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Gatiss, what have you done?

The Vesuvius Club

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It’s a hackneyed turn of phrase – we’ve all heard it, whether directed at ourselves in moments of deep personal opprobrium, or, later, jesting with friends, bonding over the fact that we are all of us imperfect beings – but, Mark Gatiss, I’m not even mad. I’m disappointed.

I picked up The Vesuvius Club: Graphic Edition from the local library a while back. The comic version of Gatiss’ 2004 novel of the same name, the work is a condensed version of Gatiss’ text coupled with Ian Bass’ art. Black and white, the depiction is a blend of real-to-life and caricature, stark lines with negative space in solid fill. Far from the worst I’ve seen, it remains perfunctory – there isn’t much here that benefits a second viewing; it’s all surface.

The volume covers a single arc, and runs to 100 pages, as well as character splashes and newspaper-style adverts on the inside covers. It’s here that the frustrations set in. The design, at least to my mind, sets you up for something similar to Moore and O’Neill’s The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen – both series cover the same period, the late Victorian/Early Edwardian, both have a puckish reverence for the aesthetics of the era, both blend the mundaneity of the period with the fantastical. It’s a bit of a difficult comparing much of anything in comics to Moore’s work – there is almost always a clear divide in quality, in depth, in novelty, etc., etc. What little I’ve read of Gaiman’s work sometimes comes close, but I’ve seen little else. Which is all to say that it might be a little unfair to compare this, an adaptation of a work, from a writer of various media, to that of a focussed effort from a master of the form. The failure to achieve greatness, however, is not what I’m so frustrated by.

Better story. Better art. Better politics.

Better story. Better art. Better politics.

Moore, as a story-teller, is definitely not without fault, and League, for all it’s depth and detail, is a flawed work that, at least in the main run, collapsed under its own weight. While clearly riffing off the period each issue was set in – it was, after all, an effort to blend all of literature – the whole arc was steeped in Moore’s particular style of progressivism. Though the characters themselves may have been constrained by Edwardian values, the narrative itself didn’t play to those rules – indeed, so much of the story is driven by Mina Harker’s efforts to assert herself in a “man’s world” playing a “man’s role.” When odious, racist depictions surfaced, they were almost always undercut and inverted; acting, rather than as signifiers for themselves, to show off why these caricatures were wrong in the first place.

To its benefit, Vesuvius is not totally without this – the protagonist is bisexual, and one of his accomplices gay, and this is not treated as morally reprehensible by the tone of the narrative, if not always their fellow characters. However, I fear that Gatiss may have played it too straight in his appreciation for and representation of mores of the period. Characterisation of other elements in the story are lifted almost whole-cloth, without any evidence of satire or nuance, from the racist and bigoted tropes of the era. There is a stereo-typical ‘mandarin’ looking awfully a lot like something Mickey Rooney may have played who, inevitably, runs the Opium Den, and then the villain, in the reveal, turns out to be a transvestite. And mad. ‘Cause nothing’s more twisted and evvilll than a mentally distressed person with a penchant for women’s dress.

Cultural appropriation is a hot topic in the literary world at the moment, what with Lionel Shriver’s recent key note pushing back against what she feels is political correctness gone mad, and the inevitable blow-back she received as others circled the wagons (for my part, I think both parties are wrong). Vesuvius, though, is obviously not a case of appropriation as much as it is stale tropes that were rankly offensive when they first surfaced, let alone more than a century later. What is worse is that we all know Gatiss is better than this – his work in Doctor Who and Sherlock (“The Abominable Bride” aside…) are some of television’s better efforts, so it’s not as if the man is a serial offender or endemically prejudiced.

I can only hope that this is a singular misstep in an otherwise reputable career. Evidently Vesuvius has been in production for the small screen for a while. Hopefully they clean it up a bit.

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Sexuality in Fiction

Some quick thoughts on Sexuality in Fiction

One of the hurdles I’m facing in starting to write works of fiction concerns something that, divorced from our strange and crazy society, should be a fairly straightforward affair.
How far do I want to go in describing sexuality and sexual acts?

Given that my aim is to write speculative fiction, with rounded characters, it seems necessary, at some point, that these characters will engage in sexual acts. How do I present them? I suppose it’ll just be whatever the situation calls for.
It’s certainly not that I’m a prude – if you’ve had the good fortune to come across a copy of Alan Moore’s 25,000 Years of Erotic Freedom, it gives a good synopsis, aside from some questionable anthropological claims, of where I stand on the matter (and if you haven’t, there seem to be torrents available, though it is worth it to get yourself a hard copy). Despite that, I’m still the product of the society I’ve grown up in – Anglo-Saxon, predominantly Christian – which leaves me feeling, if only slightly, a bit reticent about the whole matter. I’m certainly on-board with the effort to “reclaim” erotica – prescriptivist though I might be when it comes to the written word, I think the realm of the censor is vanishingly small in any properly free and democratic society – but I am left with the question of how and when to engage in it. Ideally, should all adult fiction, where it is not egregiously inappropriate, include a modicum of the erotic in the future? Should it be relegated to those works that have as their main focus the erotic? Is the sexual meant only to titillate, or, should we instead seek to normalise it, and return it once-more to the common place position it seems to have held for our ancient forebears?
Back to the question of execution – I don’t imagine I’d trip up so thoroughly as to write something “porny,” as, of course, that’s not really my intention. While it might be nice to one day be mentioned in the Literary Review, I’ll aim clear of their Bad Sex in Fiction award. I am concerned about essentialising my characters, though. One of my hopes is to be able to write with a wider character palette than just the normal hetero/white set you see in sci-fi and fantasy of the past, but, by the same token, I don’t want it to come off as some ham-fisted affirmative action effort, either. I don’t want to have gay characters, for example, simply be an otherwise-blank canvas dominated by their sexuality. These concerns, of course, extend beyond orientation and cover aspects like race and creed, too. But sexuality, unlike race or (non)religious affiliation, is something a great deal more fundamental to who we are as humans. If I’m going to achieve anything by way of what I write, I don’t want this to slip by the way-side.
As I said earlier, I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see how it turns out!