaponized qualities of the Iron Man. Tony’s defensive role as a protector is still in place, just as Lugh’s performance at the Battle of Magh Tuireadh reconfirms his abilities as a social hero, but the seed of greater change has been retrieved from the underworld itself.

Tony’s discovery of a new element, aided by S.H.I.E.L.D. and his late father’s research, is the most distinct marker in the films of his viability as a culture hero. This new element functions as a clean power source, suggesting nearly limitless potential and application. His arc repulsor technology alone possessed possible social application; however, with the revelation that its function was flawed, or even dangerous, its value is questioned. Nick Fury informs Tony that his father, while pursuing arc reactor technology, saw it as a “stepping stone to something greater,” the beginning of an “energy race” he encourages Tony to pursue. When the palladium is replaced by a superior energy source, Tony stands once again in a position to enact major social change for society through the medium of technology. The development of a power source in particular compares well with the agrarian and provisioning nature of traditional culture heroes. Tony’s position as a guiding influence on power sources clarifies his vast potential as a modern culture hero.

The public good inherent in Tony’s invention is set in motion the day he chooses to become a social hero, but it is an organic process, only truly complete when he conquers his own death and refines the product that he can bring to the world. While Iron Man 2 does not take the viewer past the point of using the new energy in a protecting role, the signals are in place for Tony’s further development. More specifically, he models a relationship between humanity and technology that is no longer “poisoned” and prefigures a greater synergy as the man who has become a single identity with his suit, a biological entity with a technological reach. Not only is the newly discovered power source a potential gift to humanity, brought about through Tony’s versatility as a scientist, but his relationship to the power source reinforces the deweaponization of the Iron Man. Iron Man becomes a symbol of human potential, rather than purely one of military supremacy for his homeland.

The final scenes of Iron Man 2 are telling, confirming Tony’s rocky road through death toward a new beginning. Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., who had previously provided aid in keeping Tony’s old power source running long enough to forge a new one, now review him skeptically. Can such a man, once publically drunk and destructive in misusing technological supremacy, graduate to the level of advisor or even leader? A S.H.I.E.L.D. report finds him “compulsive” and “self-destructive,” but Tony argues for his own progress and the decisions that have led him in this direction. Renewed, re-powered, he wants to give back and is even contemplating working with others. S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t convinced, but Tony isn’t prepared to take “no” for an answer. He now fully knows his own potential and sees his abilities in a wider cultural perspective. His protector role will never wholly disappear, but his identity has grown to encompass vision for the future. He wishes to participate in establishing guiding institutions such as S.H.I.E.L.D. and the “Avengers Initiative.” There is a unique gathering of potential from his past stages of development into a specific, will-driven future.

Tony Spanakos analyzes the Tony Stark character as a kind of ruler and finds him, not surprisingly, lacking in the subtleties necessaryto be a leader of men (135). It is, however, as a craftsman that Tony succeeds in maintaining cultural impact. Since Tony’s wealthy background and vast potential accords with that of a ruler, he marshals significant economic and technical power in the future of warfare, whether or not he relishes the role. This elite status is typical of the initial phase of the culture hero who is associated with a kingly role long before he actually assumes one in the community. He weighs this background throughout his struggles with death and largely sheds its hedonistic qualities. Celebrity has been replaced by responsibility. He has moved from a national scandal to, in the words of Senator Stern, “a national treasure.”

Tony’s achievements and his responses in the face of extreme challenges are remarkable, enough to set him apart from ordinary human beings, and yet, unlike Lugh, he continues to reflect imperfection in personality and even in his actions. It is a paradox, one less pronounced in Lugh’s journey, for Tony to continue to possess some of the flaws associated with the lower-level social hero even while he ascends to culture hero status. Some of the factors behind this may be the fact that it is essential to the Stark character to remain as fully human as possible to remain a unique character within the Marvel Universe. He is not a god like Thor, or chemically transformed like Spider-Man, or a mutant like the X-Men; emphasizing his fallibility keeps him in touch with readers as a representative of the human race. Flaws help ground Stark’s personality, often painfully, even as his role skyrockets into mythological territory.

The Culture Hero and Technology

George Dunn observes that the essence of Stark’s technology lies in the potential that through access to it “in principle, anyone could become the Iron Man” (8). This suggests that the true impact of technology lies in its application. Tony Stark’s powers can operate effectively through proxies, indicating their potential for a communal role. It is this possibility which keeps Tony Stark on his toes trying to prevent technology theft or retro engineering, not only to protect his own interests, but to protect his community from a misuse of that power. As he says to J.A.R.V.I.S. in Iron Man 1, “I don’t want this winding up in the wrong hands. Maybe in mine it can actually do some good.” Once technology exists, appropriation is an ever-present concern for competing groups.

When Stan Lee created the Iron Man in a “modern suit of armor,” he created a division between the operative hero and the technology which powers him, a feature unusual among comic book superheroes at the time (Tales of Suspense #39). This difference was imaginatively stimulating both to Lee and to generations of comic fans to follow. This resulted in a hero who not only brings himself to the hero role, but something which can be extended to others, emphasizing both the hero’s own humanity and the breadth of human application possible. In the congressional hearing opening Iron Man 2, Tony emphasizes that he can’t “turn over” himself to the government, that he “and the suit are one,” an unprecedented union that opens possibilities for all, confirming and developing upon his initial statement in Iron Man 1, “I am Iron Man.” In Iron Man 1, Tony claims to have his eyes opened, stating, “I came to realize that I have more to offer this world than just making things blow up.” What he has to offer is the governance and guidance of technologies away from weapon-based application toward generative goals on behalf of his community.

Rocco Gangle points out that at this point, Tony moves beyond his own individual need to survive or profit, and makes a resolution to “live and act in an ethically responsible . . . way for the sake of others” (33). In simpler terms, he moves from a pursuit of private interest to public interest, a pattern essential to the final phases of the social hero role and an indicator of his movement toward the role of the culture hero.

For Tony to make his discoveries truly communal, capable of mass application, he has to admit what the technology has done for him, empowering his processes of self-transformation into a social hero and beyond. This “fusion” between Tony and his technology becomes the power source for the culture hero. Only when Tony Stark publically acknowledges this close and very personal relationship with the Iron Man role can he widely extend the benefit of this symbiosis to his culture and challenge the limited or negative relationships with technology currently in place. His poisonous first power source contrasts with the newly forged element, representing the pitfalls of technology he has personally overcome to bring a harmonic symbiosis to humanity. Matt Fraction and Salvador LaRocca’s comic series Invincible Iron Man: Stark Resilient have taken the elements of Tony’s struggle to apply technology for public good still further with the application of his “repulsor” technology to clean energy for cars, highlighting and confirming the culture hero potential latent in the Iron Man role.

Stark’s journey poses an interesting question about technology, however, as the tool of a culture hero. Lugh Lamfhada exercises transformative power over his world via technology and heralds a golden age for his people, but this is not the outcome yet, nor is it likely to be the outcome of Stark’s efforts. Does a modern audience expect limitations upon its culture hero, looking for a degree of “realism” in just how much technology can accomplish to improve human existence? While making sweeping changes to a recognizable way of life would challenge the audience’s suspension of disbelief—and do away with the dramatic necessity of conflict to assure the longevity of the stories concerned—it is more likely that Stark faces the limitations of operating within an established superhero universe. If Tony Stark were to set up a flawless utopia based on a perfectly balanced use of technology, what would be left for the other heroes of the Marvel Universe to accomplish? Long-running hero universes resist massive change in favor of continuity and a more organic development of new features over time, and for all his radical potential, Tony Stark operates within the rules of his own, limiting, mythological system.

Conclusion

Tony Stark is an unlikely culture hero. In a social milieu intrigued by superior wealth and celebrity lifestyle, however, Tony represents a natural object of fascination, and his achievements as a social hero only reinforce that fascination. Because his super-powers proceed from his own achievements, and in a sense “anyone” can wear the Iron Man suit, his role as a culture hero opens up the possibility that “anyone” might approach this road to social aid. This renders his narrative more participatory and involves the viewer in his ascent. His struggles are both personal and universal, with quantifiable social impact, a social impact desired by the viewer. As demonstrated, however, the degree of change he can enact does exist within the limitations of his modern day mythological system.

Tony is a part of his community in the same sense that Lugh belongs to his community whether as the subject of adulation or of desired leadership. Both are in a position to reconstruct their culture’s assumptions along beneficial lines during a time when the problems of society seem overwhelming. Both function as symbols of hope not just for the individual but also for a culture on the brink of dissolution and self-destruction. Both possess powers that may either “confer endless blessings” or destroy, but both navigate “restraints” to properly apply their skills in society (Fraser 244). As figures who save not only themselves but their people and usher in a superior way of life, Lugh and Stark represent the future itself and are capable of determining its direction.

These heroes, however, herald different versions of the future for their respective societies. As rulers, they operate through technological advancement in combination with wise governance, and in that vein Lugh is capable of wholesale transformation of his society’s way of life while Stark will face Marvel Universe–specific complications in prompting any speedy changes. It is clear that neither Lugh or Tony, however, could exist as culture heroes without the empowering role of technology. While Tony has put himself forward in an examplary relationship with deweaponized technology, it remains to be seen, for the viewer, whether Tony Stark is up to the challenge of envisioning his own ongoing potential as a culture hero. The unknown variable in Tony’s equally human and heroic journey continues to be, in an ironic turn of events for a speculative genius, a failure of imagination when it comes to his own capabilities.

Hannah Means-Shannon lives in New Jersey. A version of this essay was presented at ICFA 2011.

Works Cited

- Cross, Tom P., and Clark H. Slover. Ancient Irish Tales. Totowa, New Jersey: Barnes and Noble Books, 1969.

- Dunn, George A. “The Stark Madness of Technology.” Iron Man and Philosophy. Ed. Mark D. White. The Blackwell Philosophy and Pop Culture Series. New Jersey: John Wiley and Sons Inc., 2010.

- Fraction, Matt (w) and Salvador LaRocca (Ill.). Invincible Iron Man: Stark Resilient. New York: Marvel Comics, 2010.

- Gangle, Rocco. “The Technological Subversion of Technology.” Iron Man and Philosophy. Ed. Mark D. White. The Blackwell Philosophy and Pop Culture Series. Hoboken, New Jersey: John Wiley and Sons Inc., 2010.

- Gregory, Lady Augusta. Gods and Fighting Men. Guernsey: Colin Smythe Ltd., 1993.

- Iron Man. Dir. Jon Favreau. Screenplay by Mark Fergus et al. Perf. Robert Downey Jr., Terrance Howard, Jeff Bridges, and Gwyneth Paltrow. 2008. DVD. Paramount Pictures, 2008.

- Iron Man 2. Dir. Jon Favreau. Screenplay by Justin Theroux. Perf. Robert Downey Jr., Gwyneth Paltrow, Don Cheadle, Scarlet Johanssen, Sam Rockwell, Micky Rourke, and Samuel Jackson. 2010. DVD. Paramount Pictures and Marvel Entertainment 2010.

- Jung, Carl. Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious. Trans. R. F. C. Hull. Bollingen Series XX. Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press.

- Lee, Stan, and Larry Lieber (w), Don Heck and Jack Kirby (ill.). Tales of Suspense #39 (March 1963). Marvel Comics.

- Neumann, Erich. The Origins and History of Consciousness. Trans. R.F.C. Hull. Bollingen Series XLII. Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1993.

- Reese, Alwyn, and Brinley Reese. Celtic Heritage: Ancient Tradition in Ireland and Wales. New York: Thames and Hudson Inc., 1994.

- Sjoestedt, Marie-Louise. Gods and Heroes of the Celts. Tr. Miles Dillon. Berkeley, California: Turtle Island Foundation, 1982.

It Walks in Beauty: Selected Prose of Chandler Davis, edited and with an introduction by Josh Lukin

Seattle: Aqueduct Press, 2010; $21.00 tpb; 362 pages
reviewed by Mark Rich

These days few general readers know the Chandler Davis name. His main involvement in American popular fiction fell more than half a century ago; his nonfiction, while it includes works of more currency, has tended to appear in smaller-circulation or professional publications.

Davis in the 1940s and ’50s chose science fiction as a field of endeavor, although his contributions ended up being few enough to leave him largely unremembered in reference works. All the same, he occupied a place among the more politically conscious writers of science fiction in the troubled years after World War II. He pursued, too, mathematics and teaching and in the educational realm learned what others had learned earlier—that those “who advocated change and proposed to revise antiquated forms were called again and again ‘enemies of the University,’” in the words of Ortega y Gassett. After the Red Scare, Davis cut short his career at University of Michigan, opting to leave the United States and reestablish himself in Canada.

In recent years I encountered the “Chan Davis” name in connection to Milt Rothman and James Blish, two of his correspondents. When I was writing about Cyril Kornbluth, I imagined mine would be one of the few science fiction histories to spend much time on several interesting writers and enthusiasts who played parts in the earlier days of science fiction but who have been regarded as minor players and largely if not wholly forgotten. Those figures included two who went on to careers in the sciences: Jack Rubinson, known later as Jack Robins, and Rothman. Davis, as I had not known at the time, might have fallen within this group, although his involvement in science fiction circles began a bit later, for his mathematical interests led him to identify himself with the sciences. Did he contribute substantially to science fiction? With this volume we may begin answering that for ourselves.

Davis has strengths as a writer, foremost his adherence to his sense of conscience, an adherence that has made not just his writings but his life notable. Related to this, he views his world in political terms and sees the political as his worthiest subject, and he embraces his own experiences as part of the political sphere worthy of attention. Although Davis’s writings reflect his engagement with the situations of others, he brings his own situation and story to the table without distracting himself from that outward focus. The care he displays in maintaining this balance and in explaining his perspective helps keep him from the strident buzzing of the preacher or the dry rattle of the summer-insect pedant. His voice carries quietly and reasonably but earnestly; these qualities lend his nonfiction a continuing freshness.

The Red Scare, the firing of professors, the insults to individuals who express social responsibility in unfashionable ways . . . yes, we know about these matters, to one degree or another; and we could ignore them, yes? Fortunately, we do not, thanks to spirits such as his.

Davis’s forthright honesty, unembarrassed self-assessment, and enthusiasm for the truth animate pages 52–119 of this book, where a miscellany of provocative articles appear. They relate in part to Davis’s experience with the House Un-American Activities Committee, the house in which so many Americans lived that it seems strange Congress felt so strongly about that “Un-.” Davis argues effectively that what the censored and expelled educators lost may matter less than society’s loss of its elements of dissent.

Many of Davis’s writings prompt the happy response of “Go, Brother!”—his effectiveness lies in the fact that he can present a specific wrong or specific incident and make it universal to the degree that it can sustain a short article or a letter written in response to another writer the reader has likely never heard of and never will again. It prompts this response, for Davis engages in the Good Fight (or one we are willing to grant Goodness) for the length of an essay. His opponents to some degree fade in significance, for what we are reading here are words of a spirit, a conscience, not words that exist only because the opponent exists. We are reading words that have not been shrunken and desiccated by his experiences with the HUAC hunt and expulsion, nor by his chosen life-environment of academia, which has had the effect of making some intelligent writers express themselves impenetrably.

Davis would seem an ideal professional educator, for his expert knowledge qualifies him to teach, and his conscience makes him lean toward social engagement not only within his academic community but within general society. He can speak as a qualified individual before his colleagues and as a university-dignified and popular culture–enriched figure outside it. The ease with which he expresses his thoughts suggests a confidence born of actually having listeners, a situation not always true of professors. Some experts so enjoy the prestige bestowed by their profession that they need hypertrophied, intellectual adornments in their speech and in their writing, the way the military general needs his ribbons and badges even when speaking to civilians.

I find it particularly remarkable that when addressing colleagues at a meeting of the American Association for the Advancement of Science, as Davis does in a speech included in this volume, he speaks of events that occurred in his country of birth, of ethical concepts, of emotion, of life choices; and he does so with candor and simplicity, recognizing that his audience members are human beings first and members of scientific professions second.

The nonfiction in It Walks in Beauty seems particularly important for the mosaic portrait it presents of the Red Scare years, as seen by one who was not one of the scared but the hunted. Davis points out that U. S. universities have never made amends for their missteps and mistakes of the 1950s, and that they failed and apparently still fail to realize what they did to the spirit of dissent while supposedly standing stalwartly as bastions of free learning and intellectual exploration. Davis feels “the loss of a healthy heresy is much more serious than the loss of so many individual scholars.” The scholars who were “accurately accused of the heresy of Leftism,” once removed from the education system, could make none of the intellectual contributions that might have been theirs to make, and they could exert no direct influence upon the new generations of students, whose prospect for a complete education would seem to have been compromised by administrative fiat in the Truman and Eisenhower years. At one point, Davis writes that the now-exiled teachers “were accused of influencing students. A shocking thought!”

Davis addressed the following remarks, written in 1959 and first published in 1960, toward U. S. universities:

For our own sake, for the universities’ sake, you must face what happened. More than you need the exiles in particular, you need dissent in general, a profusion of ideas richer than you have seen before. You must welcome dissent; you must welcome serious, systematic, proselytizing dissent—not only the playful, the fitful, or the eclectic; you must value it enough . . . to refuse to have it torn from you by outsiders. You must welcome dissent, not in a whisper when alone, but publicly so potential dissenters can hear you.

What potential dissenters see now is that you accept an academic world from which we are excluded for our thoughts. This is a manifest signpost over all your arches, telling them: Think at your peril. You must not let it stand.

Davis, in his post–U. S. career as a mathematician, hoped to avoid taking work with military applications. His perceptions about the ill possibility of doing so shed light on an unstated relationship between the U. S. military and the purging of the country’s universities. Had the Left been allowed to remain, and had it exerted a continuing influence on public thought and public decision-making, a stronger cultural response might have remained possible against the industrialist and militarist juggernaut, the immensely powerful megamachine of whose existence social critic Lewis Mumford had been trying to warn the educated public, over the course of decades.

Davis and others received no invitation back. Universities seemingly made no effort to repudiate their mistakes, and the inescapable thought is that we will never know what U. S. culture lost as a result of these acts by its universities. Cultural acceptance of military influence seems to have become a given after the expulsion of the old Left, for the universities, by participating in the Scare, showed they favored their feelings, whatever those feelings might have been, patriotic or simply frightened and cowed, and not their thoughts, even though they were institutions dedicated, we might suppose, to the cultivation of those thoughts.

For me the sign that the universities had made a conscious decision to cut off the past humanistic heritage of U. S. college and university education appears in a fact Davis records. In 1953 the Association of American Universities decided “that Communists must be eliminated.” Given events of previous decades the “Communists,” of course, were being heralded with a fanfare that resounded with red-devilishness, so that the public heard not only the gun salutes and air-raid sirens of militarism but the sounds of eastern-hemisphere governments shattering and toppling. Yet in the U. S. intellectual tradition, a tradition apparently not seen worthy of guardianship by this country’s learned institutions, ideas of communism and humanism were often seen as coming toward us out of the past hand-in-hand. In 1910, for instance, Wellesley College professor of economics and sociology Katharine Coman identified the arrival of “communist” Robert Owen to these shores in 1825 as the point when the “Humanistic movement” began in this country, a movement having not only long-term implications but, from our present vantage point, permanent ones. Despite Owen being in practical terms a failure in the establishment of idealistic communities, he was an unquestioned success in teaching us the idealistic antiphonal questions and responses that led U. S. citizens to actually attempt social revolution in a positive direction on a small scale, time and again. His ideas nourish the thinkings that continue to underlie our society, including the university system that sprang into being later in that century. Even if an 1825 “communist” visitor from England and the “Communist Party” might have had only weak ties to one another, although this seems not at all certain, U. S. universities clearly were not cleansing themselves solely of members of the Communist Party; in its self-purging, the Association of American Universities was dedicating itself to digging the sand out from under its own foundation stones.

At the time of the purge, that wonderfully inclusive category of educational pursuit, the “Humanities,” would seem to have suffered a painful contraction or perhaps an alcoholic pickling prior to scientific preservation in a jar.

The Star System

Davis’s essays, letters, and talks share a quality of personal engagement, a quality he is able to introduce without seeming self-serving and without sounding like a martyr lamenting, and this makes them attractive to the reader. Davis experienced and survived his exile with his humanistic balance intact if not strengthened. As he observes, “The experience of marginality is good for the soul and better for the intellect.” He seems to have started into these life-changing events with an internal voice of conviction—a youthful conviction, given the timing of events—that vibrated in tune with his true conscience, enough so that the voice of the latter could assert itself and offer it consolations in his maturity.

Davis’s fiction, in contrast, lacks this element of personal engagement. I suspect that Davis wrote too few pieces of fiction to begin feeling the tidal pull that one’s own personality can exert in made-up narrative, even when the fiction is not autobiographical; and I suspect he never learned the sense that the page can draw out and then contain a vitality that has little to do with sentence construction and rigor of thinking and much to do with the irrepressible soul and its need for outward-directed expression. Those who begin plumbing their own selves through their fiction find it a difficult form to give up once they have found it, but Davis felt at ease with his decision not to remain a science-fiction writer. Though his writings had enjoyed some success, he felt willing to end them.

All the same, Davis’s fiction does have that clarity and directness that helps make his nonfiction effective, and it shares the same philosophic stance, influenced by humanist and communist thinking. Had Davis decided to continue as a science fiction writer, he might well have thrived over the long run. He felt an admirable allegiance to what he felt was his calling in mathematics and teaching and came under question for his loyalties as a consequence. But had his soul yearned above all for expression through fiction, his interest in a pulp genre might well have yielded him a career, and he might have evaded questioning, imprisonment, and exile. Two whose influence in science fiction became prominent in the 1960s and ’70s, Donald A. Wollheim and Frederik Pohl, emerged from the same Communist Party background Davis did, albeit slightly earlier, and they may well have helped boost him to success. Since Pohl did serve as his agent for a time and then editor, that association had already begun. Interestingly, Davis did establish close ties to second-generation members of the Futurian Literary Society of New York, including Judith Merril, Virginia Kidd, and James Blish, all of whom felt various Leftist leanings, although he did so after the split that ended the Futurians as a formal group. As a result he likely had little or no interaction with Johnny Michel, who had sided with Wollheim in their feud with Judy Merril. With Michel, Davis might have found much in common.

What does give full weight to the fiction portion of this volume, which includes five stories out of the perhaps dozen he published, is the title story, which first appeared in its original form in 2003 in Ellen Datlow’s online magazine Scifiction, thanks to Josh Lukin’s vigilance and efforts, and which here finds its first print publication. Explaining this odd situation Lukin notes,

“It Walks in Beauty” was written, under the title “The Star System,” in 1954. A substantially different version, under the current title, was published in Star Science Fiction, in January 1958; editor Frederik Pohl, without telling Davis, dramatically altered the story, changing its humane tone to one of misanthropic irony.

The original version of this story carries itself well. If not of masterwork status it ranks as notable, for it imagines a future Western society that recognizes the pronouns “she” and “it” for women, with the “she” being applied to stage-elevated and conventionally hyper-sexualized women, and the “it” being applied to career-oriented and, to our eyes, more socially normal women. On the other hand, the story presents men as being of a single, fairly adolescent type. These men do have some instinctive sympathy remaining in their heavily conditioned brains for the “it” women, although their cerebrums seem incapacitated by the “she” variety. As a critical expression of the human soul subjected to top-down imposed social roles, the story has distinct value: for even if it renders its male characters as imbeciles, it does offer the split between socially acceptable female types as a conundrum of a certain complexity. During the story’s unfolding the dichotomy creates appealing effects, as in the following exchange. Paula, not present in this passage, is the “it,” while Max, the first speaker, is the sympathetic male character.

“Paula’s always been very decent to me, and I think it’s a nice girl, that’s all.”

Something else for Jim to pounce on. “‘Nice girl’? It’s grown up now! It’s not a little girl any more, it’s a full-grown career.”

Max knew the career girls themselves didn’t like to be called simply “careers,” but he accommodated. He went back to, “It’s a nice guy.”

Besides the adolescent behavior of the males, an element compromising the story’s power appears in the scene when Paula, the “it,” tries to impress Max, to win his love, an emotion that for him ranks above any other. Paula takes on the trappings and stage allurements of a “she,” since the role of the “she” had been open to “it” earlier in Paula’s life, although eventually rejected, making her an “it.”

This role-playing dichotomy has some degree of the arbitrary about it, since it offers only the polar opposites of sex dancers and “guy”-dressing “career girls.” That very artificiality, however, works in the story’s favor: for these extremes help move the story beyond false realism and into symbolism. The interlocked trio of He, She, and It become the true, composite central character of the tale. The story succeeds as well as it does, in fact, because of this symbolic presence. Davis’s language lacks any particularly evocative power, since the poetic seems not to be a literary mode that comes readily to his pen; and the chronological story movement comes across with some flatness and dullness—impressions that are not necessarily out of place, this being a flat and dull society that Davis offers. Even so, the lack of narrative flair would have rendered “It Walks in Beauty” unmemorable were it not for the presence of the He-She-It trio.

Davis’s story might have been well served by having had its original title, “The Star System,” restored, even if that name might be less poetic than the published one. “It Walks in Beauty” plays on a famous Byron title; and, nicely, its “It” suggests the objectification of the female in a society dominated by mechanical operations. All the same, this change may well have been as cynical as were others made to the story. Davis’s original title had specific relevance, suggesting Hollywood and the fabrication of images that stood in for human ideals. The story itself offers the reader the mass-market transformation of the female into sexual commodity through the manufacture of desirability. The story’s male protagonist reacts to a noncommodity “it” as an unconventional attraction in his life but not as a provocation that might cause him to alter his attitudes and emerge, as in Byronesque Romanticism, as the transformed individual whose consciousness transcends society. “The Star System,” moreover, may have had a minor association with Davis’s friends Merril and Kornbluth, whom he admired: for the Kornbluth-Merril novel Gunner Cade features a political system of “Stars” as well as a woman who appears in dichotomous guises. The strongest argument in the original title’s favor, however, remains its pertinency.

Another short story, “Adrift on the Policy Level,” has for its central symbolic presence “The Corporation.” The protagonist, a man of science, and his sidekick, a salesman, attempt to climb upward through its levels to convince its leaders about a particularly worrisome danger; this climbing serves as the story’s action. The chronological movement has brightenings in character sketches and in its ending with a woman executive’s performance, when she performs the “brushoff” that ends the duo’s hopes and ambitions. Again the story gains strength from its central symbol of this society’s monolithic and centralized power. While this symbolic presence had no particular freshness even in the 1950s, it serves its function adequately even now.

The ascendance of Davis’s political vision and the absence or eclipse of his personal experience may account for the inconsequential men that appear often in these stories: for the political vision and the communal wisdom implicit in it, may stand in for any expression of mature male experience through the fictional male characters themselves. In contrast, Davis seems to let his expressions of female experience arise more naturally from within his fictional women characters.

Davis’s most complex work, “The Names of Yanils,” offers a pseudo-anthropological vision, not science fictional in its nature, describing events in a society that holds tenaciously to its symbolic rituals albeit with some changes to meet changing circumstances. The society suffers a severe setback when an incident out of its control or even purview alters its living environment. Later it feels rewarded for its conservative retention of symbolic practices when another incident, again outside control or purview, restores prior conditions.

The events and interpersonal relationships have interest even if set out in dry explanatory prose. The story reflects a maturity marked by the letting-go of the practice Davis employed in earlier stories: here he relaxes his political grip. In having the story’s problem and resolution take the nature of coincidence, however, it seems a measure of objectivity has replaced the prior intentional impulse. While Davis’s most fully realized of the five here, “The Star System”/“It Walks in Beauty” and “Adrift at the Policy Level” remain more compelling. Another later story, “Hexamnion,” may have given further example of new development in Davis’s fiction but is left out of this collection.

As I noted above, Davis might have found his audience over time had his muse called him first to fiction and not mathematics. His humanistic sensibility would have won him sympathetic readings. He seems to have been outgrowing the tendency, moreover, to put in the fictional foreground men less balanced in their maturity than he himself seems to have been as a writer.

This book accomplishes its mission of reintroducing Davis as a writer worth preserving, particularly with its last offerings: the speech “‘Shooting Rats in a Barrel’: Did the Red-Hunt Win?” and the excellent, lengthy interview conducted by Josh Lukin. These offer the reader a biographical picture of Davis within which both political activism and writings begin to have their natural places alongside one another.

I find it telling, by the way, that at one point in the interview Davis spontaneously refers to “The Star System” by that name.

Framing Material

The openness and directness of Davis’s expression bear emphasis as being characteristic because this volume gives quite the opposite impression, initially. While the back cover gives an open and direct response from Eleanor Arnason that begins, “This is a terrific book. I can’t remember the last time I have seen fiction, especially science fiction, put so richly in context,” the reader finds that the context emerges from within the university; that sense of intellectual privilege overwhelms the sense of the words, at least for so average a reader as I am. Those of us outside the university, whether or not we feel as strongly as did Edmund Wilson about its obfuscations and aridities, find ourselves sooner or later in these pages being talked past.

When Aqueduct’s L. Timmel Duchamp handed me this book as a potential item for review, I was deluged in reading for the World Fantasy Award, yet I truly hoped to do some constructive work and thought I was being handed a fine opportunity. I began reading it that evening. While reading the introduction, I began wondering why Timmi thought this book would be for me. For if these matters were what the book was about, I lacked interest. I set it aside. Soon I picked it up again with a feeling of hope and again set it aside. At some point, since a deluge of books was arriving at my doorstep, the volume disappeared from sight. I found it not quite three years later. My reading habits had changed in the meantime: often these days I skip introductions and proceed to the book itself. If I already plan to read a book, I would rather avoid being influenced or put off or even bored by an introduction or on the other hand being instructed or enriched, for many introductions, if good ones, make as much or more sense when read afterwards. I remember coming across Judy Merril’s statement in an introduction that she never read introductions, which at the time struck me as a little arbitrary but now as merely sensible.

This time I read the book with enjoyment, although I bogged down in an explanatory article by the editor between the nonfiction and fiction sections then at the afterword, also by Lukin although not marked as such on the contents page. In both of these pieces, I had the same experience of having words go past me. At the end, I went back to the introduction, expecting to find the going easier for having read, enjoyed, and thought about the book. After several attempts, however, I gave it up. After writing and revising this essay I made the attempt one last time, and forced myself to within a few pages of the introduction’s end.

Strangely, the editor offers a perfectly wonderful introduction late in the book: “‘Trying To Say Something True’: The Paradoxa Interview with Chandler Davis.” Lukin also precedes each of Davis’s offerings with brief introductory paragraphs that I found invariably clear, interesting, and useful. These makes me think Lukin felt the need to take a particular rhetorical stance in these three pieces at beginning, middle, and end. Whatever stance that might be, it has the effect of shutting away the very items the book aims to rescue from oblivion, for they seem to relegate them to academia. Lukin himself notes “the anti-elitist position, explicitly in most of Chandler Davis’s stories,” yet dusts them with dry showers of academic jargon.

Lukin does note that this volume is the first by a male writer to appear in the Aqueduct line, a fact that understandably must have put him on the defensive. He does, indeed, spend the many pages of the introduction justifying Davis as someone congenial to and conversant with feminist notions. My reaction may arise simply because I am not the intended audience, being more a general humanist who does not presume, as a man, to truly understand feminism, for while I may be congenial, and somewhat conversant, I am a him. I suspect, too, that the introduction stagnates and stultifies because Lukin is belaboring points that hardly need stating at all, given Davis’s own words, and Lukin, subconsciously recognizing this, substitutes gray, academic, paper foliage for the sparser verbiage of necessity. A few notes added to his lucid introduction to the interview would have covered the points he covers here, and that wonderful interview itself would have served as the perfect introitus to the quite interesting book that it is.

Take lines such as this one: “I propose that one might distinguish the two forms of legitimation in part by the tone used by their victims: universalization is more often expressed in a rational or cognitive register, while naturalization has a more emotional or affective thrust in its expression.” While I think I understand it, I would rather not. It seems designed to alienate me, the reader. And to what purpose?

Today, in pushing through the introduction one last time, I found myself thinking, “I obviously do not want to read this book,” even though I had already done so and with pleasure. I find this a sad reaction, especially since Lukin elsewhere proves himself able to write to the point with the clarity and directness Davis plainly prizes highly.

A few notes about the physical book itself, which is agreeable to behold and hold. The format is 5 by 7.5 inches; the paper, cream; the cover, a coated flexible stock. Australian writer and artist Anna Tambour created the cover illustration, which I find delightful, as I do the overall cover design. The price is low enough to be afforded, so you should. It will grace your shelves unlike the many current books that so lack in that obsolescent virtue.

Mark Rich lives in Cashton, Wisconsin.

An Exile on Planet Earth by Brian Aldiss

Oxford: The Bodleian Library, 2012; £19.99/$35.00 hc; 179 pages
reviewed by Darrell Schweitzer

You get the impression that maybe top science fiction writers are taken a little more seriously in Britain. Not only has Brian Aldiss been awarded the Order of the British Empire, but, to celebrate the installation of the main archive of his papers in the prestigious Bodleian Library, this book of his essays has been published. The jacket blurb for once has a right to say (as if to disarm any skepticism on the part of the potential buyer) that Aldiss “cannot be pigeon-holed as a science fiction writer” because that is certainly true. He has also written other forms of fiction and verse and much nonfiction; but there is no attempt here to deny that he actually does write science fiction. Coming from such a major academic institution, that’s remarkably liberal-minded, which brings one back to the idea that maybe top sf writers are taken more seriously in Britain. There is a tradition of that, after all, going back to H. G. Wells, which American sf, looking back to Edgar Rice Burroughs and Hugo Gernsback, seems to lack. (Aldiss’s mainstream novels such as The Hand-Reared Boy are much better known in the UK than in the US; there may well be a few English readers who are barely aware of Aldiss’s sf work.)

Aldiss the essayist is, first and foremost, an agreeable companion. We’ve seen this in his previous such collections as far back as The Shape of Further Things (1970). His essays are not self-consciously literary, the way that, say, James Branch Cabell’s were. They are direct, lucid, and always interesting like good conversation, which is what essays should be. Once Aldiss has your attention, he can talk about anything.

In the present collection, there is a good deal of autobiography, although autobiography broadens out into more general ideas. The first item, “Metaphysical Realism,” is about how the writer uses elements of autobiography to create some broader metaphor in fiction. Thus he wrote Greybeard to express his grief when his first marriage broke up and he lost custody of his children. Of his Report on Probability A, a novel in which, ostensibly, nothing happens, he remarks, “I spiked the narrative with my personal hatred of the way my father spied on me when I was a small boy.” But of course such subtextual meanings don’t necessarily come from the writer’s life only. Aldiss discovered that his novel Nonstop (a generation ship story, in which the characters are shut off from the larger universe) was enormously popular in Poland. Why? Because Polish readers saw it as a coded metaphor for the Communist system in which they were imprisoned.

The essays “Paradise Square” and “Hothouse” are also about Aldiss’s early life and struggles with poverty and how these shaped his work. He drops names justifiably. He became friendly with C. S. Lewis, who passed a copy of Hothouse (the novel) on to his friend Tolkien who read it twice and wrote to Aldiss twice to tell him so. What writer could resist mentioning that? Ironically, though, it is precisely in relation to Tolkien that Aldiss makes you want to break in and politely argue with him. He is repeating a commonplace, that fantasy, as opposed to science fiction, is inherently conservative:

A fantasy story—J. R. R. Tolkien provides an example always to hand—tends to end happily with evil defeated and the world going back to the way it used to be. A conservative ending.

In a really good sf story . . . the world is changed. Evil may be repulsed, but the world can never return to what it was before. . . . A revolutionary ending. (90)

The problem is this isn’t even a good description of Tolkien. Surely The Lord of The Rings gains much of its emotional power from the sadness at the end, that the age of the elves and wizards is coming to a close, the magic is going away, that Frodo can no longer fit back into the world he has saved—he can only write his memoirs and depart forever. John Clute calls this “thinning,” and it has been a standard part of fantasy since well before Tolkien. Even in Dunsany’s The King of Elfland’s Daughter, where magic does indeed seem to triumph, it does so precariously since the King of Elfland has expended the last of his great runes to achieve this end. Maybe the more valid distinction is that in fantasy, the changed world is as often as not viewed as one which has lost something. The vanished world past is like a childhood you can never go back to. Science fiction doesn’t always regard such change with melancholy. Maybe fantasy is more conservative, then, but it’s a kind of conservatism that has learned to let go.

As for his ideas about science fiction, Aldiss is quoted by Alan Yentob in the introduction as saying, “When I first sort of joined the science fiction club, people were claiming that it saw the future and was prophetic. I don’t think that is the case at all. It’s actually an analogy for something that is already happening” (xi). That would lead one to satire, and of course Aldiss has written satire, but he also finds something else in “Metaphysical Realism”:

As Charles Darwin looked at things and saw them as they really are, so was I now looking clearly at things within myself, hidden from myself. I had known they were lurking there, indeed, used them to empower my fiction, yet had never perceived them clearly: they were the smoke, not the bonfire. Is not one function of metaphysics to uncover what is ultimately real, even if one moves into the future to wrestle with it? Is not science fiction ideal for this purpose? (7)

Elsewhere in the book, Aldiss ranges far and wide. He expresses admiration for the 1964 film Zulu, then goes on to tell how director Cy Endfield wanted him to write a science fiction film, which was never made. He shows that he too, as much as any fantasy writer, can express elegiac regret for a beautiful and fading world as he describes “A Sight of Serbian Churches” and tells of the year he spent in the former Yugoslavia researching the travel book, Cities and Stones (1966). He also makes his way to Turkmenistan, having first set parts of Somewhere East of Life there before he actually visited it.

There are book introductions: to The Penguin Science Fiction Omnibus, which we might expect, and The Gulag Archipelago, which we might not, though it is a sign of Aldiss’s status as a writer, not just a science fiction writer, that he would be asked to write such a piece. He also has a long essay on The War of the Worlds and its continuing meaning, one of the best studies ever of why the best of Wells has not and likely never will date into a mere curiosity. “Meeting Thomas Hardy” enables Aldiss to conduct a brief interview with one of his favorite writers, from whom he learned a great deal. Curiously, he makes Hardy out to be a less eccentric version of H. P. Lovecraft, gazing into the cosmic abyss with disquiet, abreast with the scientific developments of his time, while finding solace in beautiful old traditions (including religious traditions) in which he does not actually believe. The book ends with an afterword about “The Other Hemisphere” of graphic arts (Aldiss does some abstract art himself) and his garden as both metaphor and a source of tranquility.

We’re left with the feeling of having shared a series of intriguing and charming conversations with a very interesting man. This isn’t an autobiography—he has written that, The Twinkling of an Eye: My Life as an Englishman (1999)—but he’s very much present in this book, too. Certainly any and all of his many admirers will want to read this.

Darrell Schweitzer lives in Philadelphia. He interviewed Brian Aldiss once, in 1975.

Maverick Genius: The Pioneering Odyssey of Freeman Dyson by Phillip Schewe

New York: Thomas Dunne/St Martin’s Press, 2013; $27.99 hc; 352 pages
reviewed by Gregory Benford

I have known Freeman Dyson since 1963, yet this first biography of him told me much I did not know. Philip Schewe builds his structure around stories, highlighting Dyson’s use of stories to illuminate ideas. It divides his life into eras that manifest aspects of his mind: Dyson as mathematician, as seminarian, as artist, and others. This works very well and gives the book flow.

Dyson expected to die in World War II, and his experience analyzing the Allies’ bombing campaign shaped his concern with nuclear warfare later. Even then he did not fit with the conventional wisdom, urging that the USA accept the Soviet’s “defense-by-bluff” strategy which might have led to fewer missiles being built. He was ignored by the defense intellectuals, remarking, “I always feel uneasy if I have to join a majority.” He was skeptical of bureaucracies, especially secret ones: “secrecy hides failure and exaggerates success.”

Often Dyson, like Emerson, reconciles “knowledge brought by science with the knowledge rendered by art, history, philosophy, and religion”—so Dyson is a transcendentalist, an old American view. He seeks not “religious experience . . . but spiritual experience.” He dislikes the “smugness of science and its exclusive reliance on a materialist viewpoint.” This gives him a wide range of reactions to life’s buffeting. Schewe foregrounds a Dyson epiphany—of natural beauty while lying in bushes after his mugging on the way to a National Academy meeting—to show that “Dyson was good at that, at spotting the secret signature of things.”

Dyson has remarked, “Science is my territory, but science fiction is the landscape of my dreams.” Indeed, many of his ideas such as Dyson spheres have inspired much sf. Yet he also feels that “The purpose of thinking about the future is not to predict it but to raise people’s hopes.”

Dyson “loves complexity and diversity and mystery,” so it is ironic that his greatest professional achievement is unifying quantum electrodynamics. Dyson came to fame by proving that three rival formulations of QED that looked very different were, indeed, one and the same. “Dyson felt that he stood in relation to Feynman as the playwright Ben Johnson had been to William Shakespeare.” He dealt with his exclusion from the Nobel for the theory by saying it was “better to be asked why you didn’t win the Nobel than to be asked why you did.”

Schewe’s often stylishly vivid writing gives a sense of the excitement Dyson feels for science and its myriad consequences. The sheer range of his interests and accomplishments is striking, as is his abiding concern for humanity. “He wants to bring profitable industry to small towns, not in . . . heavy machines and energy-intensive factories, but . . . small scale.”

Ever interested in the practical, Dyson sought out clearly defined problems and solved them, designing the fail-safe TRIGA nuclear reactor and the interplanetary Orion craft that rode on the shock waves of nuclear charges. But he didn’t want to rise in powerful circles; he wanted to do problems, not policy. He feels that “science lurches forward when imaginative people offer disturbing ideas to explain puzzling observations” and prefers exploration of the new to persuading higher-ups. Dyson says he “dabbles” in many fields, and such dabblings often carry the striking originality of genius.

Perhaps Dyson’s greatest public impact stems from his portraying how science thinks about the world. He has appeared in journals as distant as Reviews of Modern Physics and The New Yorker. “A physicist builds theories with mathematical materials because the mathematics enables him to imagine more than he can clearly think.” He believes the artistic aspects of science matter and can reassure the public of its essential nature. “A poem and a geometrical theorem last forever. Science is different. It is necessarily provisional.” (I might add music to that eternal company.) At their best, “art enchants . . . science enlightens.” The details of science matter little; what affects people is grasping its world view, quoting his mother: “Education is what is left over after you have forgotten everything you ever learned.”

Many see him as the ultimate polymath. Dyson feels the carbon problem has “more to do with soil management than with atmospheric mitigation,” a view that brought down a chorus of scorn which he largely ignored. As Schewe remarks, “Remaking nature is exactly what the human species has been doing since the advent of agriculture 12,000 years ago, Dyson insists.”

Some see him as a meta-scientist. As with his invention of Dyson spheres, he thinks long and large. He believes extending our civilization into the solar system, with its vast resources, combined with ambitious biotechnology, will increase liberty and prosperity: “When desires for different ways of living can be translated into reality, the diversity of desires will be transformed into a diversity of species.” Schewe comments, “Not only is one Earth not enough, but apparently one human species is not enough.”

“He liked looking for the point of things,” not a common scientific habit. Dyson thinks cosmological scales demand philosophical reflection: “. . . the architecture of the universe is consistent with the hypothesis that mind plays an essential role in its functioning.” In this he crossed swords with Stephen Weinberg, remarking, “It would not be surprising that it should turn out that the origin and destiny of the energy in the universe cannot be completely understood in isolation from the phenomena of life and consciousness.” Dyson’s way of seeing religion is to “imagine a God who is not omniscient but who learns as he goes along, just as we humans do.” Weinberg concluded that the universe seems pointless, but Dyson believes life gives the universe a point, in a way: “Mind has waited for 3 billion years on this planet before composing its first string quartet. It may have to wait for another 3 billion years before it spreads all over the galaxy.”

He is not a polyanna. Like Olaf Stapledon, he finds much in our universe majestic yet awful, the ultimate theological problem of evil. Dyson often reaches into literature to show issues in the sciences. He noted that in Star Maker Stapledon, like Dante, offers an inferno (long cycles of warfare in so many worlds), a purgatorio (worlds putting aside their feuds), and a paradiso (meeting the awesome deity).

Dyson ranks the importance in his life of, in order, family, friends, then work. The personal is his ultimate shelter, as Schewe shows through much background on Dyson’s family life. This rounds out a fine biography, whose strategies other biographers of scientists should study.

Gregory Benford lives in Irvine, California.

The Empire Shotz Back: Six Plays
produced by Amios at Under Saint Mark’s, New York City
reviewed by Jen Gunnels

Nick Abeel, Erin Mallon & Kristy Powers; photo by Jason Russo (HeyMrJason Photography)

When the lights went up on a scene with Kermit the Frog, Princess Leia, and Walt Disney, I knew I was involved in something special. Now, granted this wasn’t the first play of the night—it was the last—but it pulled me back to being a graduate student in directing and the reasons I love what I do.

Every first Monday of the month, a group of extremely talented people create Shotz, a sequence of new ten-minute plays written around a theme. For a pittance ($10), you walk into the amiable madhouse that is Under Saint Mark’s, are handed a beer (yup, you get a beer with your ticket), and get to watch an amazing night of performances. The evening I attended was entitled The Empire Shotz Back, and yes, it involved Star Wars. The entire evening was made of an off-the-cuff virtuosity that one only gets from talented, driven artists who are so good at what they do that they don’t need to take everything seriously. The plays were clever, biting, and filled with references that make an audience feel smart, and the actors were dedicated and quick on their feet. The environment and material were the sorts of things artists live for, and this translated into an amazing experience for the audience.

Shotz is put together by Amios, a collective of artists founded in 2009 by alumni of the National Theatre Conservatory. They are dedicated to collaborative ensemble work, and Shotz keeps the creative muscle in shape. Six groups are given two weeks to write, two weeks to rehearse, two hours to tech, and two performances for new short plays. These plays have a common set of criteria to unify their different takes on the subject. This type of format is just one short step up from all-out improvisation. This month’s criteria were: 1) two characters had to find out that they were related, 2) the line “I’ve got a bad feeling about this” had to be included, and 3) at least one character had to use the Force. There are no sets, minimal costumes and props, and little in the way of lighting and sound effects. The focus is very much on the writing, acting, and directing. That isn’t to say that there’s not a bit of fun in there when the actors make their own lightsaber noises, but it’s in keeping with the scripts and the nature of the evening’s offerings.

To put this into perspective, these are artistic exercises akin to literary writing exercises. The process is meant to stretch and develop creative and artistic ability, the difference being the collaborative nature of theatre as an art form. It isn’t enough for it to be a writing exercise. Theatre is only fully realized through performance, thus the absolute necessity of involving actors and directors. Unfortunately, audiences are not always treated to these experimental exercises, and they should be. Often when these are opened to the public, those who attend are a group of individuals highly educated in how to be an audience. The resulting feedback loop between knowledgeable performers and knowledgeable audience makes for a quite different and intimate experience from your average night of theatre.

“Written in the Stars” written by Kathleen Wallace, directed by Matthew Ellis Murphy, featuring Nick Abeel, Erin Mallon, and Kristy Powers.

This delightful little piece is told from the perspective of Old Erin (Erin Mallon) who attended her first comic con back in 1978, inspired by the independence and strength of Princess Leia. Her experience is one of sexism, but in the midst of the disappointment and anger, her younger self (Kristy Powers) is rescued by a young college student, Nick (Nick Abeel), dressed as Luke Skywalker. They stay in touch and eventually marry, but changing their cosplay to Leia and Han, towing along their young daughter dressed as an Ewok. The use of lines from the various films and clever pop references (she liked Leia because she wasn’t some tarted-up princess in a skimpy outfit) made this fun to watch. The acting, especially the outrage of Powers and gentle solicitousness of Abeel, gave spark and life to characters who could have easily fallen into stereotypes.

“The Truth About Michael and Clare” written by Chris Mazza, directed by Lori Wolter Hudson, featuring Franny Civitano, Katie Fabel, and Zac Hoogendyk.

In this humorous look at the Disney acquisition of the Star Wars franchise, two strangers, Michael and Clare (Zac Hoogendyk and Franny Civitano), with no experience, make pitches for new Star Wars films to a supervising Disney executive, Regina (Katie Fabel). Regina coerces them to behave through a demonstration of the Force (now the exclusive right of Disney corp.), but Clare manages to tap into it and learn the truth of her relationship with Michael—they are two of the scores of bastard children left by George Lucas. Fabel’s Regina was wonderful in her no-nonsense approach and completely straight-faced delivery.

“Dude” written by Mark Snyder, directed by Kristin Parker, featuring Tom Coiner, Leigh Williams, and Alanna Wilson.

The play opens on a room where Larry (Tom Coiner) is taking alluring photos of his attractive ex-girlfriend Missy (Leigh Willams) wearing a Yoda mask. She agreed to the photos in order to regain her apartment key. The scene that plays out is one where Missy explains that she has moved on while Larry has remained entrenched in a fantasy life that revolves around Star Wars to the exclusion of nearly everything else. He finds out that her new romantic partner is his sister, Leia (Alanna Williams). The play ends with him taking photos of himself in the Yoda mask. Coiner did a wonderful job of conveying a loveable but screwed-up fanboy. When the pipes in the theatre began to interrupt the action with loud bangs, he handled it so well that I wondered at one point if it was part of the play.

“Multifaceted General Office Support” written by Dan Loeser, directed by Jenna Panther, featuring Justin Yorio and Meredith Autry.

Before the lights go up, the sound of Vader’s labored breathing fills the space; as the light illuminates the stage-space, we see an office worker, Dennis (Justin Yorio), attempting to blow up an inflatable guitar. Sure, we all know about the Jedi Temple on Coruscant. In fact all we ever see in Star Wars films are full-blown Jedi knights. But who are the people who support the day-to-day running of Temple business? We’re treated to a job interview for the necessary office support we never see. Dennis used to be a youngling until he became nearsighted, but he takes his position seriously (Yorio seems to be channeling Jack Lemmon from Glengarry Glen Ross), making this very clear to the applicant, Jane (an engaging Meredith Autry). She’s hired on the spot and is given grunt work in keeping with her new status—she has to finish blowing up the inflatable guitar. The lights go out to the sound of Vader’s breathing.

“May the Force Be With You” written by Kevin Brewer, directed by Robert Gonyo, featuring Zillah Glory, Katie Stults, and Kathleen Wallace.

A master Jedi (Katie Stults) and her young padawan (Zillah Glory) conduct a training exercise using the Force. At first it appears that the “theatrical” effect used is a standard bunraku technique (which I’ve explained in prior reviews), where any person covered head-to-toe in black is outside the narrative and “invisible.” The play actually refers to her as The Force (a delightfully wise yet abjectly clueless Kathleen Wallace). In actuality we find out that the three women are creating fan videos for themselves. The scene they film is cut short by the existential angst produced by the metaphysical nature of the Force in one young woman (a brilliantly traumatized Glory). The others comfort her, then Master and Padawan leave for a party. The Force, our special effect specialist, is a somewhat lonely outsider. She half seriously attempts to levitate the water glass used in their video, but nothing happens. Disappointed, she turns and makes a dismissive gesture toward the glass—which falls over—and the scene goes to black. This more serious offering of the evening does bring up the more philosophical elements of the Force and explores some fans’ desire to be a part of something that binds all things together.

“Acquisition” written by Michael J. Fulvio, directed by Liz Thaler, featuring Rob Hille, Tom Littman, and Allyson Morgan.

If I were to pick a favorite for the evening, it would be this bizarre and biting piece that I mention at the beginning of the review. Princess Leia (Allyson Morgan) is tied to a chair, obviously about to go through some form of torture, while Kermit the Frog (Tom Littman, who really does sound like Kermit) tells her not to resist—things will be okay and “We’ll be family.” Walt Disney (Rob Hille, with delightful cheeky menace) enters and tells her that it’s only a matter of time before her franchise joins his “empire.” The references to Disney’s acquisition of the Star Wars franchise make for enormous fun especially as a counterpoint to Disney’s earlier acquisition of the Muppets. The Sith master/apprentice relationship comes to a head when Disney tells Leia that Yoda cannot help her because he’s merely CGI. After the beat of shocked silence that follows, Kermit shouts, “Yoda is a Muppet!” and the two battle with light sabers. Disney is only mildly defeated and admits to being disheartened by the backlash to his actions. The piece ends with Kermit and Leia singing “The Rainbow Connection” to Disney. The entire audience sang along, ending the piece and the entire evening with a bang.

Overall, there wasn’t a moment truly out of place and the actors each committed to their respective pieces with an earnestness regardless of (perhaps because of) any level of silliness. That was the point.

While a majority of the sf kingdom sneers at, openly loathes, or humorously tolerates the Star Wars franchise, the entertaining portion of the evening’s entertainment came from not just the movies themselves—with humorous line references and images—but also from the franchise as a pervasive cultural meme. This aspect, more than any other, came to the fore, playing with fantasy and reality as well as with pop culture awareness. I would love to see what they could do with Star Trek or 2001: A Space Odyssey or any number of other sf or fantasy subjects.

The entire evening had the feeling of Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland’s old “Hey gang, let’s put on a show in the barn!”, but with teeth. That isn’t to say that everything went smoothly—the old pipes in the building rattled and banged, while lightsabers went limp or turned on/off at odd times—but the actors worked with those moments, using and changing them, to bring them into the action on stage which is exactly what good, professional, attentive actors are supposed to do. Their jobs were made easier with the hip, clever scripts of the equally talented playwrights.

I had so much fun that I plan to attend future performances each month whether they’re sf-related or not. The atmosphere is so delightfully charged, and the opportunity to meet the artists creates some wonderful and compelling conversations before and after the show. Hopefully, some of these ideas develop into more extended plays, and given the audience attendance, Amios will expand the two performances into three to accommodate the growing demand.

Amios is in the process of creating a full-length project which will go up this May. You can find out more about Amios and future Shotz evenings at <www.amiosnyc.org>.

Jen Gunnels once wrote six reviews in an hour.

Photos: Nebula Award Weekend, Seattle, Washington, May 2013

SFWA Grand Master Gene Wolfe, Teri Goulding & Kim Stanley Robinson, signing

SFWA Grand Masters Robert Silverberg & Connie Willis

NYRSF co-founder Patrick Nielsen Hayden & outgoing SFWA President John Scalzi

Incoming SFWA President Steven Gould

Screed (letters of comment)

Patrick McGuire

In NYRSF 295, Darrell Schweitzer asks if Frodo Baggins could have written a fantasy, defined as a story which is consciously made up, concerning impossible things. I’m not sure if Frodo’s imagination ran to fantasy, but someone in Middle-earth could have written one, easily. We know little about natural law in Middle-earth (although the Shire must have a considerable collective grasp of science, since it is able to live on an approximately early-nineteenth-century level at the same time that the rest of Middle-earth remains in medieval conditions), but The Lord of the Rings makes it clear that there are known objective moral absolutes. A character (Gandalf?) somewhere says something like, “There is not one [moral] law for Men and another for Hobbits.” A fantasy could therefore portray an impossible world wherein each intelligent species had its own moral law—moreover, there would be lots of opportunity for plot conflict in the inconsistencies between the laws.

A Middle-earth fantasy of a different sort may already have been written, namely Kirill Yeskov’s The Last Ringbearer (Posledniy kol’tsenosets, 1999), a Russian novel available on the net in English translation, although the Tolkien estate will not allow it to be commercially published in the Anglosphere. This work asserts that LotR fabricates history, and that the orcs actually made a heroic but unsuccessful effort to bring scientific enlightenment to a benighted world. If it had been written by someone from Tolkien’s Middle-earth, where every word of LotR is true, it would be depicting a counterfactual history, enough in itself to make it fantasy by Darrell’s definition and by some others. I think Yeskov’s work may also depict different magical laws from those established by Tolkien, another impossibility. (I have read accounts of Yeskov’s work and skimmed it, but have not read it through.)

On another tack, as I earlier pointed out to Darrell offline, if fantasy fits the definition, first articulated by Lucian of Samosata, of conscious impossibility, then a lot of what is commonly regarded as fantasy will have to fall into some generally unrecognized middle category between myth (or religious belief) and fantasy. I might be willing to concede for the sake of argument that Shakespeare held the witches in Macbeth to be possible, and maybe, just maybe, that he believed that fairies existed, but I think it absurd to maintain that he thought that real-world fairies were anything like the ones he depicted in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. C. S. Lewis doubtless considered it vanishingly unlikely that God had created a parallel world populated by sapient animals and where magic worked, and where the Second Person of the Trinity became incarnate as a lion, but I doubt that he considered it flatly impossible. Tolkien’s “Leaf by Niggle” deals in part with the artist Niggle’s purification in Purgatory and entry into Heaven. As a Catholic, Tolkien believed in those places or states of being, but he doubtless considered it absurdly improbable that the reality bore any close resemblance to what he had depicted. One could indeed erect a new category, perhaps to be called “marvel fiction.” Such works, like science fiction, would depend on distancing from the everyday and on evocation of the sense of wonder but would not depend on or be rationalized by the laws of science. In the minds of the authors and their intended audience, such works might be wildly improbable but not impossible. But if we do define such a category, would it not make more sense to call it a subset of fantasy rather than defining fantasy in a sense that excludes it?

On a different topic, in his review of Prepare to Die, Joe Sanders notes that the author Paul Tobin has “seriously considered the ridiculous trappings of superhero comics and made them seem almost reasonable.” In this and similar passages, Sanders gives the impression of not realizing (as I myself did not until a year or two back) that that there is a whole subgenre out there of prose fiction doing this, much but not all of it available only in ebook form. In my article on Wesley Allison in NYRSF 285, I mentioned Allison’s Women of Power and Carrie Vaughn’s After the Golden Age. I imagine that serious superhero aficionados have compiled bibliographies.

Darrell Schweitzer, Philadelphia

Two quick comments on NYRSF 295:

I don’t think Robert Guffey is accurate in describing Manhunt as a “men’s magazine” (21). It was a digest detective fiction magazine, a bit more hardboiled than, say, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, but apparently quite respected within its field, even prestigious. If Harlan Ellison was selling stories to Manhunt at the beginning of his career, he was hitting the big time impressively early. This would be the equivalent of a science fiction writer publishing in some new but powerful upstart magazine of the period, like, say, Galaxy.

I don’t think Michael Andre-Driussi (6) will be anywhere near the last defender of Barsoom, in regards to the film John Carter at least. Yes, it might become a classic. It could be the new Blade Runner, which was also, you will recall, a marketing failure and only later came to be appreciated as a fine film. John Carter will surely be studied in Hollywood as one of the classic promotional failures. Disney seemed positively suicidal about it. The CEO of the company lost his job, and rightly so. One can only hope (not too optimistically) that the right lesson will be learned, not that the film was bad, but that the so-called promotion bordered on sabotage. Taking the words of Mars off the title was fatal. The preview videos were very bad. The posters were so nondescript that it was entirely possible for someone entirely unfamiliar with this material to look at one and ask, “Is this a gladiator movie?” It was not even clear that this was science fiction. The failure to take the film to ComicCon in San Diego was also, and redundantly, fatal.

Hollywood types were reportedly puzzled when they saw that their American audience was considerably older than expected, the parents or even grandparents of the summer action-movie crowd. They clearly did not know that this was a film that many Baby Boomers had been waiting all their lives to see. (Yes, I’ve seen it twice too, though the second time was on cable TV.) They did not manage to exploit this.

It also seems that this film was made by a Barsoom fan who did not realize that the world is not necessarily filled with Barsoom fans. For someone to recognize even the full title John Carter of Mars they must have read at least a comic book or two, if not the original Edgar Rice Burroughs novels. That is way too much to demand of a movie audience. Outside of a few art films, movies have to be marketed to non-readers. John Carter is not a household name, alas. Putting the words “from the creator of Tarzan” in there somewhere might have helped a lot too. It is very telling that my wife’s son, who is 42 and a sci-fi devotee (he watches endless episodes of Doctor Who and Star Trek) though not a science fiction reader or much of a reader at all, had absolutely no idea who John Carter was and no particular interest in the movie. But even more telling is the fact that when I started to read the Barsoom books in the early 1960s, my father, who had grown up in the days of Tarzan Sunday strips and Johnny Weissmuller movies, had no idea that Burroughs had ever written science fiction. He’d never heard of John Carter either. The Barsoom books never had the cultural penetration that the Tarzan series did.

Anything derived from a book, even Shakespeare and very possibly even the Bible, has to be promoted to movie audiences as unfamiliar material. That was the core failure here.

About Some Useless Information

One of the peculiarities of offset printing is that it’s generally only trivially more expensive to print 1000 copies of something than to print 500. For over 2 decades, we did just that, with boxes upon boxes of overstock; back issue sales were a significant second source of income for years. However, even before we switched to electronic publication, back issue demand was slowly dropping. So the time came to take stock, literally.

It’s amazing what 24 years of accumulation can accomplish. There were hundreds of stored boxes, nominally organized, in various rooms in Stately Hartwell Mansion. Last summer, Jen Gunnels undertook the First Cull, an epic feat of organization. She went through the hundreds of boxes, counting out 75 copies of each issue into clearly labeled boxes—about 86 in total.

In the months since, we’ve gotten a much better sense of our back issue demand, and over the last few weeks, we’ve undertaken the Second Cull. We’re trimming our holdings to 25 copies of each issue and, in the process, reorganizing the remaining boxes to make them even more accessible.

(See the photo in case you’ve ever wondered what dual human-height stacks of discardable magazines might look like.)

Two ~2m stacks of loose back issues destined for recycling

So, in a couple more weeks, we’ll be better positioned than we’ve been in years to fulfill your back-issue needs. There’s so, so much wonderful material in these issues, so dig in!

Almost all individual issues from our first 24 volumes are available, at $5.00 per copy. Grab bags of unique issues of our choice are available—40 issues for $20, 60 for $30, 80 for $40, 160 for $80, or 240 issues for a mere $120. But these supplies won’t last forever! Please e-mail nyrsf.payments@gmail.com for orders and questions. There’s an index, in Excel format, of every issue available on my own web server <www.maroney.org/NYRSFDownload/Public/NYRSF.Index.xls>, linked from the NYRSF web site.

Electronic back issues from volumes 24 to the present are also available through Weightless Books, with more to come.

On a separate matter, we need more contributions! We’ve been running short of late.

In a recent interview in Locus, NYRSF co-founder Teresa Nielsen Hayden rearticulated our guiding editorial principle:

What we had left was light reviewing in fanzines, and academic scholarship which could be pretty stodgy. We wanted a venue for the half-baked theories and informal critics—like, “I have this interesting idea, but there’s no way I’m doing the footnotes on it.”

That, exactly: essays and reviews that are weightier than capsules, from an informed perspective, but not necessarily as weighty as full academic presentations.

The Writer’s Guidelines are here, structured around Greg Cox’s classic “Again, Samurai Vampires” exemplar: <bit.ly/18vke7W>

Interviews, introductions, Read Thises, studies in genre, surveys—you name it. Prose, film, comics, games—if they’re of interest to an audience who take science fiction and fantasy seriously, we’d love to have them. Please contact us if you’d like to receive a book to review, but feel free to contribute over the transom as well.

Thanks, and keep watching the skies!

—Kevin J. Maroney and the editors

Table of Contents

- The reality and mythology enveloping Zelazny’s Lord of Light, the FBI, the CIA, and Ben Affleck’s Argo

- Deweaponizing Stark: Powering the Culture Hero in Jon Favreau’s Iron Man and Iron Man 2

- It Walks in Beauty: Selected Prose of Chandler Davis, edited and with an introduction by Josh Lukin

- An Exile on Planet Earth by Brian Aldiss

- Maverick Genius: The Pioneering Odyssey of Freeman Dyson by Phillip Schewe

- The Empire Shotz Back: Six Plays

- Photos: Nebula Award Weekend, Seattle, Washington, May 2013

- Screed (letters of comment)

- About Some Useless Information