David Brin's Startide Rising & the Uplift Universe

One of my favourite sci-fi writers of all time is David Brin.

My aunt bought me a copy of Startide Rising as a gift in The Long Long Ago, back when we actually left our abodes and met in person (It happened!).

We now live like Isaac Asimov’s Solarians, each in a separate world...

Anyway, Startide Rising (published in 1983) is a mind blowing, magnificent journey into imagination. The science is fanciful, but backed by Brin’s expertise in physics and work at NASA.

I’ve been meaning to write about his work for some time, but never felt I could do it justice. Well, COVID-19 has me isolating and I’m going to write about it anyway, because if you’re also isolating this is top line stuff to read.

He sets the adventure of the startship Streaker in a universe of breathtaking scope: the galaxy has been populated for millions of years. In fact, it is a seven galaxy spanning civilization, or multi-civilization, composed of thousands of different species and loosely governed by Galactic Institutes. The nearest parallel would be The United Nations.

Of course do not have a copy of the book currently, as I’ve loaned it out to a friend. Again. I’ve bought multiple copies over the years as I often don’t get it back. Looks like I need to order another.

Jim Burns painting of Kithrup, from the Uplift Universe

Here’s the description of the book, taken from the Wikipedia page. I believe it is partly pulled from the old back cover, but I can’t be sure anymore (The Amazon book description is not as compelling as what I remember from the book jacket):

In the year 2489 C.E.,[3] the Terran spaceship Streaker — crewed by 150 uplifted dolphins, seven people, and one uplifted chimpanzee — discovers a derelict fleet of 50,000 spaceships the size of small moons in a shallow cluster. They appear to belong to the Progenitors, the legendary "first race" which uplifted the other species. The captain's gig is sent to investigate but is destroyed along with one of the derelict craft — killing 10 crew members. Streaker manages to recover some artifacts from the destroyed derelict and one well-preserved alien body. The crew of Streaker uses psi-cast to inform Earth of their discovery and to send a hologram of the alien.

When Streaker receives a reply, it is in code. Decrypted, it says only: “Go into hiding. Await orders. Do not reply.” 

And we’re off!

The book starts In medias res, with the Streaker already in hiding and The Five Galaxies going batshit trying to find them.

The way Brin describes the thinking of aliens (and animals) here is compelling, really getting across as sense of ‘other'. The dolphin crew members use Haiku, for example. Little things like that, different ways he uses language (poetry, sentence structure, punctuation), go a long way to establish that these beings think different and probably buy Apple.

And yes, dolphins! Startide Rising is part of Brin’s Uplift Universe, where space faring species scour the galaxy for pre-sentients to raise up into civilization. They take them under their wing, tailor them genetically to whatever task they wish, demand indentured servitude for 100,000 years as payment for this ’service’, and then let them go so they too can then scour the galaxy for species to uplift, and the process repeats.

Such a fascinating idea! Talk about scope and thinking long term.

Humanity, for it’s part, upsets the entire system by uplifting dolphins, apes and chimps before even coming into contact with Galactic Civilization, meaning we don’t have to spend eons in service to one of the senior races. Which pisses them off no end, and gets humanity labelled ‘wolflings’.

Some of the aliens are reasonable and noble, others rapacious and predatory (Jophur, Soru). The Jophur are a favourite: collective organisms made up of living 'rings'. They always came across to me like ambulatory fungus. The description of them from Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uplift_Universe#Other_clans_(of_aliens) :

The Jophur are a fictional extraterrestrial race in the Uplift Universe. Physically, they are a stack of waxy, living rings. Each ring serves a different purpose, and they connect to each other to form a single being by chemical means via an electrically conductive, sap-like substance that flows down the center to bind the stack together. A "master ring" provides a strong sense of individuality to each stack and enforces this with corrective electrical shocks to non-compliant rings.

The Jophur were originally the traeki, intelligent but often indecisive because of internal debates between the rings that formed each individual. Their patrons, the Poa, asked the Oallie to engineer the traeki further to increase their effectiveness. The Oailie created "master rings", shiny black rings (often described as "silvery") that created a strong sense of self-identity. The newly invigorated Jophur, as the traeki with the new master rings were called, quickly became a strong, vigorous force in the Five Galaxies.

Who comes up with this stuff? Brin! He has some of the best aliens you’ll ever encounter in fiction. Honestly, he should make a few Pokemon.

Better yet, the Uplift Universe comprises six full novels, in two trilogies. 

The first trilogy books (Sundiver, Startide Rising and The Uplift War) are not a continuous story; they’re set in the same universe, but do not directly flow from one to the other, and none of the same characters appear. The second trilogy (Brightness Reef, Infinity’s Shore, Heaven’s Reach), however, is a three novel arc, compromising a massive cast of humans and aliens.

Brightness Reef is set partly on the planet Jijo, which has been illegally settled after having been declared a fallow world. The whole idea of fallow worlds is awesome: it shows the time scale these civilizations operate on.

Infiinity’s Shore ups the ante:

...The Streaker, with her fugitive dolphin crew, arrives at last on Jijo in a desperate search for refuge. Yet what the crew finds instead is a secret hidden since the galaxies first spawned intelligence—a secret that could mean salvation for the planet and its inhabitants … or their ultimate annihilation.

Heaven’s Reach (published in 1998) brings it all to a soaring conclusion. It even features fractal worlds (where Retired species go to play cosmic yahtzee. I’m making the yahtzee stuff up. It’s way more exciting than that).

One of the greatest problems I have with sweeping, epic fiction is that so often the pay off to the mysteries the author sets up are so... lacklustre. This is especially true with television, where the whole idea is to hook people with a mystery and then keep them hooked in perpetuity. An ending is not necessary, or even wanted. The big thing is to keep people coming back and continue getting advertiser money, so the crew stays employed. Everyone’s gotta eat. But it doesn’t lead to satisfying endings (I’m looking at you BSG, selling out your complexity theme for a simplistic let’s all throw our technology into the sun with no dissenters nonsense finale).

Brin, however, pulls it off. The second trilogy is mind bending, getting into memetic worlds and galactic drift and more. it’s a truly epic conclusion. Others may (and have) disagreed, but they don’t know what they’re talking about. This is smart, imaginative, unique stuff.

One down side is that it is so way out there it’d be hard to film, and Hollywood is notorious for being unwilling (in general... The Arrival is a great exception) to depict truly alien aliens. Even the Borg, who started out very different (at least psychologically, as a collective), got a ‘Queen’ in order to make them more relatable.

Of course, aliens are usually just a way to talk about ourselves. I don’t think that’s always the case with Brin: he genuinely puts thought into how a species with a certain ecology would behave differently. And he gets that across.

He did have his novel The Postman turned into a film starring Kevin Kostner. The book, in my opinion, is far better, with greater depth and complexity and a solid theme that isn’t conveyed as well in the film. This book has some of Brin’s hardest hitting emotional moments.

Earth, another stand alone novel he wrote, is about, well, the future of life here. It’s also got some mind expanding ideas, which I don’t think I have the scientific knowledge (or memory) to really explore, given how long it's been since I read it. He was ahead of the curve on a lot of issues (oligarchs and the effect of cameras proliferating).

Existence is the last book of his I have read, and I admit it wasn’t my favourite.

Heart of the Comet he wrote in collaboration with another author, Gregory Benford, some time ago. I confess was a difficult, yet truly rewarding read. I had to go over some passages twice (or more) to truly understand what he was saying. It’s hard science sci-fi. Like reading Stephen Hawking, only with nail biting adventure, suspense and high stakes.

Brin also contributed to the Foundation series, writing Foundation’s Triumph, which ties Asimov’s books together, including Pebble in the Sky. It’s just awesome. I have no other words. Read it!

Brin's in the same class as sci-fi greats like Robert Heinlein, Isaac Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke, Frederick Pohl, Jerry Pournelle, Larry Niven, Frank Herbert and Ray Bradbury.

It amazes me how brilliant our scientists and theorists are, to imagine mind bending yet plausible scenarios. I can imagine all kinds of stuff, but the majority of it falls into sci-fantasy / satire at best.

We all have our strengths?

Brin has also written extensively about transparency (see The Transparent Society) and currently writes a lot about politics in the United States, which he obviously cares passionately about. If he buys into something, it always gives me pause.

There are some threads about Donald Trump, for example, that I thought were so out there they had to be conspiracy theory, yet there is an unsettling amount of evidence that they are actually true.

Brin also surfaces how Republicans, who talk a good fiscal conservative game, are actually dreadfully profligate spenders. I find it incredible this is not more widely known.

Anyway. Enough about politics. This blog is about sci-fi.

If you have a true love for sci-fi, I suspect you’ll love his work. His imagination is truly epic in scope and scale, like rock candy for your brain. If there’s any series in sci-fi I would recommend (along with Foundation and Ringworld and Heechee and Hitchhikers, and okay, well, there are a lot, but this is right up there, you can start with it), it’s Startide Rising.

Give it a read, you won’t be sorry.

And his guide to aliens is also good. Not as in depth as I might have liked, and painted illustrations would have been preferred (just being picky). 

There are even some old GURPs books for the Uplift Universe.

I’d love to see some lushly produced coffee table volumes covering Uplift, with detailed paintings, like a Barlowe Guide. Or graphic novels. That would be cool.

One can dream…!

Joh Wimmer reviews Startide Rising for Gizmodo here. He delves into the book in more detail, and while I don’t really agree with his criticisms, it’s good to get another point of view.

Magnum Thrax: Future Fossil, Part 1 of 5

I wrote this Magnum Thrax short story as an action piece. In hindsight, it may have a bit too much action. Live and learn. The story's set in a satiric sci-fi trope fest, a post-modern post-apocalypse. I'll be posting some notes on the why's of Magnum Thrax after the story concludes.

Enjoy!

The leopard spotted tank raced across the searing hot salt flats, pulling a train of wagons loaded with oak barrels. A large, Vegas-style sign spun atop the turret, emblazoned with ‘Pleasurepit Five’ in neon pink. 

The vehicle slowed as it approached a rock formation that jutted out of the salt ocean. Their it paused for a moment, engine revving. 

The ruin of a big purple transport rig lay forlorn in the sand to the right. The front windshield was shattered, and the glittering purple paint was streaked by ragged claw marks. 

Far above, in the crystal blue sky, advertising clouds drifted, shilling products that hadn’t been made for a thousand years.

The tank's cupola swivelled towards a cleft in the rock to the left, wide enough for a vehicle. There were signs on either side of the entrance, promising water and goods for gold, and death for those who couldn’t pay.

The engine roared. Greasy smoke belched from rusted exhaust pipes. The tank charged up into the narrow passage, clipping the sides of the granite canyon. Sparks and stone chips sprayed out form each impact as the tank raced recklessly forward. 

Several harrowing hairpin turns later, the metal beast pulled out of the canyon’s cool shadows into a gloriously sunlit sand cove. The walls were lined with stacked, makeshift residences constructed out of salvaged materials looted from ancient buildings. Along the north face, cog wheels mounted on steel supports suspended a rickety freight elevator over a thirty-foot wide hole in the ground. Above it was a wooden sign that proclaimed, "Welcome to Utan Oasis."

The top turret hatch popped open, and an impossibly good looking man stuck his head out, with a full head of glorious hair, sharp cheek bones and square jaw. Obviously genetically enhanced. He wore wrap around sunglasses and a Seventies-style white disco suit that never, ever got dirty. 

His name was Magnum Thrax. He was eighteen and he still had zits.

“Kal!” he called. “Kal! Where are ya, buddy? It’s Thrax!”

Silence. 

“KAL!!!"

Thrax swore. It’d been a week since he’d last had radio contact with his friend. He bit his lip and scanned the compound.

No one in sight.

Dust blew. An unsecured door clattered in the wind.

Thrax tapped the tank’s top with the butt of his rifle, and hauled himself out. “C’mon, ladies. Time to play hide and seek.”

Other hatches clanged open and five impossibly beautiful women, wearing skimpy outfits of latex, fishnets, and camouflage, clambered out. They hefted incongruously large energy weapons that hummed with gigawatt-voltage menace. 

“Hi Mr. Thrax; no sign of your friend, then?” asked one wearing classic Iris van Herpen boots. She wore a white armband with a red cross on it. Thrax struggled to remember her name. Candy. That was it! The team medic.

“Nope, nada. I gotta find him,” proclaimed Thrax, roughly running a hand through his hair. "I just gotta!" 

“Aw, hey, hey now,” soothed Candy, her voice welling with empathy. "It'll be okay, you'll see.” 

“Damn well better,” growled Thrax. “If he’s lost Lil’ Eastwood, I’m gonna kick his ass!”

Candy scrunched her pert nose and gave him a confused look. “Eastwood?”

“Thrax's gun,” explained Kitty, leaning over Candy's shoulder. She squinted up at Thrax, who was backlit by the summer sun. “You and that stupid magnum. Who names a gun, anyway?” 

Thrax bristled. “Everyone names guns. It happens to be very common.” He looked to the others for confirmation. “Am I right? Like naming a sword, or a hat.”

Kitty shut off her mobile entertainment unit and slipped it into her back pocket. The latex sucked it tight to her skin. “It’s still dumb. And we’re here for the zinc load, not Kal, and not your gun.” 

“Wait.” Thrax was still hung up on the naming thing. “I seem to remember it was you who named the tank, ‘Big Bad Bitch’.” 

Kitty gave him her zinger look. “Well, yeah. It’s a tank. Anyway, Kal should never have gone ahead in the first place. That’s his bad move and he should suck up the consequences. We just need to find the zinc for our reploboxes and split.”

Thrax ignored her and pointed at the tallest, most regal of the androids, his squad sarge, Andromeda. “Andy, take Sister Cinnamon and check the church. Could be a, you know, service or somethin’ goin’ on.”

“Yessir!” Andromeda levelled her weapon and headed off, followed by Cinnamon. Their six-inch high combat boot heels scuffed up dust as they skittered sexily away.

Thrax scanned the otherwise empty compound. “Where are all the Utans?” he muttered. The place was usually crawling with the ugly fellas. He lit an atomic cigarette, took a deep drag, and hopped off the tank’s hull. If the residents weren’t in church, in bed, or at work, they'd be drinking, belching, and barfing in Betties’ Norstar Bar. 

He strolled towards it, puffing on the glowing green atomic cig.

Three androids, Kitty, Miss Jade, and Thumper, spread out and followed behind him, weapons at the ready. Candy stayed with the tank, which was just as well. As a medbot, she wasn’t a fighter.

Thrax leapt up the steps and barged inside.

He wished he hadn’t: the stench of decaying flesh inside was overwhelming. Bodies were strewn all over: sprawled over tables, on the floor, or disemboweled where they’d sat. Entrails were smeared on the bar. Thrax spat out the cig and covered his mouth with a handkerchief. Working quickly, he walked by the bodies, checking faces. 

Kal wasn’t among them. 

Whew!

Bile rose in his throat. He began to gag, and there was no stopping it. 

He stumbled out, vomiting as he went, adding to the colourful crimson mess. As he stood panting and trying to recover his equilibrium, he noticed that the door and surrounding corrugated metal sheets were riddled with bullet and energy bolt holes. 

Thrax heaved up more food bits. The sun beat down on his back as the last remnants of his lunch splattered over cracked wood boards. He sighed, wiped the drool from his lower lip and straightened up. 

The team was standing before him, expressions of disgust written all over their pretty faces. 

Crap.

Well, screw’em. Who cared what a bunch of synthetics thought, anyway?

He jerked a thumb at the bar. “All dead.” Drinking at Betty's would never be quite the same again.

“Oh, man, now that’s just nasty,” said Kitty, looking at Thrax’s well digested lunch. “Why didn't you just turn off your sense of smell, boss-man?”

Dammit, thought Thrax. Kitty was right: like the androids, Thrax wore an invisible, full body nano-suit that protected him from radiation and contamination. But it was on manual. With a thought, he activated the auto-defenses. Next week he’d get one of those virtual avatar assistants to keep track of these things. Maybe the Monroe AI model. She had a sexy voice. “Okay, olfactory sensors blocked. Now: Kitty, Miss Jade, I want you to sweep and clear. Hostiles could still be here. Thumper, you’re with me.” 

“Wait, hold on there, kiddo,” groused Kitty. “You're sending me with Jade? You know she’s the newbie, right? I just don't think that’s happening, unh-unh.”

“Shut it, trooper,” snapped Thrax, regretting that he’d sent off Andromeda, his squad sergeant. It was only his second mission, though. He'd just turned eighteen, so Kitty-Big-Mouth wasn’t about to acknowledge his authority without a fight, despite Thrax being rated fully human, and then some. He had good genes. Amazingly good genes, as a matter of fact. Everyone in The Pit knew it. Meanwhile, her android code was dodgy. These androids weren’t military grade, just sexbot models repurposed for combat by self-taught coders out of pure desperation. They were the defenders of Pleasurepit Five Sex Emporium, the last bastion of human civilization. It wasn’t a great museum, or a university, or a monastery. It was just a sex emporium.

Thrax wondered if that was ironic.

“Bad enough I’m here at all, and ya’ll know it, too. I was supposed to be guarding the grain silos back at The Pit. No way I'm going with Jade into some monster buffet,” said Kitty defiantly, doubling down. “She's a desk jockey, and she never shuts up, either. Give us totally away. No offence, girl.”

Miss Jade bristled. “Seriously? That… that is totally unfair. I earned the right to be here. I studied combat manuals for weeks, and I completed all the basic firearm regulation and maintenance simulations.” She tugged her micro mini dress down and smoothed the plastic. “I happen to have been going over mission relevant background.”

"Uh-huh. The Big Bang?”

Jade shrugged and looked at her immaculately buffed boots. “I wanted context.”

“Whatever,” groaned Thrax, bored of their bickering. He reached over and snapped a switch on Jade’s bulky laser rifle. “It helps if you turn the safety off.”

Miss Jade blushed beat red. “I knew that, Mister Thrax, I was just diligently waiting for the right moment. And, point of fact, regulations specifically state that weapons should be kept on safety until–”

“Oh, bull, girl!” Kitty got in her face and wagged a finger. “Regulations get people killed, ya know, which is why you shouldn’t be here. And why I’m not going with you.”

“Enough!” Thrax restrained the urge to pop an artery. “You two got your orders, I’m not changing them, so make the best of it. Go. Now!”

Kitty blew a gum bubble at him, then popped it. “Fine. Make ya feel big, does it?”

“And go left,” added Thrax. “Check the living quarters. Me and Thumper will check the warehouses.”

“‘Thumper and I’,” Jade corrected, prissily. “Precision in all things, Mister Thrax. Holistic nature of life.”

Thrax ignored her. Foxy librarian sexbots like Jade were extremely punctilious. Great at planning, and organizing your archaic book collection, but damn annoying in the field. And she was always trying to get him to read. Read! What era did she think they were in? No one did that crap anymore! If it wasn’t text in a video game, or on a piece of munitions, Thrax wasn’t interested. Reading was for old people. Everyone used neural taps, anyway. Jade’s saving grace? Her base model was the Foxy Librarian, so she followed orders and procedures, wasn’t nearly as annoying as Kitty, and had a head full of facts, figures and obscure knowledge, which came in handy at the oddest of times.

Thrax spat and trotted over to the first warehouse, followed by Thumper. It was a big ugly thing, mostly embedded in solid rock. He motioned for the voluptuous android to pull back the door. It slid easily on greased tracks. 

Thrax scanned the interior with his weapon’s sensors.

Empty. 

No life form readings, and even worse–no zinc. 

“You are soooo screwed, mission leader,” observed Thumper. “If you go back empty handed, they’re gonna–”

Thrax spun about, anger and expletives flooding his adolescent brain. He kicked the dirt and had a little spastic frustration fit. “Damn freakin’ fubarks!” he swore through gritted teeth, trying to keep his volume down. “So unfair!” 

“So’s the lot of an android,” said Thumper dryly. Her model was athletic, rambunctious, and not very tactful. 

But neither was Thrax.

Thrax took a few deep breaths and calmed himself down. Thumper had a point. “True. The humans at The Pit, all of us would be dead without you. We owe you androids everything.”

“Huh,” said Thumper, taken aback. She started to say something, then stopped.

“What? Spill it,” said Thrax. 

“I just… don’t think any human’s ever bothered to tell me that before. Thanks. I always thought you were dicks.” 

“Dicks? That’s what you think of your creators?”

“Well… I mean, yeah. It’s egocentric to create entire species who’s only purpose is to fulfill your sick, twisted, depraved fantasies. Honestly, the stuff with the plastic and the fish and those rings–”

“Okay, okay, I get the picture. No need for details.” His future was on the line with this mission. The Sex Emporium’s Grand Council of Elders, Protectors of the Ancient Enlightenment, had made that real clear. For an element so rare, Zinc was essential for their reploboxes to make vital equipment.

If he didn’t get that zinc, his ass was grass!

*****

For more Magnum Thrax, see the novel, Magnum Thrax and the Amusement Park of Doom. 

Available on Amazon. 

starsIt's Mad Max on crack – Glen Conley

"Underneath this outlandish story’s brash exterior lies astute social commentary and sharp, unapologetic humor." – Kirkus Reviews

Westworld: Lies that tell a deeper truth

Westworld is filled with monsters.

The twist?

The monsters aren't the androids.

The show's about empathy, suffering, and waking up.

And while the series is intriguing, fascinating, compelling, it's also deeply flawed. Characters behave in senseless ways because the plot requires it. Arcs don't work, or don't feel natural. Some episodes are a drag.

Yet I couldn't stop watching, because the underlying themes are so powerful. This is a show with something to say. About people, about our proclivity for violence, sadism, murder, and the way we delight in the suffering of others. About how stubborn and insistent we can be to live, and remain, in a dream, to slumber away and ignore the reality of our lives, and how suffering can jar us into consciousness. Evan Rachel Wood's character, Dolores, is certainly put through hell, and she emotes with aplomb. You feel her pain, as Bill Clinton used to say.

The show goes places Michael Crichton's brilliant original film (still worth a watch) didn't dare, delving into explicit violence and rape.

Westworld is an amusement park populated by robots, with whom guests can live out their fantasies, whatever they may be. Nothing is off the table, no matter how depraved. It costs $50,000 per day, so only the richest and most driven people attend.

And who would like to have virtual people to rape, brutalize, maim, and kill for pleasure? What kind of people will the park attract?

Easy: sadists, psychopaths, sociopaths, and narcissists. It's a Cluster B Disorder Party Palace! Lobha, mosa, and dosa go ape shit, baby! Cue Ed Harris' Man-in-Black character.

The most twisted elements of humanity are thrilled to have disposable people to torment, and they don't have to worry about hiding their proclivities from the authorities.

The one group the show doesn't explicitly name, but are no doubt there? Pedophiles. I mean, come on. We've seen there are android kids. We know guests can do whatever they want. We know the guests are sadistic f*cks. Put two and two together: this is a place where every rich Jimmy Saville is going to go. Dark rumours of pedophile rings in Hollywood? Among the British aristocracy? American political elites? Rumblings and whispers in the dark at the edge of the glittering light of fame and Hollywood glamour. And the halls of power.

All of them would be right there, lined up to get in Westworld.

Pedophilia Park.

The whole concept is morally repugnant. When you see the torture, rape, and sadism being visited upon the androids, who are recycled when they die, the revulsion is palpable.

Or it would be to people with empathy. Problem is, the vast majority of guests haven't got any. They are intraspecies predators, monsters wrapped in human skin.

It gets into Buddhist concepts about the Wheel of Life, or Bhavacakra, how suffering can wake us up. How the challenges we face in this life are exactly what we need for spiritual growth, specifically tailored to our spiritual needs. These are controversial concepts that press buttons.

But shouldn't any good story do that?

The lessons the androids learn here aren't always good ones, but then, they were made in our image. The brutality they visit back upon the humans is so gleefully endorsed by the show it becomes a sad mirror image of our own depravity.

Hate begets hate.

It keeps the torment wheel going, 'this long and vivid nightmare'. On and on, round and round, murder and suffering. Early on in the program, Dolores seems to have such potential for empathy, spiritual growth, of reaching a higher plane, of becoming more than what her tormentors are.

Yet in the end, she falls to their level.

Dr. Robert Ford's climactic speech is wonderful. Hopkin's character is an avatar pouring forth metatextual commentary about our inclination to watch suffering for the sake of entertainment.

Have cake, eat too.

Are they trying to wake us up?

Are the gathered to-be-massacred executives stand-ins for network big wigs? The annoying, interfering Hollywood suits that are always meddling with the artistic purity that the show runners are so concerned with?

And the androids... do they represent actors, condemned to perform their roles, over and over, endlessly, all at the whim of the entitled guests who revel in watching depravity and hedonism?

Us, in other words.

It's an interesting angle, at any rate.

The Guardian didn't like Nolan's take at all, preferring the original (I kind of agree), and point out some admittedly serious flaws:

"Where his Westworld reveals the details of its universe slowly and methodically, its source text quickly introduces us to a naive protagonist and then has the other characters bluntly explain everything to him. But as a result, the former takes 10 hours to reach anything that could be described as a climax, while the latter takes 58 minutes to arrive at the words, “Sir, we have no control over the robots at all.

From there, we’re treated to a half-hour set piece more gripping than anything the first season of HBO’s Westworld could muster. An extended showdown between man and machine, the sequence may lack the higher meaning of its more sophisticated cousin, but it doesn’t skimp on the kind of simple pleasures the show just hasn’t got time for."



Here's Hopkin's final speech:

"Welcome. Since i was a child, I've always loved a good story.

I've believed that stories help us to ennoble ourselves to help fix what was broken in us, and help us become the people we have dreamed of being. Lies that told a deeper truth.

"I always thought I'd play some small part in that grand tradition ,and for my pains, I got this: a prison of our own sins.

Because you don't want to change. Or cannot change. Because you're only human, after all.

But then I realized someone was paying attention. Someone who could change.

So i began to compose a new story. For them. It begins with the birth of a new people. And the choices they will have to make. And the people they will decide to become."

(This is where the Maeve Millay, played by Thandie Newton, leaves the train to save her daughter. Her faux daughter. Because it doesn't matter that the relationship is not biologically true. It's emotionally true. And so she goes out of love and devotion and dedication, to the detriment of her own freedom. Because God Dammit she's gonna save her.

It's a marvelous moment. She puts another before herself and risks everything.

I loved that.

Her choice is freely made, and it defines who she is. We are our actions. Screw the world, you go, Maeve!)

"It will have all those things you have always enjoyed: Surprises! And violence!

It begins in a time of war, with a villain named Wyatt. And a killing. This time by choice.

I'm sad to say this will be my final story.

An old friend once told me something that gave me great comfort. Something he'd read.

He said Mozart, Beethoven and Chopin never died. They simply became music. And so I hope you enjoy this last piece very much."

Over 3.5 million people are estimated to have died over the centuries in Roman coliseums. They died to entertain, to pacify the blood lust of the masses.

Now we watch people being murdered and tortured on TV.

Progress!

"Lies that told a deeper truth."

Great stuff.

I've never seen a show that delved so deeply into suffering and, essentially, reincarnation in short-hand. It's Buddhism on fast forward. There is sadism, suffering, empathy, and (hopefully) awakening.

I was glad when the robot revolution finally came.

"And I for one welcome our new robot overlords..." 

Rotten Tomatoes rates it highly.

Who's The Doctor's Best Companion Ever?

From the Blastr Article

Best Companion of The Doctor… Evah.

This is it: Companion Smack Down. The top contenders go in, only one comes out.

I’m going to rate the best of the best.

Romana

Not Tom Baker in drag.

A fellow Time Lord assigned to work with The Doctor in order to find The Key to Time by a guy with a pigeon stuck to his forehead, she adopted the appearance of a princess after her first season, and went on to marry Tom Baker. Briefly. Sharp witted and resourceful, Romana’s an equal in every way to The Doctor. You’d think he’d prefer to shack up with her as opposed to a former chips shop worker he’s 47 times older than, but no. What’s the age of consent on Gallifrey, anyway?
Score: 8

Captain Jack Harkness

"That's not a bomb. I'm just glad to see you."

Rogue time cop and pansexual omnivore, Jack’s always the most interesting person in a room. A preening narcissist who makes Captain Kirk look modest and self-effacing, Jack was less a companion than a competitor. He’s better off with his ego on another show.
Score: 3

Leela

"Oh please let me kill it, Doctor!"

Leela grew up on a planet that was royally messed up by The Doctor’s earlier (off screen) meddling, which resulted in a kind of extreme social experiment. A savage warrior, foxy lady, and indomitable spirit, Leela was the perfect foil for the pacifist Doctor. Raw animal sexuality combined with predator instincts were an inversion of The Doctor’s detached, sophisticated, peaceful personality, as her first answer to every problem was to kill it.
Score: 9.5

Rose Tyler

"I can make chips!"

A young Londoner who ran into The Doctor during an invasion by killer shop mannequins. Rose was Russell T. Davies’ obvious favorite and likely stand-in (R.T. and R.T.D.). An uneducated former gymnast who worked in a chips shop, it has to be said that she was a real go-getter and kept The Doctor on his toes, but she had the depth of a shallow puddle and was a little on the young side for him.
Score: 6.5

Sarah Jane Smith

"I do not approve of this sexist Medieval social order and shall start a revolution forthwith."

Blessed with insatiable curiosity, Sarah Jane was always getting herself in trouble in pursuit of the truth. A journalist by trade, and a born revolutionary, Sarah Jane stirred shit up wherever she went in time and space. By the end of her run, she’d led more rebellions than Princess Leia, Che, and Lenin put together. We never met her family, but thanks to Elisabeth Sladen’s portrayal, she felt more real and had more depth than any companion in New Who, with one exception. Also a crack shot with a rifle. Because Sarah Jane!
Score: 9.4

Amy Pond

"No, stupid, I haven't made up my mind. Stop looking at me. Stupid."

A sexy-gram delivery girl who grew up with a rift in time beside her bed, she’s had a life long connection to The Doctor and witnessed his… tenth(?) regeneration. Got stranded in New York in the 1930’s, and apparently could never interact with The Doctor again, even though she’d naturally travel out of the Thirties into the Forties and presumably the Fifties and Sixties, in which The Doctor was rather active. Whatever. Her life was intertwined with The Doctor’s in novel and clever Moffat-esque ways, but her personality was a lacuna. Unlike Rose, I can’t think of anything to even complain about with her. She’s just relentlessly bland.
Score: 6.5

Ace

Okay, she gets points for the RPG.

A young explosives expert and punker from the… You know, I have no idea. She was an over-the-top, wish fulfillment cartoon character who grated on the nerves. Walking, talking sandpaper armed with a baseball bat and explosives. Her idiosyncratic colloquialisms fell flat with mind boggling relentlessness. Small wonder the show was cancelled.
Score: 5

Donna Noble

She got sass.

A mouthy lady whose wedding The Doctor interrupted, Donna had more personality and sass than ten other companions combined, but was unfortunately saddled with a dreadful end to a wonderful character arc. In her last episode, her brain was overstimulated, necessitating a mind wipe. Her personality was reset, undoing everything she’d learned, which was a particularly sad end for a such great, standout character. She deserved better. Someone should write her in again.
Score: 9.1

River Song

Never bring a banana to a knife fight. Leela 1, Song 0

First appearing as the leader of an expedition to a library planet, she was later revealed to be much more (and thus less) than that. Initially interesting, she became a mugging, one-note ’Spoilers!' cliché. I think of her like an irritating grain of sand in an oyster that forms over time into a pearl, only instead she just becomes more irritating. A psychopath grown and groomed by a secret organization to be the perfect assassin and meant to kill The Doctor, he went and married her. Yeah. That’s messed up.
Score: 6

Martha Jones

The awesome Agyeman

Jones is an actual doctor, as in a physician, and she pined away unsuccessfully for The Doctor. The man was blind. Martha was smart, educated, beautiful and competent. Alas, she was never terribly popular with audiences, or The Doctor for that matter (who preferred younger, less educated and less intelligent chip shop workers), but had more substance and was less superficial than the overrated Rose. Did I mention the BBC shielded prominent pedophiles from prosecution and covered up their crimes for decades? Just saying.
Score: 7.6

Jo Grant

"Uh… could you explain that again, Doctor?"

Assigned to be the assistant of Jon Pertwee’s Doctor by The Brigadier, she replaced the less popular but highly intelligent scientist The Doc had been hanging with earlier. A sweet heart who looked great in short shorts but was unfortunately a bit on the dense side. Thoroughly lovable nonetheless, Jo was a great stand in for little kids, who could always identify with her. At least I could. She was pretty awesome. I’ll not stand anything negative being said about her. So there.
Score: 7.2

Peri Brown

Because of course you do.

An American who got sucked into The Doctor’s TARDIS while wearing a bikini, Peri was a stunningly beautiful brunette with a figure that just wouldn’t quit. She frequently dressed in said bikini (see above), or similar nothing. What’s not to like? Her voice was a high pitched whine and she lacked much in the way of personality that wasn’t annoying. The only companion The Doctor ever tried to literally strangle. I’m not sure what that says and probably don’t want to.
Score: 36 24 36

The winner: Leela.

Why?

Because drama.

What is the source of drama? Conflict.

What drives conflict? Character.

Which companion offered the most in-built conflict with The Doctor? Hands down, bar none, Leela. He's a hyper-educated, sophisticated Time Lord and moralizing pacifist. She's a savage warrior woman who's always ready and eager to employ lethal force. Leela had an alternate way of doing things, and wasn’t afraid to say, or do, so.

It was like The Odd Couple, only with time travel, deadly Janus thorns and a gender switch.

And yet Leela was intelligent, always learning, and willing to be essentially tutored by The Doctor. That offered room for growth, for a clash of values that could ultimately change them both. So much the show runners could have done here and ultimately didn’t. They achieved a lot, but certainly could have taken it much further. Why they've never revisited this sort of combination I'm not sure, but I imagine it would be seen as too extreme. Too controversial for safe spaces.

The only other character to push the envelope as much as Leela is Donna Noble. An argument could be made that Jack Harkness pushes it as well, but he’s just malignant narcissism with a mouth and a mirror shagging himself.

So there you go: Leela is the best companion in Doctor Who.

QED.

The Martian vs. Interstellar vs. Gravity vs. Prometheus

The Martian, based on Andy Weir's book, is about a paper thin character and his struggle to survive after being abandoned on Mars. He does so by eating potatoes grown in his own shit and using copious amounts of duct tape.

Basically, it's MacGyver in Spaaaaace.

I'm being facetious, of course.

Weir heavily researched his book, and everything in it is plausible. That Andy Weir researched all this in the first place is, and worked it into a novel, is impressive. That scientists figured out everything for Weir to research is even more amazing.

Human beings can do such miraculous feats, like going to other planetary bodies (we've already reached the moon). It just makes me think I must be part of a different species. The characters in the film are fictionalized versions of all the very smart people down at NASA.

The film spends a great deal of time on Matt Damon 'sciencing the shit out of' his predicament. Which, initially, is pretty cool. He grows the aforementioned potatoes, for example. He co-opts an older probe. He uses radiation for heat. And so on.

The only thing they don't spend much time on is the human element, and without interest in him as a person, interest in his situation wanes as the film drags on and piles on disaster on top of another.

He has no love interest, for example. No close friends. His parents are mentioned, once, but he seems in no hurry to speak to them. They are not invited to NASA to view his return, or to write to him, or, well, anything.

They cover his relationships with his coworkers a little, but it never goes more than puddle deep.

It could so easily have been different.

The human element here is mostly, if not entirely, afterthought.

Gravity takes something of the same approach. We start with the disaster, so there's little time to flesh out Sandra Bullock's character. But that's less of a problem here: she has George Clooney to play off of, and the film is really an IMAX roller coaster ride in space. No need for rumination. Because lookout, space debris! Gravity isn't a deep film, and doesn't pretend to be. That's not the genre.

The Martian, on the other hand, had potential to be far more affecting emotionally than it was.

Castaway got to me. The Martian never did.

Interstellar had dodgy science. Three habitable planets around a black hole? Where was the light coming from? One hour on the surface is a year aboard the ship? Say what? What would that mean for satellite TV reception?

My monkey-brained understanding is that, even with a 'perfect' star like ours, Venus is too close, and Mars too far away, to support life. We're in just the right spot. It can vary a bit, but not much. The idea of finding three planets with stable orbits around a black hole seems… unlikely. But hey, I'm no scientist.

It scarcely matters: if you put the science of Interstellar aside (and I only bring it up because I was told so often how accurate and real it was), the film is much more enjoyable. They establish an emotional connection, and background, between the protagonist and his daughter. Love is at the centre of the film. Powerful, primal emotion the viewer can connect with. It has a heart, however overwrought.  

The Martian's heart barely beats. It's more like an episode of Nova or something.

Gravity felt like a realistic portrayal of a disaster in space, as far as Hollywood goes. The rapport between Bullock and Clooney sold it for me emotionally. Especially Clooney's seeming sacrifice, and unexpected return. They managed to make me care enough that the action sequences, and Bullock's fate, mattered.

By contrast, the lack of emotional depth in The Martian made the film a long, slow slog. There's a great bit with the Council of Elrond, and some clever and funny lines, but it needed more than cleverness. There's no looking into the empty void. No real anguish at being abandoned. He doesn't plumb the depths, he's too practical, so when he rises at the end it doesn't carry much emotional heft.

You just don't give a shit.

Some critics are saying The Martian is Ridley Scott 'returning to form' after the disaster that was Prometheus. I saw that film: it was gorgeous, creepy, and well cast, but didn't make a lick of sense. But you know what? I'd sooner watch Prometheus again than The Martian. I was never bored watching the former, while the latter made me shift in my seat and look at my watch.

Yes, I still have a watch.

Prometheus has characters who are interesting basket cases. The engineers are cool and mysterious. The android is ambiguous in intent. There's a lot going on to look at and absorb. It's a mess, honestly, but it's an interesting mess.

The Martian, on the other hand, is a slighter offering, despite the science. Despite the realism, or perhaps because of it, the picture was boring.

That's a cardinal sin for a piece of entertainment.

It should be mentioned that the climax is pulse pounding and I got caught up in it, but getting there was far more painful than it had to be.

Ultimately, The Martian just raised my opinion of Interstellar, Prometheus, and Gravity (although I already had a high opinion of Gravity).

Is it time to let go of plausibility and embrace the universe altering power of love?

Just remember to bring duct tape.