The Grim Gathering and Grimdark Fantasy

 A couple of years ago, I went to an author evening organised by Fantasy Faction which featured Joe Abercrombie, Peter V. Brett and Myke Cole. I'd never read a word by any of them, but I was impressed by the way they talked about their books. Since then, I've read, enjoyed and reviewed the first books by Abercrombie and Brett. Cole attracts me less, not because I don't expect him to be good, but because real-world military stories aren't really my bag. I will try him, though — I may find him the exception that proves the rule. *

On Wednesday evening, Fantasy Faction organised a return event dubbed the Grim Gathering. Held at Waterstone's bookshop in Kensington High Street, this featured the original three, plus Mark Lawrence. Understandably, it was more important to have him than to keep the alphabetic theme going and get someone whose surname began with D.

The large space on Waterstone's lower floor was packed, and the authors were entertaining, especially Abercrombie. It was surprising, though, how few questions they could get through, with four people each giving full and informative answers. All the same, I felt we got a flavour of who each author was.

There was a good deal of discussion about the so-called Grimdark fantasy genre that's fashionable at the moment, with which all four are more or less identified. My reason for writing this is more to give some thoughts and reactions about the genre than simply a review of the event.

Grimdark, of course, is a convenient umbrella term. Like many musical trends (punk, for instance, a comparison which was mentioned during the evening) it lumps together many individuals who respond to a particular zeitgeist in often very different ways. Brett, for instance, disputes that his work is really Grimdark, and certainly The Painted/Warded Man ** seems to me to contain far more heroism than cynicism.

Although I've enjoyed what I've read of these authors so far, and intend to read more, I have two slight queries about how the genre is presented. Neither invalidates it, but the queries are there.

Firstly, a lot of use seems to be made of the phrase the world as it really is (or variations) to distinguish Grimdark from the more Tolkien-inspired fantasy of the 80s and 90s. This seems perilously close to the arguments traditionally used by those who want to insist we shouldn't read fantasy at all. We should concentrate on the "real world".

In any case, what is the world like, really? It's very easy to follow the news and conclude that the real world is all psychopathic killers, money-grubbing bankers and cynical politicians. That's a significant part of it, of course, and needs to be acknowledged by anyone presenting a broad view of this or any other world. But the real world also includes heroism, compassion and self-sacrifice: firefighters risking their lives to pull people out of burning buildings, or carers who dedicate their lives to looking after someone. I believe this side of the world needs to be acknowledged too, and can be writ large in fantasy as world-saving heroism and compassion.

The other thing that I find a slight annoyance is the perception that Grimdark is a startling new direction, and that all earlier fantasy was light and shining. Again, I'm reminded of punk, where the "year zero" attitude ignored the fact that there'd been plenty of punk before punk (come on, by what definition was The Who's My Generation not punk? Or Chuck Berry's No More Monkey Business?)

Cynical manipulators as fantasy heroes go back at least as far as Cabell's Jurgen. Conan (as originally written) was morally grey and Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser a deeper charcoal; Clark Ashton Smith's work was full of characters who would be very much at home in Grimdark, and E.R. Eddison was almost as Machiavellian as Martin. The trend intensified in the 60s and 70s through morally ambiguous heroes like Moorcock's Elric, Wagner's Kane and Donaldson's Thomas Covenant. And I have vaguer memories of more obscure "heroes" who made those look like shining paladins by comparison.

Then, from the late 70s, the pendulum swung to the optimistic and heroic: Brooks, Eddings, Weiss & Hickman and the rest. Even so, there were greyer authors like Gemmell, though it's probably fair to say the trend was a brightness that Martin — Grimdark's ultimate inspiration — broke through like a dark beacon.

Grimdark can perhaps be best seen as an unusually wide swing of the pendulum to the dark side, but not unique. The depth of its darkness can probably be put down to boundaries already pushed further in the modern age, although Lawrence pointed out at the Grim Gathering that horror has routinely included material for years that's far darker than anything he's done, without creating any particular comment. Nevertheless, it's not fundamentally a new idea.

Several of the authors on Wednesday made the point that Grimdark (however it's defined) hasn't by any means taken over fantasy, and that the genre is still a broad spectrum. I'd add the argument that there also doesn't have to be any absolute choice between positions on the spectrum. For myself, I've enjoyed Abercrombie and Brett, but I also still love Lord of the Rings. I get different impacts from them, and I've no wish for every book I read to affect me in the same way.

For my own writing, I probably fall somewhere in the middle, but I try to spread out a fair way on either side. I certainly don't have any time (except in comedy) for heroes whose strength is the strength of ten because their hearts are pure, but I suppose I'd characterise my favourite type of hero as an idealist with serious human flaws, who tries to do his or her best and sometimes succeeds. Not that I'm at all averse to the odd psychopath, or just an opportunist on the make; but I do try to balance them.

The authors characterised as Grimdark are important, and I suspect they'll be seen from the future as the defining fantasy authors of the twenty-teens, but there'll always be alternative fantasy visions for different tastes. And that's precisely how it should be. In the meantime, I'll read more by the authors at the Gathering and look forward to the next event Fantasy Faction organises.

 

* Going off at a complete tangent, I'd just like to clarify for anyone who's not already aware that this saying uses the old meaning of "prove" and properly means "the exception that tests the rule". Otherwise, it would be absurd.

** I'm not sure which to treat as the correct title. Although Brett is American, the book was published first in the UK as The Painted Man and subsequently in the US as The Warded Man. Even so, I find the US title far more convincing and appropriate (unlike, for instance, the ridiculous change from The Philosopher's Stone to The Sorcerer's Stone.)

Review of The Painted/Warded Man by Peter V. Brett

All right, I'll start with the title.  This book is called The Painted Man in the UK and The Warded Man in the US.  Since I knew Brett is American, I was all ready to say this is just as stupid and pointless a title change as many American versions of British books and films (the first Harry Potter, for instance).

However, it appears the book was actually published first in the UK, followed by a US edition the next year.  I've no idea if The Warded Man was a change by the publishers or reverting to Brett's original choice; but whatever, it's a far superior title, in my opinion.  The concept of wards and warding is absolutely central to the book, whereas painted isn't even accurate ― he's actually tattooed.

Whatever it's called, I enjoyed this book, with only a few reservations.  It's set in a kind of post-apocalyptic world ― but not our world, and not our idea of an apocalypse.  This is a world in which demons live in the "Core" and can rise to the surface at night, slaughtering the weaker humans.  These "corelings" were defeated long ago, and the world appears to have reached a fairly advanced technological state.

Three hundred years before the book's action, though, the corelings returned suddenly, devastating an unprepared world.  The only people who survived were those able to use the ancient magic wards, by which their houses or city walls could repel the nightly demon attacks.  Now, the whole culture is built around the need for protection against corelings.

The story covers about 13 years, during which three young people grow to maturity, following the three trades that lie somewhat outside the norm.  Arlen, a boy who believes passionately that it should be possible to fight back against the demons, learns to be a Messenger, those who brave the open countryside to link together the scattered communities.  Leesha is apprenticed as a Herb Gatherer, the healers (always female) who've preserved some of the knowledge from old times.  And Rojer, orphaned as a toddler, becomes a Jongleur, the itinerant entertainers who keep the ancient stories alive.

Gradually, each finds a way, within their own discipline to fight back against the corelings, and by the last section, they've met and combined their strengths.  Will it be enough, though, against an apparently undefeatable enemy?

The three leads are each engaging people in their different ways, but perhaps the book's greatest strength is the world it shows us.  This is a culture which, in some ways, resembles the traditional European village life that's the mainstay of epic fantasy, but the differences are telling.  Perhaps the most obvious is that life is lived from sunrise to sunset.  No gathering in the village pub for the evening ― it would be death to be out after dark.

Brett follows up each of the ways in which the demon threat forces society into a unique shape, and shows us how these enter the collective psyche.  The most important single activity is maintaining the wards on the houses, and a husband carries his new bride over the wards of their house, not over its threshold.  The language itself reflects it ― the standard curse is night! and to be killed by corelings is to be cored.  Even the cure for a hangover that we'd called the hair of the dog that bit me is expressed as a claw from the demon that cored me.

It's not a perfect novel.  The balance between the three leads is often lopsided ― at one point, Leesha makes no appearance for well over a hundred pages ― and I occasionally found the omniscient POV annoying, although much of the time it's well handled.

Most of the controversy about this book has been about the desert realm of Krasia, which Arlen visits during the third of the four sections, and which the sequel, The Desert Spear, seems to concentrate on.  It's very easy to see this as a thinly disguised version of Arab culture and, though much of this is inevitable (desert cultures are bound to have certain things in common), there's some justification in this view.  Certainly, their fanaticism and their attitude to women seem to reflect the standard western concept of Arabic/Islamic culture.

On the other hand, Brett's picture is neither all negative nor as much a caricature as some similar cases (C.S. Lewis's Calormen, for instance).  The militant martyrdom ideal, which is given an exaggerated and very negative profile in western portrayal of Islam, is treated much more sympathetically here, since it's aimed exclusively against demons.

Nevertheless, it's not the most comfortable part of the story, and I'm aware that some people who've loved the first book have hated the second.  I'll make up my own mind, of course, when I read it.  A third book, The Daylight War, has just been published, and at least two more are due in the future.  Based on the first book, I'm looking forward to reading them.