Archive for the 'Nina Reviews' Category
Steven Soderbergh’s stylish psychological thriller, released November 2002 in the United States by 20th Century Fox , eloquently captures the theme of Stanislaw Lem’s 1961 book. Written almost fifty years ago, “Solaris” is an intelligent, introspective drama of great depth and imagination that meditates on man’s place in the universe and the mystery of God.
Soderbergh’s “Solaris” is a poem to Lem’s prose. Both explore the universe around us and the universe within. Not particularly palatable to North America’s multiplex crowd, eager for easily accessed answers, “Solaris” will appeal more to those with a more esoteric appreciation for art.
When I saw the 2002 20th Century Fox remake of “Solaris” (released on DVD soon after), I was blissfully unaware of its legendary history. I say blissfully because I harbored no pre-conceived notions or expectations and therefore I was struck like a child viewing the Northern Lights for the first time. The stylish, evocative and dream-like imagery flowed to a surrealistic soundtrack by Cliff Martinez like the colors of a Salvadore Dali painting.
It was only later that I discovered that Russian experimental director, Andrei Tarkovsky, had previously filmed “Solaris” in 1972 based on Stanislaw Len’s masterful 1961 book of the same name. Reprinted by Harcourt, Inc. with a new cover featuring a sensual image from the 2002 film, the original book was translated in 1970 from the French version by Joanna Kilmartin and Steve Cox for Faber and Faber Ltd.
Written almost fifty years ago, “Solaris” is a dark psychological drama. Soderbergh faithfully captures the intellectual yet sensual essense of Lem’s book by tempering the language and movements. Featuring a fluid and haunting soundtrack, his film flows like a choregraphed ballet. There is a dream-like quality to the film that is enhanced by creative use of camera angles, unusual lighting, tones and contrast, and sparse language. “Solaris” is not an action film (no one gets shot, at least not on stage), yet the tension surges and builds to its irrevocable conclusion from frame to frame like a slow motion Tai Chi form.
In response to his friend’s plea, a depressed psychologist with the ironic name of Kris Kelvin (played with quiet depth by George Clooney), sets out on a mission to bring home the disfunctional crew of a research space station orbitting the distant planet, Solaris. Kelvin arrives at the space station, Prometheus, to find his friend, Gibarian, dead (by suicide) and a paranoid and disturbed crew, who are obviously withholding a terrible secret from him. It is not long before he learns the secret first hand: some unknown power (apparently the planet itself) taps into his mind and produces a solid corporeal version of his tortured longing: his beloved wife, Rheya (played sensitively by Natascha McElhone) who’d committed suicide years ago. Faced with a solid reminder, Kelvin yearns to reconcile with his guilt in his wife’s death and struggles to understand the alien force manifested in the form of his wife. He learns that the other crew are equally influenced by Solaris and have been grappling, each in their own way, with their “demons,” psychologically trapping them there.
Ironically, our hero’s epic journey of great distance has only led him back to himself. The alien force defies Kelvin’s efforts to understand its motives; whether it is benign, hostile, or even sentient. Kelvin has no common frame of reference to judge and therefore to react. This leaves him with what he thinks he does understand: that Rheya is a product of his own mind, his memories of her, and therefore a mirror of his deepest guilt ? but perhaps also an opportunity to redeem himself.
Lem packs each page of his slim 204 page book with a wealth of intellectual introspection. Through first person narrative, he intimately unveils the complicated influence of this arcane force on Kelvin. Lem explains it this way: “I wanted to create a vision of a human encounter with something that certainly exists, in a mighty manner perhaps, but cannot be reduced to human concepts, ideas or images.”
Such an incomprehensible entity would serve as a giant mirror for our own motives, yearnings and versions of reality. For me the contrast presented by such an arcane alien force emphatically — but also ironically — defines what it is to be human. It is only when faced with what we are not that we discover what we are. Later in the book, Kelvin cynically observes: “Man has gone out to explore other worlds and other civilizations without having explored his own labrynth of dark passages and secret chambers, and without finding what lies behind doorways that he himself has sealed.” In the film Gibarian sadly proclaims of the Solaris mission: “We don’t want other worlds – we want mirrors.”
Lem’s existentialist leaning is provided throughout the book and even alluded to in the name he chose for the space station: Prometheus. In Greek mythology, Prometheus stole fire from the gods and gave it to humankind for which Zeus chained him to a rock and sent an eagle to eat his liver (which grew back daily). It is interesting that Soderbergh chose to send Prometheus to a fiery crash and named Kelvin’s dead wife, Rheya, after the Greek goddess, mother of Zeus and all Olympian gods. In a late passage of Lem’s book, a devastated and sorrowful Kelvin formulates a personal theory of an imperfect god, “a god who has created clocks, but not the time they measure . . . a god whose passion is not a redemption, who saves nothing, fulfills no purpose ? a god who simply is.”
Soderbergh addresses Lem’s existential vision with several brief but pivotal scenes. One occurs when Kelvin’s dead friend, Gibarian, returns to him in a dream on Prometheus and responds to Kelvin’s question, “What does Solaris want?” with: “Why do you think it has to want something?” Another scene occurs as a flashback to a dinner on Earth, when the real Rheya, prior to her suicide, argues with both Gibarian and her own husband about the existence of an all-knowing purposeful God, which both men argue is a myth made up by humankind: to Kelvin’s suggestion that “the whole idea of God was dreamed up by man,” Rheya insists that she’s “talking about a higher form of intelligence,” to which Gibarian cuts in with: “No, you’re talking about a man in a white beard again. You are ascribing human characteristics to something that isn’t.” Kelvin fuels it with: “we’re a mathematical probability,” which prompts Rheya’s challenge: “how do you explain that out of the billions of creatures on this planet we’re the only ones conscious of our immortality?” Neither man has an answer. Gibarian later commits suicide on Solaris rather than deal with the manifestation of his conscience. And I can’t help but wonder if the underlying reason for his inability to reconcile with his “demon” is because he was unequipped to, given his nihilistic beliefs.
Gibarian also tells Kelvin (and we must remember that all this is Kelvin really saying this to himself through his memory of the character): “There are no answers, only choices.” It is interesting then that the first pivotal choice in the story is made by the doppelganger Rheya (also a manifestation of Solaris but a mirror of Kelvin’s own mind) and it is a choice made out of love: to be annihilated, rather then serve as an instrument of this unknown alien power to study the man she loves.
Some critics have called Soderbergh’s “Solaris” pretentious, boring and devoid of action and intimacy. I strongly disagree. It is simply that, as with Lem’s original story, Soderbergh’s “Solaris” does not surrender its messages easily. The viewer, as with the reader, must intuitively feel his or her way through the fluid poetry, free to interpret and ponder the questions. This is what I think good art should do. And I feel both the original book and Soderbergh’s movie do this with enthralling brilliance.
Where Soderbergh and Lem depart lies more in each artist’s personal vision and belief. We are defined by the questions we ask and Lem asks a great deal of questions. Whether the forces that drive our universe are best defined by current science and the mind as random without purpose or as the manifestation of arcane motive more readily known through spirituality and the heart is largely a matter of belief.
Reviewer, Rick Kisonak, asserted that Lem’s “novel is an icy meditation on man’s place in the universe and the mystery of God. It poses countless metaphysical questions and makes a point of answering none of them. In Soderbergh’s hands, however, ‘Solaris’ becomes a celebration of romantic love, which culminates in the revelation of a caring, forgiving creator. At the end of his book, Lem writes [Kelvin ponders]: ‘the age-old faith of lovers and poets in the power of love, stronger than death, that finis vitae sed non amoris [life ends but not love] is a lie, useless and not even funny.’ The director ignores the author in favor of just such a poet.” Kisonak is referring here to Rheya’s interest in Dylan Thomas and its reference throughout the movie. Another reviewer, Dennis Morton, goes so far as to suggest that the screenplay of “Solaris” is the first stanza of the poem, which ends with: “…though lovers be lost love shall not; And death shall have no dominion.”
While I agree with some of Kisonak’s reasoning, I think he has missed the point of Lem’s book. If one continues to read from the passage Kisonak quoted above ? as Kris Kelvin transcends from what he “thinks” in his intellect to what he feels and “knows” in his heart, to accept his (and humanity’s) destiny with humble fatalism ? we learn that Lem ends his book in much the same way as Soderbergh’s movie: life ends but not love. The endings are physically different, in keeping with some radical alterations from the book in the movie’s setting (e.g., the original Solaris station is located on the planet and Lem assiduously describes Kelvin’s observations and interactions with the alien ocean; whereas Soderbergh’s crew virtually never leave orbit and the planet remains aloof in the background, reflecting Soderbergh’s focus). Yet, Kris makes the same choice in faith and love in both book and movie (although the choices play out differently).
In matters of faith and love, here is what Kris has to say in the book: “Must I go on living here then, among the objects we both had touched, in the air she had breathed? . . . In the hope of her return? I hoped for nothing. And yet I lived in expectation . . . I did not know what achievements, what mockery, even what tortures still awaited me. I knew nothing, and I persisted in the faith that the time of cruel miracles was not past.” In the end of both movie and book, Kris Kelvin lets go of his fears and lets his spirit rise in wonder at what astonishing things Solaris (and the universe) will offer next.
In the final analysis, both book and movie are incredibly valuable but for different reasons. Soderbergh paints an impressionistic poem, using Kafkaesque brushstrokes on a simpler canvas, to Lem’s complex tapestry of multi-level prose. Lem challenges us far more by refusing to impose his personal views, where Soderbergh lets us glimpse his hopeful vision. I think that both, though, come to the same conclusion about the ethereal, mysterious and eternal nature of love.
On the one hand, love may connect us within a fractal autopoietic network to the infinity of the inner and outer universe, uniting us with God and His purpose in a collaboration of faith. On the other hand, love may empower us to accept our place in a vast unknowable and amoral universe to form an island of hope in a purposeless sea of indifference.
Whether love mends our souls to the fabric of our destiny; enslaves us on an impossible journey of desperate yearning; or seizes us in a strangling embrace of unspeakable terror at what lurks within ? surely, then, love IS God, in all its possible manifestations. This is unquestionably the message that unifies book and movie. And it is one worth proclaiming.
Does ‘Dark Matter’ to Philip Pullman?…Dark Matter… “Dust” … call it what you want… It makes up 90 percent of our universe, according to astronomers. This makes the kind of matter that you and I see rather exotic; while we must accept the existence of the most common element, dark matter, on … well … faith. You see (oh, another bad pun!), dark matter doesn’t emit or reflect light and doesn’t interact with what we think of as ordinary matter. Yet, this invisible particle is faithfully being credited with playing a crucial role in shaping the visible cosmos. Dark matter is some form of matter theorized to exist that cannot be observed by radio, infrared, optical, ultraviolet, x-ray or gamma-ray telescopes and is theorized to be MACHOS, WIMPS, or GAS (see this site for more info on this incredible particle).
Dark matter only reveals its presence by its gravitational effects, guiding the evolution of the early universe and still affecting the motion of galaxies, according to astrophysicists.
Discover Magazine (Jan, 2008 issue) reported that “scientists now believe that during the early universe, dark matter provided the gravitational scaffolding on which ordinary matter surrounding them should have clumped together into hundreds of small satellite galaxies, most of which should have survived today.” But the observed number of satellite galaxies is only a fraction of what the theory predicted. Astronomers call it the missing satellite problem.
So, what does author Philip Pullman have to do with dark matter and why should he care?…This is the Philip Pullman of the His Dark Materials trilogy with his first installment, The Golden Compass, now a deliciously controversial major motion picture (which I will be reviewing as soon as I see it–very soon)… Well…Consider the title of his series, His Dark Materials. While Pullman certainly borrows his title as well as his overarching theme from Milton’s epic poem, Paradise Lost, Pullman’s title and his magical particle, Dust, also takes the concept of dark matter from real science. The mysterious material called “Dust”, which ‘speaks’ through Lyra’s aletheometer is also known as “dark matter” in an alternative ‘parallel universe’ of Pullman’s book.
I find it rather curious and ironic that The Golden Compass opened this past December (2007), so close to Christmas, a religious holiday when Christians all around the world are gearing up to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ. The irony lies in the fact that so many Christian weblogs have been vilifying Pullman as not only being an atheist (which is anyone’s prerogative, after all) but for promoting 
anti-God sentiments and atheism to children. However, despite the fact that Pullman adamantly opposes religious authoritarianism, his books uphold the important values of love and sacrifice. And faith (I’ll get back to that later). What I both enjoy and find compelling in a controversy (and Pullman’s particularly) is that at its core lies a challenge to ALL parties to re-evaluate their position amidst new information. A controversy is ultimately a learning experience for all involved. Controversies, like good art, invite the collision of diametric opposed ideas, and provide a nexus point for discussion, change, and—if all are respectful—eventual redemption and reconciliation.
According to Mike Todd of the Vancouver Sun (Dec. 8, 207) three major themes in Pullman’s books enmesh potential controversies surrounding science, art and religion. For instance, Pullman meant for the sinister organization known as the “Magisterium” to represent all ideology-driven theocracies or dictatorships, including secular ones. The concept in Pullman’s book of the “Authority”, who the two child protagonists help to defeat, led to accusations that Pullman advocates the “death of God”. I don’t think he meant this at all. Donna Freitas, a Catholic feminist professor at Boston University calls Pullman “a liberation theologian”, freeing Christians from the traditional church image of an all-powerful tyrant God who “rules from the clouds.” (Douglas Todd, Vancouver Sun, Dec. 8, 2007). Then there is “Dust”, elemental particles (resembling dark matter) that appear to contain a kind of conscious energy, experiments on which the church (in the book) prohibits. Pullman’s own ‘faith’ in these particles can be suggested in his admission to following “panexperientialism”, a philosophy that suggests that all living things, even molecules, have traces of consciousness (shades of Sheldrake’s ideas, autopoiesis and local fields). Another author who explores this concept is SF author, Greg Bear (see his Darwin’s Radio and Darwin’s Children).
Donna Freitas, in Killing the Imposter God, suggested that Dust acted in Pullman’s trilogy as the “divine fabric of the universe.” Could Dark Matter do the same?… Aren’t we all creatures of light…and dark, after all?…
Posted under Nina Reviews. Tags: Golden Compass, Philip Pullman, books, movies, fantasy, science fiction, dark matter
When Karen Mason persuaded me to let her create and run this website for my book, “Darwin’s Paradox”, I had no idea how much talent she would bring into this project. Besides being a shaman of incredible power, she runs Starfire World Syndicate and is herself an accomplished writer, private pilot, and cryptologist. We had discussed doing a promotional podcast of the book over some virtual drinks and ** presto! ** Heather Dugan appeared! More of that persuasive shamanism, if you ask me… If you want to know why I was so overwhelmed, listen (and watch) the podcast, below, of Chapter Two of Darwin’s Paradox. Heather is magic to your ears. Lyrical, sensitive and genuine, her fluid and clear narrative flows like a bracing mountain brook. Evoking emotions and touching your heart. I am proud and honored that she has joined the Darwin team.
Heather Dugan is a voice-over artist and on-camera talent. Born in Ann Arbor MI, Heather resided in beautiful Ohio, state of rivers and streams, most her life. She received a BA in Communications from Indiana University, Bloomington. After making a splashy entrance in the media field as Miss Columbus (“Sshhh,” says Heather. Sorry! I just had to!), Heather went into radio sales where she was discovered as a talent in “voicing”, which jumpstarted her varied career that included community theatre, radio/TV commercials, industrial films, narrations, phone network commercials, and talk show co-hosting. She has done voicing for Nationwide, The Columbus Dispatch, Bank One, Verizon, Honda of America, Cintas, Lazarus, The Truberry Group, among many other prestigious clients.
Heather is also an accomplished writer, photographer and musician (keyboardist). She wrote and co-wrote several documentaries, plays and musical compositions. You can see her photography on her travel blog, “Footsteps”. Her first poem, written when she was seven years old, was framed by her mother and sits on her desk. Heather is herself a devoted mother of three children. An avowed passionate traveler, Heather loves the outdoors and adventure. She keeps fit by running in races, kayaking, biking, swimming and weight-lifting. Heather currently lives in Lewis Center, Ohio, with her three children and chocolate lab. Thanks so much, Heather. Your dedication, professionalism & excellent work ethic, and remarkable voice are truly appreciated.
~ Nina Munteanu
Do you believe in the collective conscious? How about coincidence? What about fate? I find so often that events, occurences, observations happen around me as though out of design, as if they are connected like the gossamer web of a spider. For instance, when I’m doing research for a book on a particular subject, certain opportunities and events present themselves as if conspiring in favor of that subject, at which point I usually have a eureka moment of enlightenment. Part of that is, of course, because I’m more open to it, more receptive, unwittingly looking. But not all…What does this have to do with “Pan’s Labyrinth”, you ask? Well, I’ve been dwelling of late on the phenomenon of individual and intellectual freedom (e.g., censorship, book banning and burning)…then, the film my family picks up at the video store is “Pan’s Labyrinth”; and I make the connection. “Pan’s Labyrinth” is about an individual’s choice to bravely and defiantly act–from the heart–against authority rather than blindly remain obedient. The cruel beauty of “Pan’s Labyrinth” shows the power of innocence over evil and the triumph of imagination over prosaic servitude.
“Pan’s Labyrinth” is a dark and disturbing allegorical adult fairy tale by writer-director Guilermo del Toro. Set in 1944 Spain (the aftermath of the Spanish Civil War) 12-year old Ofelia (Ivana Baquero) travels with her frail and pregnant mother, Carmen (Ariadna Gil) to a remote village to meet her new stepfather, a sadistic Fascist captain named Vidal (Sergi Lopez), who is bent on extirminating the last Republican resistance to Franco scattered in the nearby hills. Clutching her books of myths and fantasy, which her mother suggests she cast aside to face the real world, Ofelia refuses to call Vidal “Father.” From the start, she pegs him rightly as a ruthless monster, and her unruly behaviour only invites wrath from this psychopath who tortures and kills innocent victims without remorse. Ofelia retreats into the dark labyrinth and down a William Blake-like spiral staircase where she encounters an untrustworthy faun (Doug Jones). This encounter sparks a braided narrative that seamlessly weaves from tragic reality to magical mystery as Ofelia struggles to keep them apart. Alas, collision is iminent. The faun tells Ofelia that she is really a princess, but to prove it and gain entrance into the underworld kingdom of immortality, she must complete three dangerous tasks. Each task is progressively more daunting, from scolding a giant toad in a bug-infested cave to fleeing a Goya-like child-devouring ‘Satan’ with eyes in his hands. And each adventure draws her closer on a terrifying collision with the real world.
“The horrors of both the realistic and surrealistic worlds are woven into the beautifully aligned narrative structure of del Toro’s story,” said Gene Seymour of Newsday. Glenn Whipp of U-Entertainment, calls Pan’s Labyrinth “dark poetry set to startling images, a one-of-a-kind nightmare that has a soaring, spiritual center.” Gene Seymour further suggests that “as hard as it may be to watch Guillermo del Toro’s dark fairy tale unravel, one comes awy from this magical-realist masterwork oddly invigorated by the way the movie and its principal character triumph over the banality of evil through the autonomy of imagination. The movie may give you nightmares, but it may also give you a few more good reasons to get out of bed the next morning.”
“Pan’s Labyrinth” can be interpreted on many levels from literal to metaphorical allegory to psychological and mythic journey. Every aspect of the film, from tiny visual to people’s names (think of Ofelia’s name, for instance) has metaphoric meaning. Several excellent reviews by Harry Tuttle (Screenville) and Julian Walker (Julian’s Blog) tease out both mythic and Jungian elements of this dark poetic fantasy and I urge you to check these sites for their excellent commentary. From describing the classic Hero’s Journey (described by Joseph Campbell) to making references to the mythic Psyche, these two reviewers insightfully unveil the nuance and filigree that weave the complicated tapestry of “Pan’s Labyrinth”. For me, the allegorical symbol represented by Ofelia’s last task brought out the metaphor that struck me the most: the death of innocence required to protect the birth of freedom. Ofelia is the embodyment of the nation’s innocence. Refusing to obediently accept the deviant orders of the didactic father figure of Fascism (embodied by both Vidal and the faun), Ofelia (innocence) defies authority and sacrifices her life to “die” to protect her baby brother (freedom). Her sacrifice is rewarded by her immortal ‘re-birth’ (hope and faith).
…Which brings us full circle to what I said earlier of art and its role in society: surely the role of art is to push the edge of comfort and light the way to a vivid incontrovertible truth. In order to do this, art must have freedom of expression, and we must be open to its message.
Labels: adult fairy tale, fantasy, film, Pan’s Labyrinth, review, Spanish civil war
I should first tell you that I generally don’t read fantasy. I am not a fan of epic quests in foreign unpronouncable realms by a superfluous cast with equally unpronouncable names. During college days I read Tolkein’s “Lord of the Rings” and confess that, while I did enjoy it, I was not inclined to pick up anything else like it. I am equally not keen on reading a story about a hero and his furry-beast friends who must conquer through magic and swordplay some evil warlord to save some helpless damsel in distress. Okay, not all epic fantasies are that transparent but they do tend to adhere to Campbell’s “Hero’s Journey”—to a fault.
Jacqueline Carey’s Kushiel’s Legacy by Tor Books consists of three rather large books: Kushiel’s Dart (a hefty 910 pages); Kushiel’s Chosen; and Kushiel’s Avatar, with a fourth and fifth in the saga, based on another character (Kushiel’s Scion and Kushiel’s Judgement). Kushiel’s Legacy is definitely an epic fantasy. But, thankfully for me, it couldn’t be further from its stereotype. Epic, yes—in size, scope and granduer. Fantastic, also, in its brilliant imagination and masterful delivery. But it is so much more. According to T.M. Wagner (SF Reviews.net), Carey “eschews the mythic aspirations of traditional high fantasy…[and] has created one VLFN that stands above the bloated pack”, taking “Fantasy into shadowy, exotic corners it rarely dares to tread” (Storm Constantine). William Thompson (Revolution SF) found this “seductive novel…exceptionally well-written, intricately plotted and [displayed] a grasp of language and storytelling rare in fantasy fiction.” To be sure, several readers of traditional fantasy complained that the language was “too flowery” and the books too long and overfull with detail and characters. This is precisely why I liked it. It reads like classic literary fiction. But it isn’t!
Chapter One of Kushiel’s Dart, the first of Carey’s three books focussing on Phèdre, begins with Phèdre engaging us with a conversational narrative that seamlessly and instantly lures us into her fascinating world. And lured I was; by the end of the first page I learned that her parents gave her a name that was cursed and that Phèdre, herself, was flawed: by a scarlet mote, a pinprick of blood emblazened in her left eye—which is enough in this land of aesthetics obsessed with beauty to mark her as blemished. She only later learns the significance of the mark; it is Kushiel’s Dart, left by a god who has chosen her to forever experience pain and pleasure as one. Thus begins our relationship with an ‘imperfect’ girl who was eventually outcast and sold by her mother—as “a whore’s unwanted get”—into indentured servitude in a House of the Night Court (a bordelo). It was the tag line of the first chapter that convinced me that a stirring tale of breathtaking intensity and shocking beauty was unfolding before me:
“When Love cast me out, it was Cruelty who took pity upon me.”
Kushiel’s Legacy is set in an alternate quasi-medieval Europe, Africa and Asia of Carey’s imagination. For instance, there is Aragonia, Caerdiccia Unitas, and Skaldia, loosely representing Spain, Italy and Germany, respectively. And there is Terre d’Ange (land of angels), Phèdre’s homeland, a place of unsurpassing beauty and grace, and whose beautiful race, created from angels and men, lived by one simple rule: Love as thou wilt. The D’Angelines were descended from the Blessed Elua, an interesting, rather warped, vision of the traditional Christ figure, and his angel companions who abandoned Heaven to follow him as he walked among mortals. Among Elua’s companions is the angel, Naamah, who willingly prostituted herself in service to Elua; Cassiel, who abjured mortal love for the love of the divine; and, of course, the mighty Kushiel, of rod and weal, the just Punisher of God, whose blow of pain was the touch of love. Those “kissed” by Kushiel receive both pleasure and cleansing through the infliction of pain.
Early on in Kushiel’s Dart, Phèdre’s bond is purchased by Anafiel Delaunay, an arcane nobleman with a secret past, who recognizes who and what she is—an anguissette, one who can experience pain as pleasure. While his motives elude her, Delaunay tutors Phèdre as a spy and rents her out to influential members of the decadent aristocracy to learn their secrets. When one of Delaunay’s games gets the better of him, he is murdered and young Phèdre is cast on a path of intrigue and treachery that she, as Kushiel’s Chosen-Avatar, is singularly able to endure. Thus, she sets off on her hero’s journey—aflame with betrayal, sacrifice, scintilating desires, and conspiracy. She encounters a rich and diverse cast of cunning poets, heroic traitors and a truly Machiavellian and seductive villainess. And to balance this is her loyal Cassiline bodyguard, Joscelin, her “Perfect Companion”, who eventually becomes the compass of her heart.
True to her heroic stature, Phèdre harbours, in both her words (it is she telling us the story) and her mien, no bitterness or resentment for the cruelty and hardship destiny has dealt her. And she does more than simply endure it; she answers the hero’s call to play out her role as Kushiel’s Chosen. Phèdre is a singularly appealing and complex hero because she is non-judgemental, ethical and honourable yet incredibly vulnerable, reckless and stubborn at times. She poses a panoply of opposites. She is, after all, an anguissette: her pain is her pleasure; her yielding is her strength, her wanton behaviour her salvation, her servitude her victory; and her love her courage. Phèdre is “an unflinching yet poignantly vulnerable heroine” (Booklist), whose selfless yielding will conquer the strongest and most depraved of foes. “Not all that yields is weak,” Hyacinthe, her best friend, tells her. To yield is Kushiel’s precept and the moniker of the House of Valerian, dedicated to the just Punisher. And yield, Phèdre must—and does; until it becomes her strength and her legacy just as love and honour become her driving force.
One is reminded of Christian parallels of yielding, tolerance and sacrifice in the acts of Jesus and his disciples. Phèdre walks a balanced moral path, following the precepts of her D’Angeline angels—Kushiel’s justice; Naamah’s passion, Cassiel’s loyalty, and, of course, Elua’s love—toward redemption for more than just herself. Carey’s exotic blending of Christianity and paganism, daringly poses the question of “the sacred potential inherent in every sexual encounter.” (Booklist). Wholly embracing her gods, and at great cost to herself, Phèdre gives herself away—sexually, and more—in Kushiel’s Avatar to rescue an innocent boy and ultimately to save her friend, Hyacinthe, from a wrathful god.
“Mortals conquer and slay; gods rise and fall. The games we play out on the board of earth echo across the vault of heaven.” (Kushiel’s Chosen)
Some readers have complained, nonetheless, at th
e inapropriateness of a prostitute as heroine. But, like many heroes with humble often dubious beginnings, Phèdre is one chosen by a god, who provides her with the opportunity to demonstrate that her heart and soul are far from base:
“We pay for sins we do not remember, and seek to do a will we can scarce fathom. That is what is is, to be a god’s chosen.” (Kushiel’s Avatar)
Yet for all that, this tale is not for the squeamish or the judgemental. As Kirkus Reviews contends, Kusiel’s Legacy is “superbly detailed, fascinatingly textured and sometimes unbearably intense,” punctuated with highly erotic and, at times, disturbing sexual episodes. The hero is a masochist, “whose disturbing sexuality drives the story… [which is as]…delicious as it is unsettling” (Emma Bull). T.M Wagner (of SF Reviews.net) sums it up eloquently: Kushiel’s Legacy “is the real thing, a distaff examination of sex and power, unflinchingly forthright.” And, he adds, “on no account is it recommended for faint hearts or weak stomachs.” Indeed, I was equally spellbound and greatly disturbed by Phèdre’s last great tryst with evil’s desire in a place of true madness where souls are currency (Kushiel’s Avatar). Her experience in Daršanga to rescue young Imriel, Melisande’s son, will endure in my memory for a long time: the terrible things Phèdre endured; the devine way she prevailed. She overcame it all because of the divine love that shone brightly inside her (her name means “bright” in Greek). It empowered her to shine hope to the hopeless. But the experience left her shattered, in pieces. Make me whole, she later prayed in the Temple of Isis, make us all whole.
Kushiel’s Legacy is not a romance, although it is a great love story. It is a complex saga, woven with layer upon layer of threads revealed through a metaphoric tapestry, often counterpoint with contradiction and turbulent conflict of morality and values. This journey of self-discovery by a young child journeying into womanhood explores some of the deepest and most cherished virtues of humanity, by courageously dismantling “standard notions of…morality” (Locus). Virtues like honour and loyalty. Family. And love. Love, in all its aspects:
Innocent love—a trusting love for a mother in the act of abandonment: …She will sell me to this cruel old woman, I thought, and experienced a thrill of terror…My mother stood with my hand in hers and gazed down at my upturned face. It is my last memory of her, those great, dark, lambent eyes searching, searching my own, coming at last to rest upon the left. Through our joined hands, I felt the shudder she repressed.(Kushiel’s Dart)
Dangerous love—a curious love of forbidden flesh: “Phèdre.” My name only; Melisande spoke it as if to place a finger on my soul, soft and commanding…held me captive and trembling before her…“Why do you struggle against your own desire?” Melisande lowered her head and kissed me. The shock of it went through me like a spear; I think I gasped…I swayed, dissolving under lips and tongue…my bones… molten fire, my flesh shaping itself to the form of her desire…(Kushiel’s Chosen)
Cruel love—a sacrificial, yielding love for one’s enemy: The Mahrkagir…reached out to touch my cheek and his hand was cold, so cold…I felt his touch like fire, setting me ablaze between my thighs…I shut my teeth on a moan…A strange rill of energy surged between us. I tasted fear and desire, his mad smile, and lost myself in his dilated eyes. His hand trailed down my throat, cupping one breast…pinching my erect nipple as hard as he could. A bolt of pain shot through me and I stifled a moan. “Ill thoughts, ill words, ill deeds.” He smiled tenderly at me, maintaining a pincerlike grip…“Your gods have chosen you for defilement. Is that not so?” I closed my eyes. “Yes.” (Kushiel’s Avatar) 
Tender love—a healing and exalting love for one’s true beloved: That kiss, I cannot describe. It was like a poem, a prayer, a homecoming unlooked-for. It was like dungeon walls crumbling to reveal a glimpse of sky. It shook me to the very roots of my soul. All I could do was cling to him and gasp…And that is where time itself seemed to stretch and flow…and everything done by the Mahrkagir was undone, every cruelty, every iron thrust—undone, undone, undone, every kiss, every lick, every stroke, imprinting love upon my flesh, until I shuddered and knotted both hands in Joscelin’s hair, calling his name out loud, and my climax followed with the inevitability of the spring-fed waters tumbling over the rocks. (Kushiel’s Avatar)
Divine love—a selfless compassionate love greater than oneself: It burned in me like strong wine, like the first taste of joie I had known as a child, like Melisande’s touch…If I had not brought Imri out of the darkness of Daršanga , this brightness would never come to pass. Truly love was a wondrous force, now that I perceived the complexities of its workings…Joscelin…Every line, every plane of him was writ in an alphabet of flesh and bone, spelling out love. How had I never seen it? And Imriel…a tangled knot of fear and need, achingly vulnerable. It made my heart ache to look upon him. (Kushiel’s Avatar)
More than anything else, Carey’s epic tale is a poem dedicated to love; exalting love in all its facets, from selfless yielding and sacrifice to the harsh lusty desires of a cruel heart. From the last line of Chapter 1 in the first book to the last line of the last book—Jacqueline Carey demonstrates that her Kushiel’s Legacy is devoted to the power of love; how love can sustain us, how it shapes our lives, can move an empire, and empower us in our own singular heroic acts.
Love as thou wilt.
This review first appeared in Denise Fleischer’s Gotta Write Network.
I also reviewed the exquisite yet disturbing motion picture “Pan’s Labyrinth” here.
Labels: book review, Jacqueline Carey, Kushiel’s Avatar, Kushiel’s Chosen, Kushiel’s Dart, review, romance books
