Review: Saturation Point by Adrian Tchaikovsky

A tight first-person recollection of an expedition to the now uninhabitable tropical regions of the planet... and what is found there

Doctor Jasmine Marks is a solution to a problem. A couple of decades ago, she was on an expedition to The Hygrometric Dehabitation Region, the “Zone,” a growing band of rainforest on the equator. The Zone is way too hot, long-term uninhabitable to humans, but if one could... its economic potential could be invaluable. And so Marks is recruited for another mission to the Zone. Another mission to try and complete the goals of the first mission, and a chance to find her lost mentor, Doctor Fell.

This is the story of Saturation Point by Adrian Tchaikovsky.

Tchaikovsky’s near-future world, his worldbuilding, plot and narrative twists, rely on the concept of “wet bulb” temperature. That is to say, high temperature, high humidity environments, extreme by even modern standards. You see, even in a desert at extreme temperatures, the human body can sweat, and try and cool itself, and hydration can stave off and make life possible, or at least plausible in hot and dry conditions. But in hot and humid conditions, when the wet bulb temperature, as it is called, is too high, the human body cannot sweat to cool itself. No mammal can, in fact. And so the body temperature rises, proteins denature, and death occurs. Thus a spreading zone of tropical heat, hot and wet, is a death zone for humans and most forms of life. In a world where climate change has ravaged inhabitable land, trying to make a go of the Zone would be of enormous economic benefit. Or at least to a megacorporation or two, anyway.

And thus, two decades after her previous trip, Dr. Marks is recruited by a corporation to go back in the Zone with a team, acting as the “native guide” due to her previous experience. They are suited, kitted and seemingly ready to tackle the dangers of the Zone. The cover story they give Marks and the others is a plane crash inside the tropics, a chance to save the survivors. It’s a lie, of course. But by the time Marks and company are told the truth, it is far too late and they are committed to the project and deep within the Zone.

It does not go well.

The story is told in a series of first-person debriefing sessions of Dr. Marks after the expedition. This narrative structure gives Tchaikovsky a lot of room to play with form and hold and withhold information. Marks’s may be a reliable narrator and tell us what she sees and experiences in a given moment, but the strength of a first-person point of view is that things can and do happen outside of that camera lens. Also, since it is in a debriefing format, this gives Marks the opportunity to curate and shape her answers, experiences and recollections, which Tchaikovsky makes great use of as well to make this a careful narrative experience.

There is one more aspect to this, one I didn’t catch at first, but as the narrative went on, I noticed it more and more. The session debriefings are not all there. We hop, skip and jump across numbers. We get a necessarily narrowed and limited set of recollections of the expedition, and the author makes ever greater use of those blank narrative spaces to help shape the story. It’s something that comes into focus and best appreciation once the story is done (this is a story for writers and fans interested in the craft to read and then reread to look at *structure*). I have noticed that shorter forms by the author are where he likes to play with narrative devices and forms and ideas like this in various ways, compared to the more traditional form of many of his bigger novels. While those bigger novels are bigger canvases and I would not trade those for the world, these shorter works are refreshing and interesting.

In a tight novella format with that point of view, we get a curated experience of worldbuilding. Tchaikovsky moves briskly, moving Marks to the Zone in short order, but not before we get a sense of his megacorporation-dominated near-to-medium-future world. And again, like with the use of sessions and the like, what he doesnt’t say and doesn’t mention weighs as heavily as the details we do get. Things flip on their head when we are in the lushness of the Zone and we get the riot of life and its alien-planet-like conditions. This is Tchaikovsky in his main element, and the Zone would be a terrifying and dangerous place even if there weren’t dangerous animal life... or on the other hand, if the wet bulb temperatures weren’t deadly to humans. Together, it makes for an experience of waiting for the dominoes to fall. We know Marks must survive... but everyone else is fair game.

We get thumbnail sketches of all the characters, just enough to know them and care about them as they face the horrors of the Zone. This human factor really is the secret sauce that lifts the author’s work an extra notch. The alien ecology of the jungle environment is a keeper, but add the characters, and I found myself impatient to get back to the book to listen to the next “session” from Dr. Marks as her journey progresses, to find out what happened next, and who might be the next to fall to the dangers of the Zone.

I listened to this book in audio. This is not the first book I’ve listened to by Adrian Tchaikovsky that has been narrated by Emma Newman (she seems to like narrating books by Tchaikovsky with female protagonists). Newman brings the passion, sometimes desperation that Jasmine Marks shows in her session entries. And as the secrets of the narrative reveal, Newman helps sell the narrative with her vocal talents.

With Saturation Point, Tchaikovsky’s interests in strange alien ecologies and the interface between them and the human factor wind up in a winning narrative combination. The short novella format, with the session structure, is sharp, punchy and hits the line between not being too short and not being overlong either. This is the sort of novella that you don’t wish was really a novel, especially given the ending. It’s a fascinating and engaging world, but this narrative is quite well contained.

In a thematic and artistic sense, Saturation Point feels like a first cousin to Tchaikovsky’s Alien Clay. While there are connections to be had through all of his work, the resonances of these two books make them feel like a package deal, and if you liked one, I can heartily recommend the other to you to complete the pair of definitive 2024 SF experiences from Tchaikovsky.

Highlights:

• Engaging audio version narrated by Emma Newman 
• Strong use of point of view 
• Future tropics Earth as deadly alien landscape
• Cover art gives clues as to what Marks and her team find in the Zone

Reference: Tchaikovsky. Adrian. Saturation Point [Rebellion Publishing, 2024].

POSTED BY: Paul Weimer. Ubiquitous in Shadow, but I’m just this guy, you know? @princejvstin.

Review: Skeleton Crew

A fun romp through the Star Wars universe with kids, pirates, aliens, robots, and a gigantic homage to The Goonies (Spoiler-free)

Before we dive in, make no mistake: Skeleton Crew is a tween-focused show, and it follows four kids who literally get lost in the Star Wars galaxy. Some folks may be surprised by this POV, but it's definitely still enjoyable for adults at the same time. This may sound corny, but watching it made me feel like I was young again. Kids deserve a show like this! I found myself thinking frequently, which is a thing I have never thought before about anything.

The four main characters are all likable and adorable, especially Neel, the looks-like-Max-Rebo youngster that somehow ISN'T an Ortolan. The show also gives the emotion, agency, and complicated backstories, which is kind of rare for most kid content.

While exploring an underground, abandoned-looking starship, a quick press of the start-engine button sends the kids blasting off into hyperspace (This part of the plot was giving me 1980s Space Camp and Explorers vibes). But where they live isn't your regular Star Wars planet—it's a world called At Attin that appears to be hiding from the rest of the galaxy.

As they search for someone who has the coordinates to guide their way back home, they encounter fearsome space pirates and all sorts of well-done CGI aliens and creatures, and even unravel a potential conspiracy about the very existence and purpose of their home world.

Being a kid's show, the subject matter is fairly light, but it's still entertaining. Jude Law joins up with the crew to become their de facto Adult, and is hiding a shady past and also Force skills. He's very good in Skeleton Crew, and manages to strike the right balance of funny, menacing, and chaotic.

As a lover of all things nautical, I adored the way the showrunners combined space piracy with actual classic pirate tropes. You get the faithful robot mate SM-33 (voiced by the wonderful Nick Frost) who has one metallic eye, pirate-y grammar (I'll be repeating "Can't say I ever heard of no At Attin" for the rest of time), and an incredibly deep knowledge of pirate lore and legend.

The bad-guy group of pirates in Skeleton Crew are also after plunder that looks straight out of the 1650's—or One Eyed Willy's ship, the Inferno, in The Goonies, all gold bangles, pieces of eight, and pearl necklaces. You'd expect Star Wars space pirates to be after digital data or Republic space credits, but that, of course, would be boring. So I'm glad they combined two worlds to make something new and different—that's been missing in Star Wars for a while. I like that there's no fan service in Skeleton Crew. You won't get Boba Fett riding a rancor or Luke Skywalker deepfakes. You just get small glimpses of the things you love about the world, fun easter eggs like random Hutts in mud baths, eopies, and even visual recreations of classic Star Wars scenes.

I don't have kids, but watching this with one would be an absolutely incredible experience, and a great way to give them a show that's their own but also something you could enjoy as an adult Star Wars fan, too. I hope more people give Skeleton Crew a shot. The short, 7-episode season flies by and actually ends on a cliffhanger so here's to a renewal!

Nerd Coefficient: 8/10.

POSTED BY: Haley Zapal, NoaF contributor and lawyer-turned-copywriter living in Atlanta, Georgia. A co-host of Hugo Award-winning podcast Hugo, Girl!, she posts on Instagram as @cestlahaley. She loves nautical fiction, growing corn and giving them pun names like Timothee Chalamaize, and thinking about fried chicken.

Review: Long Live Evil, by Sarah Rees Brennan

A genre-savvy romp with heart and depth

There’s a bit of a trend going around SFF these days, a willingness to break the fourth wall and allow characters in books to resemble readers not only in demographic features (the traditional meaning of ‘representation’) but also in knowledge of the genre. Jill Bearup’s charming Just Stab Me Now (2024), in which an indy writer tries to force her characters to participate in tropes that they have too much depth for, is one. Another is Django Wexler’s hilarious How to Become a Dark Lord and Die Trying (2024), in which a woman caught in a portal fantasy time loop decides to use skills learned from video games, such as ‘slum-running’, to take advantage of her 1000 years of repeated experience. Dark Lord also engages with another trend that has always been bubbling away in our collective genre-consciousness: the idea that the bad guys might have something to say for themselves. This is not a new idea. Natalie Zina Walschott’s Hench (previously reviewed here on NOAF), an unflinching indictment of capitalism and US health care systems, came out in (2020). But it stretches back literally centuries. I first encountered it in the last century, when my elementary school teacher read to us The True Story of the Three Little Pigs by John Scieszka (1989). And some —including my mother, who taught Milton at our local university— have argued that that Satan got all the good lines in Paradise Lost (1667).

So, drawing on this wealth of cultural history, Sarah Rees Brennan’s Long Live Evil is hardly a novel idea, but it is a moving, thoughtful exploration of it. We open with Rae, a young woman dying of cancer. Her medical care is about to bankrupt her family, and it’s pretty clear that she’s not going to survive anyway. Her world has narrowed to her hospital room and her visitors—who no longer include her friends (they deserted her when she became too much of a downer) or her mother (who works around the clock in order to stave off bankruptcy a little longer), but do include her little sister, her beloved littler sister. Her sister has been reading aloud to Rae from Time of Iron, the first in an epic high fantasy series that Rae started reading late in the game, mostly because her sister adores it.

Rae thinks the best parts of the series are the later books, when the love interest from Book 1 succumbs to his grief at the loss of his beloved, and becomes the Evil Emperor, who is just awesome. She never really paid much attention to Book 1, before all this evil descent kicks off, and even though her little sister is reading aloud to her now, she’s having difficulty —what with chemo-brain and dying— paying much attention.

Then a mysterious lady enters the hospital room and offers Rae a choice: she can play out this ongoing death, or she can enter the world of Time of Iron, acquire the magical healing flower of Life and Death, and return to her life in the Real World. She is not the first person to have been offered this opportunity, but she would be the first person to succeed. Hesitantly, Rae takes this unlikely one-in-a-million last chance, and steps into Time of Iron.

Unfortunately, she steps into Time of Iron in the middle of Book 1 —the one she’s not as familiar with— and worse, she steps into the shoes of Rahella, on the eve of her execution, which is the rightful comeuppance for her dastardly misdeeds. So Rae must, naturally, find a way to avert execution, assemble a team of minions, and get herself to the Flower of Life and Death on the one day of the year that it blooms—only a few weeks from now. And she must do it as the villainess. Since playing by the rules and trying to be good has so far gotten her nothing but a lingering death in a hospital bed, Rae decides to seize life with both hands, and be as selfish and evil as she can. Because evil is awesome. And also sexy.

This book draws heavily on familiar tropes from high fantasy, at two levels. On the outer level, the Rae’s-story level, we have the portal fantasy combined with the time-constrained Quest narrative for the Magical MacGuffin. This works very effectively to structure Rae’s actions and provide high-stakes life-and-death motivation throughout all the rest of the events of Long Live Evil. But it is merely reflecting pressures from the inner level, where the internal book, Time of Iron, which hosts Rae’s Quest, is almost entirely constructed upon a heavy scaffolding of more tropes upon tropes. We get snippets of this host-tale at the beginning of each chapter, and they are all very high fantasy. Everyone’s got descriptive epithets: The Lady Dipped in Blood, the Golden Cobra, the Last Hope, the Iron Maid; everyone’s plot arc tends toward misery; and although we only ever see Book 1, the series itself has so many books.

It all feels very Game of Thrones in its general vibe, but there are familiar elements from other traditions too. Fairy tales are one such contributor. The reason Rahella (as in-book villainess) is originally caught is because her victim —who is also her little sister— confesses her woes ‘privately’ to an oven, which somehow is connected to a room elsewhere where sympathetic ears can overhear. I’ve never quite understood how this architecture is supposed to work, but I recognise it from The Goose Girl, and I’m sure that this isn’t an accident. Then we’ve got Rahella’s punishment, which Rae’s first task is to avert when she steps into Rahella’s body: to be forced to dance in red hot shoes until dead. This fate was originally a punishment for Snow White’s stepmother in one of the bloodier versions of that fairy tale. Beyond fairy tales, we’ve also got some extreme Joseph Campbell going on. The rise of the Emperor is necessarily preceded by a trip to the Ravine, where the Emperor-to-be must vanquish the undead to gain his power, all very Hero’s Journeyishly. Then, at one point, musical theater makes an appearance.

There are a couple of ways to interpret this hodge-podge of familiar elements. One is simply that Time of Iron, like any high fantasy book, is part of a genre, and engages with conventions that we expect any competent genre writer to be familiar with. Palace intrigue, trips to the underworld, attacking hordes of undead monsters—these are the bread and butter of high fantasy books; and there is more than a bit of winking at how silly it can all get. The snippets of Time of Iron at the beginning of each chapter are all highly, highly purple. This is distinct from Rae’s own narrative, which is characterised not only by its genre-savvy recognition of the tropes and types around her, but also by highly effective meditations on the effects, physical, social, and psychological, of living through treatment of terminal cancer. Beyond writing style, the ways in which Rae’s experiences affect her interaction with this fantasy world are nuanced and thematically tight, because Sarah Rees Brennan is no slouch in the writing skills department.

But there’s something else going on here, too. When Rae is invited to step into Time of Iron, she is told that this world is real because people believe it is real. And as she starts to take action to further her own aims, she sees the world itself responding. She is able to change the story from the inside. And if she can, then so have other people who have been offered this chance to save their lives. Time of Iron, the book, is written by ‘Anonymous’; and as Long Live Evil unfolds, it becomes clearer and clearer that the whole story of Time of Iron may not be the tale of a single writer. Rather, it is a kind of joint consensus, constructed by the engagement of thousands and millions of readers, and also by the uncounted number of people from the ‘Real World’ who have had the opportunity to step into this world and change it, as Rae is doing.

In this way, Time of Iron itself is not just an internal, tropey, silly high fantasy tale that Rae, winking at the readers of Long Live Evil, is going to spank with her genre-savvy smarts. No, it is a love letter to high fantasy as a whole, and a love letter to the fans who jointly construct the genre, and who engage with it deeply, whole-heartedly, unafraid to fall in love and fight and grieve and live whole lives in this alternative reality.

The very structure of the book highlights this intent. At first, we see everything through Rae’s eyes alone. But as she becomes more embedded, as the other characters become less characters and more people in her eyes, we start to see the story through their eyes, eyes untainted by genre-savviness; eyes of people for whom this world, this rich, dangerous, beautiful, unpredictable world is the only reality they know.

This is the first entry in a trilogy, and so does not wrap up the story in Book 1. If that’s going to be a problem for you, please buy the novel now without reading it, or take it out from the library and return it unread, or request it from your library, or do whatever it takes to tell the publisher that this is loved and wanted and the remainder of the trilogy should be published. This is for us, friends. Brennan is reaching out a clawed fist with love and affection for our genre and us, the readers. It would be churlish to reject it.

Nerd Coefficient: 7/10, an enjoyable experience, but not without its flaws.

Highlights:

• A love-letter to high fantasy

• Genre savvy use of tropes

• Nuanced, sensitive character work

• Sexy, sexy evil 

References: 

Bearup, Jill, Just Stab Me Now [Sword Lady Books 2024].

Brennan, Sarah Rees, Long Live Evil [Orbit 2024].

Campbell, Joseph. The Hero with a Thousand Faces [Princeton University Press 1949].

Milton, John. Paradise Lost [Samuel Simmons 1667].

Scieszka, John, The True Story of the Three Little Pigs [Viking Kestrel 1989].

Walschots, Natalie Zina, Hench [William Morrow 2020].

Wexler, Django, How to Become a Dark Lord and Die Trying [Orbit 2024].

CLARA COHEN lives in Scotland in a creaky old building with pipes for gas lighting still lurking under her floorboards. She is an experimental linguist by profession, and calligrapher and Islamic geometric artist by vocation. During figure skating season she does blather on a bit about figure skating. She is on Mastodon at wandering.shop/@ergative, and on Bluesky at https://bsky.app/profile/ergative-abs.bsky.social

TV Review: Creature Commandos

A raunchy, visceral, uncompromising statement of intention

The new iteration of DC-derived stories has a curious choice of opening chapter. With narrative threads vaguely connecting to The Suicide Squad (the good one) and its spinoff series Peacemaker, the HBO Max series Creature Commandos reanimates a discussion that should have been declared resolved decades ago, but that the current era of superheroes seems to have forgotten: What if you could fix the world with just one little murder? Never mind that the first half of the series is about trying to prevent that murder; if you've met self-appointed protector of humankind Amanda Waller, you know that her extensive skill set doesn't include moral consistency. So throwing away money and lives to defend the princess-heiress of Pokolistan from sorceress Circe and her army of easily duped incels, only to change her mind and throw away more money and lives to have said princess-heiress murdered anyway, is exactly on brand for her.

Writer/producer/director James Gunn surely knew that starting this new DC saga with a team story would prompt parallels with the Justice League. Namely, how is this team different from its more heroic counterpart? What is it that makes the Commandos a dark mirror of the League? That kind of comparison isn't new. If you want answers about why Superman doesn't kill (and, therefore, why Zack Snyder doesn't have the faintest idea how to handle the Justice League), all you need to read is the 2001 story What's So Funny About Truth, Justice & the American Way? by Joe Kelly. Much like the Snyderverse drew from the gray worldview of The Dark Knight Returns and The Death of Superman, it seems the... Gunnverse? is drawing from the genre's own reaction to that excess of cynicism.

So let's return to our initial question, which can be rephrased like this: Can the value of one life be purely instrumental? In such Kantian terms, the question touches the core of why Amanda Waller operates the way she does. Her extreme brand of pragmatism bypasses any consideration of principle, and the same logic that makes her stage a clandestine operation to protect a foreign head of state can as easily move her to favor the opposite strategic objective. How does this make sense to her? Easy: a high-profile political assassination with unknown cascading repercussions isn't any more problematic to her than forcing inmates to risk ther necks for uncertain gain. The life of a princess-heiress or the life of an unjustly incarcerated metahuman are just assets to her, usable or disposable according to whatever arcane moral calculation is going on in her head.

And this is why Gunn chose Creature Commandos as the first entry in the new DC-verse: to establish a clear demarcation over against the messy position the Snyderverse started with. The version of Superman that Snyder presented in his 2013 film Man of Steel is a semidivine figure whom puny mortals should look at in awe, but not look up to; one with no ties of loyalty to humankind beyond his personal attachments: he fights to defend his adoptive mother, but he couldn't care less about innocent bystanders. That's how he was raised: Jonathan Kent taught him that he should let people die if helping them would expose his secret. Martha Kent taught him that his immeasurable power came with no responsibility. With the worst role models in the history of the character, the result couldn't be other than what we got: a Superman who is no hero. The absurdly contrived scene where we're expected to agree he had no other choice available but to kill General Zod set a dour tone that persisted for the rest of the Snyderverse. A Superman who kills was joined by a Batman who tortures and brands people and a Wonder Woman who has lost her faith in humans. That is not how you build a team of heroes.

Creature Commandos exposes what happens when your idea of saving the world doesn't contain an iron clause on the absolute value of every life: you lose sight of what you were trying to fight for. Waller's ill-fated adventure in Pokolistan ends with the death of the victim she was supposed to protect, as well as the deaths of members of her own team who shouldn't even have been in prison. The reason why they were available for her to exploit in the first place is the same broken logic that ranks lives in order of importance. You can't call yourself a defender of the world if you don't equally care for every single life in it. The numerous flashbacks that reveal the origin of each member of the Commandos go back to the same theme of according life an instrumental as opposed to absolute value. Waller believes she's using a team of monsters, creatures whose past misdeeds render them only worthy of being used, but the truth is they're all innocent. She's the real monster, and the unstated implication of the show's message is that Snyder's Superman is a monster on the same scale as Waller. Gunn needed to make that clear before introducing his own take on Superman.

There's nothing naïve about a Superman who doesn't kill. Via reductio ab absurdum, Creature Commandos shows the natural result of abandoning that basic principle, and helps set the tone for a renewed view of superheroism that doesn't fetishize power for its own sake or treat conflict as a utilitarian calculation. The superhero genre is in crisis because it's embarrassed of itself, averse to sincerity, willingly corrupted by cynicism. However tonally voluble and structurally disjointed, Creature Commandos was a necessary laxative for all the rotten beliefs that have clogged up the genre. With the slate clear, it's time for Superman to once again show the way.

Nerd Coefficient: 7/10.

POSTED BY: Arturo Serrano, multiclass Trekkie/Whovian/Moonie/Miraculer, accumulating experience points for still more obsessions.

TV Review: Dead Boy Detectives

An entertaining horror comedy packing a lot of emotion into a short series

Hidden away in Netflix’s YA fantasy section, Dead Boy Detectives is a feel-good horror comedy that has already been cancelled. Fortunately, the sole existing season is enormously satisfying and the plot wraps up nicely in its quick but entertaining eight episodes. The show follows the adventures of two dead teen boys (Edwin, who was killed at the turn of the century, and Charles, who was murdered in the 1980s) who form an investigative agency to solve mysteries for other ghosts. Things change when they cross paths with Crystal, a psychic teen girl with amnesia and a stalker demon boyfriend. Later they ally with Niko, a spiritually sensitive but lighthearted student grieving the death of her father. Although it exists in the same universe as the broody Sandman television show, Dead Boy Detectives takes a much lighter tone. It has intensely likeable leads, refreshingly diverse casting, and a clever mix of the tragic and the very funny, with twisty plots to keep viewers engaged. I haven’t enjoyed a dark comedy this much since season one of Russian Doll. Like Russian Doll, Dead Boy Detectives has emotionally wounded main characters caught in outlandish situations that ultimately lead them to inner growth and leave viewers with a satisfying story arc.

In the early 1900s, Edwin (George Rexstrew) is attacked by his classmates in an occult ritual at his British private school. The prank summons a real demon who (apologetically) traps Edwin in hell until he finds a way to escape years later. The deceased Edwin returns to Earth as a ghost and meets Charles (Jayden Revri), a 1980s high school boy who has just been murdered by his classmates after he protected another student from bullying. Instead of moving on to the afterlife, Edwin and Charles hide from Death (Kirby Howell-Baptiste) when she comes for them, and decide to start a detective agency to help other ghosts resolve mysteries or other injustices related to their deaths.

In the first episode, they are approached by a young Victorian-era ghost girl who asks them to help her psychic human friend Crystal (Kassius Nelson). Crystal has started behaving erratically and seems to be possessed but, as the ghost girl notes by way of another explanation, she is also “American.” In the process of helping Crystal regain control of herself, the three become involved in the mystery of a missing child and travel to an isolated New England town, Port Townsend, to investigate. While there, they connect with Niko (Yuyu Kitamura), a Japanese exchange student who becomes infested with hilariously foul-mouthed dandelion sprites (Max Jenkins, Caitlin Reilly). Edwin and Charles have to adapt to their new living allies while dealing with new threats in Port Townsend from the tricky and seductive Cat King (Lukas Gage) and from Esther (Jenn Lyon), a sarcastic and beauty-obsessed witch.

Throughout the story, Edwin is brilliant and sophisticated, but also uptight and hesitant to trust any newcomers. After decades with just Charles as a companion, he is not open to the two new women in their lives. In contrast, Charles is cheerful, upbeat, and friendly, and develops an attachment to Crystal, leading to one of two unexpected love triangles in the show.

In addition to strong leads, the show has an excellent cast of memorable side characters, including Tragic Mick (Michael Beach), a cursed walrus forced to live in the form of a middle-aged man who runs a magic shop that helps the teens; Monty (Joshua Colley), the witch’s handsome and seductive bird turned boy who becomes attracted to Edwin; the Night Nurse (Ruth Connell), a hilariously bossy official in the afterlife agency whose job it is to locate missing ghost children like Charles and Edwin; and Jenny (Briana Cuoco), the sole mundane human and a cynical goth butcher shop owner.

Each of the characters is laugh-out-loud funny, but also fiercely brutal or intensely tragic. The dichotomy works well, though, creating intensity without bleakness and softening terrifying moments with unexpected bursts of sarcasm or irony. There are also scenes where the show leans into the sadness of Edwin’s and Charles’s backstories without an undercurrent of humor, and that contrast of seriousness makes the overall story even more powerful. Towards the end of the series, the tale of Esther’s origins gets a little complicated and devolves into a rushed montage-style summary, which is not as helpful. The same thing happens with Crystal’s backstory when she starts to uncover who she really is. But, for the most part, Dead Boy Detectives delivers a near-flawless acting ensemble which draws you in from the first moment and leaves you cheering at the end.

Nerd Coefficient: 8/10.

Highlights:

• Strong cast of memorable characters
• Addictive villains
• Grim humor with a little bit of everything

POSTED BY: Ann Michelle Harris—Multitasking, fiction writing Trekkie currently dreaming of her next beach vacation.

Book Review: Miserere (Revised Edition) by T. Frohock

The revised version of T. Frohock’s Miserere is a major overhaul of the author's debut novel, more than a decade afterwards.

Disclaimer up front and personal: In the process of this rewrite, the author asked me for my advice and suggestions for some of the Latin she uses.

Miserere was a 2011 debut novel by Teresa Frohock (who goes more these days by T. Frohock. Part of the wide ranging net that Night Shade books attempted to cast in those halcyon days, I read the original back in my relatively early days as a reviewer.

This new review is of the 2025 edition and focuses primarily on how I feel about the changes between the original and this version.

The basis chassis of the story remains from the original. Our major characters are four. Lucian is a Katharos, a holy warrior in the service of God, but he has been banished for abandoning his lover, Rachael (another Katharos) in an an attempt to save his sister, Catarina (who is basically a fallen Katharos at this point). Our fourth character is Lindsay,a young woman drawn to the liminal world of Woerld where Rachael, Lucian and Catarina live to be a Katharos herself.

The major conflict revolves around Lucian’s attempt to oppose his sister, who has truly turned to the dark side, the side of demons and evils. Lucian sacrificed his career, life and the trust of others to try and save his sister, but his sister had made her choice, now, to side with the demons seeking entrance from hell into Woerld (whereupon they will go to Earth, and thence to storm heaven, raining destruction in their wake).

Mixed in with this is that Rachael is being possessed by a demon that is slowly eating her alive, Catarina needing her brother to execute her plans to open these gates, and Lindsay, recently arrived to Woerld and a good source of “How does this all work?” just wants to go home, and find her brother (also caught in the same event that brought her here) in the process.

The subtitle for this novel is “An Autumn Tale”. And the original was indeed a dark story. It felt then and felt now like something you’d read in early November, as Autumn truly takes hold, the shadows get longer, the ground gets colder. The relative barrenness and harshness of the liminal world of Woerld encourages it. But this new version of Miserere feels more like a *late* Autumn tale, on the verge of but not quite winter. This new version makes both Catarina and Rachael more active characters.

To the positive of having Rachael as a more active character with more action on the page, this does make her a more heroic and less passive character. Frohock does this on the line level, and with her scenes from her point of view as well. The former version was very much a hand-wringing Lucian caught between his sister, and his ex. This new version has Rachael much less passive, much more active in this broken relationship and the relationship is all the better for it. Rachael’s trust of Lucian, broken at the start of the novel, has to be earned strand by strand and it is not easy. Her relationship with the demon that’s inside of her is also a more active sort of fight that she is having on a minute by minute basis.

Next up is Catarina. I thought Catarina was a dark force of nature in the original version, a memorable villain with dark goals and a dark relationship with her brother. This new version of Catarina is even more toxic, even more active, even more dangerous. Catarina has a very dysfunctional relationship with her brother in this new version. She uses, abuses and manipulates Lucian every moment she gets, all the way to the end. Hers is a tragic story, someone who has grasped for power, and grasps no matter the cost. Her scenes with Cerberus, as she bargains for ever more power, for ever greater costs, are well written and sharp.

But overall, in terms of writing and style, the additional scenes, removal of scene, and rewrite, especially early in the novel puts it a couple of shades of darker fantasy than it was originally. Is it horror? Not quite, because I think horror is a mode, and Frohock is not going for horror here. But it is a dark world, dark things happen and the overall aspect of the book can be, despite the hope and the light in it, rather dark and oppressive. I say in all seriousness this is not a book to read when you are in a dark place, mentally.

So let’s switch gears and talk about Lindsay. Lindsay and her brother Peter, fleeing a conflict with some local toughs, get caught in the veil and are brought to Woerld. The original version didn’t make it quite so clear, but this newer version clarifies just how and why this works. It’s a call to service, basically, from the godhead, to come and oppose evil on the front line of Woerld. I have some more questions now, but a lot of the roughness from the first novel is cleared up now. Lindsay asks a lot of questions and gives us a ground level introduction to some of the basics that Lucian and Rachael take for granted. And she is an unsullied beacon of light and innocence in the novel, as opposed to the far more world weary Rachael. And, of course, Lucian.

And so there is the heart of the novel, Lucian. He’s right there on the cover, flanked by Catarina and Rachael. At the start, he is in exile from the people he has served every since coming from our Earth, from the woman he loves, living as a house prisoner in the house of his sister. His is a painful journey, the realization that he cannot save his sister, his escape, he encounter with Lindsay, and the extended chase/journey as he tries to get Lindsay to safety. Lucian is full of doubt, throughout the novel, and needs the help of both Lindsay and Rachael, and needs to both convince them to help him, and accept their help when it comes. There is a whole lot of redemption that Lucian needs if he is going to survive.

Or not just redemption, but mercy. Hence the title of the novel, Miserere. The mercy that Lucian tries to show his sister. The mercy that Lucian himself *needs*.

This new version does add some worldbuilding and fleshes out more detail on Woerld, something that I had mentioned in my original view. This newly rewritten version, especially with the more active Rachael as mentioned above, and other changes does address some of the worldbuilding deficiencies that I saw in the original novel. I think on that the balance, the world of Woerld feels more complete in this world and I have a better sense of how and why it works. I would still like to see more of the world and get a better sense of it, but I do think this new version is an improvement.

I thought then and I think now that the theology of the book might turn off some readers. It’s not Christian apocalyptic fiction like Left Behind, but the theology of Woerld, despite being described as being very pantheistic, is, thanks to Lucian, Rachael, Catarina and Linday being Christian, strictly Christian. We get a full on exorcism, a lot of use of Latin, and so on. The real comp for Miserere that I can think of, and its a stretch even so given just how narrow and unique Miserere was then, and is now, is the RPG In Nomine. In In Nomine, you play minor angels (or devils) in a world where Christian theology is real, and you are trying to support your side, your own power and promotion, and trying to get along in a world where there are some very scary characters indeed. But that unique sort of world, theology, setting and characters is what drew me to the novel in the first place.

I think overall this version of Miserere is an improvement over the original on all axes, but it may have narrowed slightly the market for its readership by its somewhat darker turn. The stronger female characters do it a lot of credit and make it a much better book, without question, but this is a book that is most definitely not for anyone. But if you want to read a book were heroic men and women stand in the darkness against demons, and wrestle rather grimly with their own personal ones (including a literal one), and don’t mind and embrace the Christian theology of the book -- Miserere is the book for you. For those who might be curious about Frohock’s work but don’t feel this is quite the spot to read it, that’s understanding. The Los Nefilim novellas and novels and stories, which have a race of beings between angels and devils, might be a better fit for you than Miserere.

--

Highlights:

• Revised and Expanded Edition: But Darker, too
• Stronger set of characters
• Better worldbuilding, stronger overall

Reference: Frohock, T., Miserere: An Autumn Tale, Revised and Expanded, [Nightshade Books, 2025]

POSTED BY: Paul Weimer. Ubiquitous in Shadow, but I’m just this guy, you know? @princejvst

Film Review: Seven Samurai

Akira Kurosawa's Seven Samurai is a legend for a reason — here are some influences and thoughts on a 4K rewatch on the big screen.

Seven Samurai has been making the rounds at repertory theaters recently in honor of its 70th anniversary, and I was lucky enough to see it on a cold January Sunday at the Plaza in Atlanta. Enjoying it in glorious 4K on the silver screen with twenty or so like-minded cinephiles, I had an absolute blast. I've seen it many times before, and it seemed to always be playing in the background at my grandmother's house growing up (strangely enough, my classical Southern matriarch was a big fan of samurai movies). 

For those that aren't familiar with the plot, the story centers around a medieval farming village that's been beset by bandits who come to steal their crops — as it's not ripe for harvest yet, the bad guys vow to return when it is. The farmers set out to convince samurai to come to their aid, offering unlimited food as payment. Fortunately, a starving ronin (samurai without masters and thus jobs), takes them up on their quest, and manages to gather a crew of like-minded warriors to commit to the cause. 

Discussion-wise, I don't think that there's much I can bring to the table that hasn't been the subject of countless textbooks, documentaries, and college seminars, so I thought instead I'd focus on 5 things that brought me joy or that I hadn't noticed until this viewing.

1. Oh George Lucas, I'd recognize that flower field anywhere

It's no secret that George Lucas was heavily influenced by Kurosawa's filmmaking techniques, from screen wipes to dramatic musical accompaniment. He even acknowledged that Hidden Fortress inspired him to tell the story of A New Hope through the eyes of lowly droids, stand-ins for the lowly peasants that anchor Hidden Fortress. (Here's a quick primer on exactly all those similarities.)

But in the middle of Seven Samurai, there's a scene of beauty and respite for the youngest samurai, Katsushirō and Shino, a local village girl. They meet secretly in field of flowers, laughing and flirting while trying to ignore the fact that bandits are about to besiege their town. Even though Seven Samurai is shot in black and white, this scene stands out with the sheer number of small delicate flowers, and they contrast well against the dark and scrubby brush behind them. It's very clear that Lucas had this scene in mind while filming Attack of the Clones, as Anakin and Padme similarly share a moment of joy in the flower field on Naboo. (Another fun reference? Darth Vader's helmet is 100% influenced by samurai helmets. The list goes on and on when it comes to Lucas' love for Kurosawa.)

2. Kambei's easy smile makes me want to be a better person

The first time we meet Kambei, he's shaving his ceremonial chonmage, or top knot, so he can disguise himself as a monk to go undercover and rescue a kidnapped child. This isn't something that's taken lightly, as a samurai's haircut was not only practical (it helped to keep his helmet securely on his head in battle) but also symbolic, identifying him to all the world as a warrior. He is, as we'll see throughout the movie, a total good guy. His decision to help the struggling villagers is the only reason the others join him, as he's a natural leader. But what I love most about him is how kind he is — his smile is contagious and very pure. He doesn't raise his voice, he doesn't get impatient, and he's always, always cool, calm, and collected. I aspire to take his approach to life, and smile more to the world. 

3. The villager choreography definitely had an influence on Mad Max: Fury Road

To understand Seven Samurai, you have to know a little about the life of a farmer in this era. It's the 1580s, in rural Japan, and life is hard. Like, really hard. Farmers are the lifeblood of the empire, but they're also vulnerable to droughts, famine, and pillaging attacks from bandits. Daily life is full of toil and hard work, and their bodies are rough for the wear. Kurosawa depicts his villagers in an interesting way in this movie, and the "villager choreography" as I call it always sees them moving together en masse, whether they're planting, harvesting, mourning, fighting, or celebrating. I think this is a nod to the communal nature of their existence, as it you can't do literally anything by yourself when you're a farmer. 

While watching, I was reminded of the poor souls known as The Wretched who eke out a sad existence outside Immortan Joe's Citadel in Mad Max: Fury Road. They have a much worse life, it's true, but the way the move together, down to the stick baskets they wear strapped to their backs, very clearly resembles the villagers in Seven Samurai. And like the samurai, Mad Max and Furiosa help deliver them from evil and restore abundance.

Oh! And another way George Miller included an homage to Seven Samurai? Remember when Max ventures into the (former) Green place swamp, all you hear is shooting, and then somehow miraculously returns with a ton of guns and ammo? Kurosawa did it first, only with Kyūzō volunteering to go steal a musket from the bandits in the dead of night and comes back with it a few hours later, with two more dead bandits to add to Kambei's tally. Kyūzō is the stoic and skillful swordsman, and watching him on screen is absolutely mesmerizing. Even though he's a samurai, he gives kung fu hero vibes. 

4. The sheer likability of the samurai is just mind-blowing

The world loves a "we're putting together a team for a job" movie and I am certainly no exception. From The Dirty Dozen and The Magnificent Seven to Ocean's 11 and The Italian Job, these kinds of movies are just incredibly watchable. Why? I think it's because you get a super diverse array of characters (all with unique skillsets that are fun), witty banter, and a sense of camaraderie that's extremely FOMO-inducing.

Kambeo assembles a crew to protect the villagers that's got everything: a skilled and stoic sword master, a woodchopper that can help them through dark times, an old friend, a hot head, a youngster eager to prove his worth, and a skilled archer. And the best part is, when these guys are on screen, the actually seem like they like hanging out with each other. Some are in it for the glory, some for the rice, and some for revenge, but they're all also in it for the sense of belonging they get — even the blustery and crass Kikuchiyo, who starts the movie out as an annoying hanger-on but who comes full circle as a hero. No joke, I would kill to have lunch with these guys.

5. This time around, Kikuchiyo's story choked me up a little

Comic relief in Seven Samurai comes in the form of Kikuchiyo, a peasant-born street fighter that longs to be a samurai. He is loud, crude, almost always nearly naked, and constantly scratching himself. He only makes it on to the team thanks to his sheer persistence as he trails along beside the heroes on the way to the village, refusing to take no for an answer. It isn't until well into the movie that we learn about his origin story, and it helps us understand why he's choosing to fight for these trod upon people. It's his past.

In the final battle scene, he rushes towards burning buildings to help those trapped inside, and a dying mother hands him her child before collapsing. He grabs the baby and then absolutely just falls apart, confessing "This child was me!" It is at this point that we learn about his trauma-filled past. He too was an orphan, the victim of violence against his small community. In a movie this old, and about samurai warriors, you wouldn't expect this level of emotionality, and it's refreshing to see with modern eyes. Kikuchiyo goes on to fight bravely and sacrifice himself for this village, and in the process helps to break the cycle of trauma for many others and giving them a chance to escape a fate like his.

Overall

Seven Samurai is three and half hours long, but there's not a wasted minute or any filler. I even found myself waiting until the brief intermission to run to the bathroom so I wouldn't miss a single scene, and this despite the fact that I'd seen it before. The film is a somewhat shocking 70 years old, yet it still looks incredible and is compulsively watchable. I think it's because it's the classic battle of good versus evil, filled with universal archetypes that all know and love, from the one-eyed bandit to the clear-eyed hero who can make it all right. It's long run time is thus a feature and not a bug, as it can freely spend time letting the audience get to know the characters and their struggles. Somehow, it's still relatable for modern audiences, too — from the jaw-dropping action scenes and forbidden romance to the potty humor jokes.

Everyone should see Seven Samurai, I fully believe this. I'm still riding the high of seeing it on the big screen. Be right back, going to look into ordering a T-shirt with the samurai flag on it...

POSTED BY: Haley Zapal, NoaF contributor and lawyer-turned-copywriter living in Atlanta, Georgia. A co-host of Hugo Award-winning podcast Hugo, Girl!, she posts on Instagram as @cestlahaley. She loves nautical fiction, growing corn and giving them pun names like Timothee Chalamaize, and thinking about fried chicken.