(Reprinted from the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography [cclapcenter.com]. I am the original author of this essay, as well as the owner of CCLaP; it is not being reprinted here illegally.)

This is one of four books that recently came in and out of my life without me finishing, but with none of them particularly that terrible, one of two award-nominated science-fiction novels; and the award this one was nominated for is the Hugo, an award which supposedly reflects the best SF novel of the entire year, and is considered by many to be the most prestigious award in that entire industry. But, oh, I don't know -- I don't want to say that Jon Armstrong's Grey is out-and-out bad, because it isn't, just that it's got one of those storylines that sounds a whole lot better as a premise inside an author's brain, while not so great or even that compelling when actually committed to paper. In fact, my brain is already fuzzy about the plot's details, a mere week after putting the manuscript down: it's the future, I remember that, a future run by royal Shakespearean families of sorts, where decorum and protocol rule all and the subtleties of fashion and music have become an outrageous arena for displaying one's political opinions. Unfortunately, though, Armstrong uses such a milieu to tell a mostly forgettable story, something about the wealthy and good-looking son of one of these outrageously-dressed patriarchs, who is part of some sort of weird countercultural fashion movement to dress only in infinitely subtle shades of grey, and I guess belongs to a religion that worships advertisements or something like that, and who along with his true love is fighting the prearranged political marriages that are the norm for their society. Or...something.

Like I said, I can see how this might've seemed like a cool concept for a fantastical novel when Armstrong was first dreaming it up; a shiny surrealist world where private armies wear stylish bright-orange satin suits and have three-foot-high hairdos, and where the ultimate form of rebellion a fey young fashionista can partake in is to only eat tan foods. But see, once you start writing stuff like that down, you start realizing just how ridiculous a lot of it would actually look if seen in the real world, or at least you should; this is the same problem, for example, that leads to all the ridiculous things you see in SF movie adaptations, from Zardoz to Southland Tales, all those silly cartoonish details that make you scratch your head and go, "Who the hell ever thought this would be a good idea?" Grey is not necessarily a bad book, but is definitely only for the most hardcore SF junkies out there, the genre apologists who not only own the DVD box-sets of crappy 1970s obscure television space operas, but actually watch them on a regular basis. Again, it makes me wonder why it got nominated for a Hugo in the first place, when you would think that the award-givers would want to concentrate on the absolute best their industry had to offer that year. Approach with caution.

Out of 10: 5.3 ( )

Armstrong is quite the wordsmith, but I think that’s all I really liked about his debut novel. It wasn’t bad, but it’s not my thing.

(Full review at my blog) ( )

Grey is a far-future dystopia where you don't get to explore too much of the future and the narrator doesn't seem to care about the dystopia. It moves quickly and is very visual. The book begs to be made into a movie or miniseries as the rich descriptions of future fashion and music are a director's dream come true. On the other hand, the narrator is unlikable by virtue of being a cad, a twit, a bit of a rich prick and utterly useless in every situation.
You have no stake in the climax of the book or in the movements of any protagonist because they are all alien, and the only inner life you have access to is a barren wasteland of fashion commentary.
All that criticism aside, the journey to the unsatisfying climax is a satisfying journey. The world is interesting, intriguing and you always want to look around it more. Worth a read on the subway. ( )

http://www.nightshadebooks.com/Downlo...

Satire suit.

If you took C. M. Kornbluth's snarky satire and changed the language to be far more Ellisonesque in its euphemism then you might get some idea of the tone of this book, which can border on the hysterical.

Our protagonist is a naif scion of one of the filthy richest corporates in a not particularly nice at all dystopian media overloaded you get the picture society. All is good for these really rich people, apart from the habit that people, particularly the off the grid and untraceable freeboot society have of inserting bullets into their bodies at high velocity, or occasionally blowing them up.

Such an happening interrupts a planned corporate-marriage-merger, and our not so with it main character starts to get his eyes opened.

His father--imagine J. Jonah Jameson with an extremely high daily quota of f-bombs and tarts to get through, and you will have some idea of his personality--is not overly pleased, as when invulnerable super corporate families get penetrated, ratings plummet.

If you'd like an example of some of his father's eloquence:-
"'Anyway, I feel for you, son! I do. I was watching that date—and holy fucking shit was it boring—but whatever! I was there with my girls, my snacks, and we were all cheering and going on, and then I couldn't fucking believe a freeboot! They should all be rounded up and fried in oil! Motherfuckers.''

"'They’re off the system,' said Joelene, with surprising annoyance. 'That’s why they can’t be located and rounded up, as you say.'

Father leaned far forward and squinted. 'You’re here, too? Jesus fuckercakes, Michael! Can’t you fart without her anymore?' He smacked his face with one of his thick hands. 'God, son, what do you have in your ball sack? Muffins?'"

The rest of it continues as the bad son finds out what his father (and mother) have really been up to, and more about anti-corporate activities.

http://freesf.blogspot.com/2008/03/gr...
( )

What if the gap between the rich and the average opened to a gulf too wide to bridge? What if megafamily corporations had every resource in a media saturated world?

This is the story of Michael of RiverGroup family. He has had every need taken care of since he was born. But recently he changed from a dancer and image obsessed fashion plate (of truly horrible fashions) like his father to a somber young adult so addicted to a black and white fashion magazine, Pure H, that he has the rods removed from one eye so that he can see the world in black and white. He is engaged to the scion, Nora, of another megafamily who is also an enthusiast of Pure H. Together they "date" in the media drenched, publicity induced engagement arranged by their families, until Michael is injured by a sniper. Nora's father immediately revokes the engagement, making Michael and Nora the Romeo and Juliet of the far future. RiverGroup, once the top corporation for security is now spiraling down out of control. His father is too stupid to be able to save the family except by arranging a marriage to a grandniece of a once powerful family. Michael rejects this arrangement and does everything he can to get back to his love, Nora.

This is a first novel and has some of the structural problems and wording choices that would have been corrected by a more experienced writer. But this book does have a great sense of place and wonderful examination of a possible media/publicity filled future. I love Armstrong's energy and voice. ( )