There is mythological evidence from the middle ages, suggesting the Swabians were a jolly, lively people then, full of vigour and joy. You wouldn’t think it today, and the introductory section of this book, meant to show Swabians in the best possible light and endowed with a preface by Cleverle Späth, is a case in point. The most salient features of the Swabian mind, his thriftyness, his shrewdness, his xenophobia, take some stretching to be made into qualities, and with some, most notably the Kehrwoche, even Larson’s well meaning prose fails to create any appeal or sense. The anecdote of Larson interacting with Willy Reichert, Arnulf Klett and the likes are positively painful, but admittedly that might be just to me, and just because they hit too close to home.
Much more interesting and entertaining are his broad sweeps through Swabian history, overloaded in places with genealogical details of the Dukes, or obscure military history of possible interest to his American military audience, but quite boring to me. The book is valuable for its benevolent outsider’s view on my home, that contrasts interestingly with my malevolent insider’s perspective.
Most interesting, however, was this response to the infamous Lied der Schwaben, which, though reviled by true Swabians for its unflattering depiction of local customs, I remember being hung on a plate in our home when I was a kid. I never thought the Lied der Schwaben problematic, in fact considered it quite accurate and liked it for its candidness, if not literary quality. The response, on the other hand, in its attempt to restore Swabian honor is quite utterly horrible. So here you go:

Das “Lied der Schwaben”? –
Der dies ausgebrütet,
aus welchem and`ren deutschen Stamm er sei.
Wo Roheit in der Gossensprache wütet,
sind Art und Herkunft weltweit einerlei!

Humor? –
Der Schwabe liebt ihn tiefer, leiser;
als Geistesfunke stillvergnügter Welt.
Die Leute leben hierzulande weiser
als grobe Torheit grölend dargestellt.

Das Lied der Schwaben:
Uhland hat`s gesungen!
Es schwingt im Fleiß, in Daseinsheiterkeit!
In Schiller, Mörike ist`s aufgeklungen –
und in Motoren dröhnt es erdenweit!

Das Kraftzitat des Götz von Berlichingen
ist menschheitsalter Allgemeinbesitz, –
drum hört man`s auch im Schwabenland erklingen:
zum Beispiel für “Poeten” ohne Witz!

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Sadly, this collection of cartoons mostly shows why Science and Humour are commonly considered to be unmixable substances. A few of the jokes are actually funny, but they’re rarely the ones that actually deal with scientists, or science as such, but rather ones inspired by or loosely based on scientific ideas. A few years back, Carl Djerassi wrote several novels in a genre he calls science-in-fiction (early Science Fiction writers probably would have been horrified by the necessity for that distinction), and if I remember correctly, none of them turned out particularly funny, though he sure tried. These cartoon have the additional disadvantage of stemming from strange, past decades, and so are mainly of interest to historians. Ah, historians, don’t get me started on those. Hilarious!

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With a subject as intriguing as the history of the beloved vocalist combo, and their struggle with the rising Third Reich, and a freebie soundtrack treasurechest, it is hard to see how a movie could fail even as much as this one does. A stale and wooden script, endless repetitions of one single song (Veronica, der Lenz ist da) instead of a representative collection of the Harmonists’ work, and a simplistic notion both of human character and historic processes make this a less than splendid experience – especially when compared to Aimee and Jaguar, which is a entirely different league on a fairly similar subject.

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The plot of this odd movie about the unlikely friendship between a drug enforcer cop and a big time coke dealer doesn’t make too much sense, and the love story thrown in doesn’t help either. The script at times seems incoherent, as though the writers didn’t quite know where to take it. The hairdos and dresscode are a vivid reminder of everything that was bad about the eighties, but the single worst thing about this movie has to be the signature Sexophone that starts whining every time romance lurks in the shadows. Puh-lease. The highlight of the movie is Raul Julia as the mexican druglord Carlos. The plot surrounding him, especially the supposed eight years of covertly working with the DEA, without them knowing that he wasn’t a Mexican official, diesn’t make any sense, but his acting does.

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A justified message hardly ever gets better, when it is preached instead of told subtly, and Network makes no difference. This drama of a unscrupulous bunch of network executives turning TV news into a quota hungry travesty akin to a televangelism sideshow would have been much stronger if there weren’t several droning monologues of the main character about the evils of television. It is somewhat ironic that a movie that accuses audiences of blindly gobbling up sensationalism and following any and every leader, if he shouts loud enough, and the executives of ruthlessly exploiting this lack of maturity, resorts to propaganda to try and get its message across, not trusting its own audience, either. Just who, one wonders, are the writers trying to talk to here, and what do they really want to say? As it stands, the message seems to be that since audiences are dumb sheep, the producers of media need to be responsible shepherds. That message is snobbery so close to the opinions held by the films villains as to make it hard to take its scathing criticism of western society seriously. Network has its nice moments – some of Peter Finch’s madman preaching is quite cute, as is the cinematography and the acting -, but overall, it disappoints.

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A subject certainly worthy of discussion, the discussion of how to excavate properly in the great outdoors and the health and environmental hazards connected with it, may be stretched a bit thin over the length of an, albeit short, book. A chapter in a general book on life outdoors would have been more appropriate. Even so, Meyer’s tone is refreshingly unconcerned with propriety – she explains about the difficulties getting it right in the introduction – and the stories she has collected can be entertaining. The biggest value for me was to learn about history and mechanism of the diseases – like Giardia – that make drinking unprocessed surface water such a hazard these days. The practical tips seemed nothing common sense wouldn’t have you know already, though maybe it’s a good thing to see them spelled out.

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While certainly better than it’s two predecessors, this final installment in the Hyperion story still subtracts from the original book. Why do sequels always fall so badly short of truly adding to a work, and why do creators still have the urge too do them? The Shrike was a mythical force, the future a mysterious place, the present hardly comprehensible when Hyperion ended. Now all that is dissolved in an action feast full of explosions, a quaint patchwork of worlds the size of small villages and populated by caricatures of foreign cultures and a badly contrived plot. While it is challenging for an action driven plot to have a practically omniscient character, his solution of “I know but I won’t tell you yet” is infuriating. The fall of the Pax at the end is a complete Deus-ex-machina, and the twist ending makes no sense whatsoever. But the biggest failure of all three sequels lies in the delivery of what Hyperion wisely withheld – answers to the philosophical and ethical questions. Simmons goes on at great length about how utterly and fantastically otherworldly the Ousters are, yet their behavior, thinking, language and mores are indistinguishable from today’s middle class America. I also find the revelling in violence, torture and death on an enormous scale slightly disturbing. For someone proposing a culture of empathy and universal love, Simmons shows an odd fascination with intense cruelty and suffering.

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Amazingly, having a wrinkled and depressed Bill Murray in a jumpsuit drive around coloring tress does not a good movie make. Who would have thought? In fairness, I was probably having my expectations too high, since I’m an admirer of both Jarmusch’s (Dead Man!) and Murray’s previous work. But even after correcting for that, I did not feel a connection with either Murray (who played essentially the same character, only much better, in Lost in Translation) or any of his former girlfriends, and the neighbour gone detective, as a grotesque caricature, doesn’t even qualify. Watch About Schmidt instead, it’s a much better movie.

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When I reviewed Fall of Hyperion in this space, I said that I wanted to wait a substantial time before continuing on. Unfortunately I succumbed to the temptation. While I don’t really regret having read Endymion, it is yet another step down from Hyperion’s brilliance of vision and design. While Simmons world continues to amaze with its complex design and rich tapestry of culture and science – which, once again, becomes thinnest in the attempts of creating a cultural history of the future by combining ficticious future classics with actual ones – his characterization, plot and dialogue are bordering on the horrid. He often falls into the trap of having to tell us justifications and motivations instead of showing them, and the whole book has the wearisome feeling of being but a prequel to the final volume. The adventures of Aenea, Endymion and Bettik on their way to Old Earth seem arbitrary and unconnected, and while the multiple death ordeal of the Pax crew charged with tracking them down is chilling, their near success in the face of incredible odds is silly, and can in the end only be explained by the near omniscience of the dei-ex-machina in the TechnoCore. I’ll hold off final judgment until I’ve read Ride of Endymion, but so far I strongly feel Simmons should have stopped after Hyperion.

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There is a song by Tom Lehrer called Send the Marines with the lines “We’ll send them all we’ve got//John Wayne and Randolph Scott”, which I ever only understood half. I had heard of and seen movies with the Duke, but not even the name of Scott sounded familiar. I’m happy to report that this sad state of affairs has changed. Other than that, I liked this early Peckinpah for a nice peek into how life has been not too far from here in both time and space. I remember watching Western movies as fairy tales set in a mythical country with no connection to reality as I knew it – but now that I’ve seen the Central Valley and the Sierra, suddenly all the little plot details, the solitude of the religious nut and his daughter on their farm, the rough digger camp, make much more sense. Unfortunately, the story itself is none too interesting, a somewhat trite tale of friendship, betrayal and friendship again, complete with a heroic death at the end. Maybe it was novel then to have shades of grey, instead of good/bad guy ensembles, and I can certainly see how breaking with such a convention could have given enormous tension to this plot, but from todays point of view, the moral struggle of the straying friend and his rash yet good hearted sidekick is just not very captivating.

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