Ave atque vale
By Mark Steyn
http://www.marksteyn.com/
Thursday, 06 November 2008
Michael Crichton was a man of formidable intelligence and boundless curiosity. The two don't go together quite as often as they should. For years, when I picked up his latest novel, I'd find myself sighing, "Of course." The books had the inevitability of all the truly great ideas - as if they had not been cooked up in his study but had always been lying there, like truffles out in the woods, and he'd just been the first hound to get to them and snuffle them out. But, of course, he got to them again and again, for over 30 years. To be sure, the characters and the prose didn't always rise to life, but the concept, the premise, the hit title usually saw him through. The critics were snippy about Crichton, but then he had the the measure of the media far more than they had it of him.I had a small amount of personal contact with him. A few years back I wrote a piece for The Australian about "climate change" and made a reference to his latest book:
Michael Crichton's environmental novel State Of Fear has many enjoyable moments, not least the deliciously apt fate he devises for a Martin Sheenesque Hollywood eco-poseur. But, along the way, his protagonist makes a quietly sensible point - that activist lobby groups ought to close down the office after 10 years. By that stage, regardless of the impact they've had on whatever cause they're hot for, they're chiefly invested in perpetuating their own indispensability.
That's what happened to the environmental movement.
A day or so later I got an e-mail from him, thanking me not just for the endorsement but for the broader argument, and making a couple of very sharp, technical points about the "global warming" scare. As soon as the eco-hooey got his attention, he accumulated a ton of information and marshaled it more effectively than most folks on either side of the debate. That was the way he worked. Once a subject grabbed him, he soaked up far more factoids and graphs and pie charts than he could ever use in a novel. But they were part of the solid foundation from which his most inspired flights of fancy took off. There will be a final posthumous work out early next year, but here's what I wrote for Maclean's in 2007 about his penultimate and perfectly titled novel:
The title of Michael Crichton’s new novel, Next, would be a grand title for his collected works. He has a remarkable instinct not just for novelizing the hot topic du jour but for pushing it on to the next stage, across the thin line that separates today’s headlines from tomorrow’s brave new world. He’s especially good at the convergence of the mighty currents of the time – the intersection of the technological, legal, political and cultural forces in society and the way wily opportunists can hop and skip from one lily pad to another until something that would once have sounded insane is now routine. In Next, for example, a celebrity divorce attorney slumbering through a yawnsville meeting with some schlub cuckold of a genetic research exec suddenly spots the possibilities:
'What did you just say?'
'I said, "I want my wife tested…"'
'For what?'
'For everything,' he said.
'Ah,' Barry said, nodding wisely. What the hell was the guy talking about? Genetic testing? In a custody case…?
'For example,' Diehl said. 'I’ll bet my wife has a genetic predisposition to bipolar disorder. She certainly acts erratic. She might have the Alzheimer’s gene…'
'Good, very good.' Barry Sindler was nodding vigorously now. This was making him happy. Fresh, new disputed areas. Sindler loved disputed areas… Whatever the test results, they would be disputed. More days in court, more expert witnesses to interview, battles of the doctorates, dragging on for days. Days in court were especially lucrative.
And best of all, Barry realized that this genetic testing could become standard procedure for all custody cases.
Doesn’t that sound not just plausible but inevitable? And that’s before they’ve even identified half the genes worth litigating over. The best Crichton novels are like the DNA double-helix – strands of science and media, genius and huckstering that twist in and out of each other.
To be sure, he is an airport novelist, in the sense that airport bookstores are piled high with his books. By far the most conventional part of Next is the prologue, in which a couple of private detectives pursue a guy and a Ukrainian hooker through a landmark Vegas hotel – it’s all payphones and confused chases through restaurant kitchens and frantic pushing of elevator buttons. And it ends in death. It’s like reading a great description of some movie. But where Crichton goes after that is all his own – invented Google search results, mock newspaper reports (very mocking in the case of The New York Times’ correction-prone style), and wodges of peculiarly convincing techno-jargon. Take this passage. In a way, it’s nothing special – a meeting between a lawyer and a genetic researcher. But to be able to pull off the detail at this level is impressive:
The attorney consulted a notepad. 'Your best candidate is a patent application from 1998 for aminocarboxymuconate methaldehyde dehydrogenase, or ACMMD. The patent claims effects on neurotransmitter potentials in the cingulate gyrus.’
‘That’s the mode of action,’ Josh said, ‘for our maturity gene.’
The “maturity gene” is an example of what one might call the geneticization of life. Crichton also unveils a “sociability gene” – formerly a “conventional gene” (ie, it predisposes one to boringly conventional behavior) but that name didn’t focus-group well. There is also a “Neanderthal gene”, to which environmentalists are prone: “Why, then, did Neanderthals die out? The answer, according to Professor Sheldon Harmon of the University of Wisconsin, was that the Neanderthals carried a gene that led them to resist change. ‘Neanderthals were the first environmentalists. They created a lifestyle in harmony with nature. They limited game hunting, and they controlled tool use. But this same ethos also made them intensely conservative and resistant to change.”
This is a bit of harmlessly low payback for those eco-bores who attacked Crichton for his last novel, State Of Fear, a gleeful assault on the enviro-hucksters that’s full of facts and hugely enjoyable to those not in thrall to the climate-change cultists. There’s one scene in which Crichton devises a very apt demise for a blowhard Hollywood activist. They’re easy targets, of course, but Crichton’s prose achieves a rare poetry in its account of a man unaware of how profoundly unaware he is.
Next is a different kind of novel. It’s a book set on the brink of a trans-human if not post-human future in which tourists in Sumatra can stumble across an orangutang who speaks fluent Dutch and the state of California can use eminent domain to seize your cells and, on balance, the orangutang seems to enjoy more legal protection than you do. It’s fitting that, in a novel in which humanity is a commodity, every character is a minor character. Next is a mosaic, in which scientists and researchers plus assorted wives, husbands, moms, brothers and pets move in and out of focus sliding inch by inch down the slippery slope to ethically dark territory. They’re little people caught up in something big, and as Crichton moves through the usual scenarios – infidelity, drug abuse, underage sex – he tosses in some fresh new high-tech angle that takes you by surprise and yet seems utterly logical: the effect is a bit like getting an advance preview of the next generation’s clichés. Consider, for example, this interlude between chapters – a press release from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology:
MIT scientists have grown a human ear in tissue culture for the first time… The extra ear could be considered ‘a partial life form – partly constructed and partly grown.’ The ear fits comfortably in the palm of the hand…
Several hearing-aid companies have opened talks with MIT about licensing their ear-making technology. According to geneticist Zack Rabi, ‘As the American population ages, many senior citizens may prefer to grow slightly enlarged, genetically modified ears, rather than rely on hearing-aid technology. A spokesman for Audion, the hearing-aid company, noted, ‘We’re not talking about Dumbo ears. Just a small increase of 20 percent in pinna size would double auditory efficiency. We think the market for enhanced ears is huge. When lots of people have them, no one will notice anymore. We believe big ears will become the new standard, like silicon breast implants.
Which, of course, is all too likely. Picture Florida circa 2015, a gated community full of big-eared nonagenarians. I like the way Crichton’s thriller brings us the usual low characters with the usual low motives – sleazy men with the hots for unfeasibly breasted babes. But, in doing so, he reminds you how easily we accept what would once have seemed downright creepy: cities full of women with concrete embonpoints that bear no relation to the rest of their bodies. As one character says, he knows they’re fake and they don’t feel right but it turns him on anyway. If you can accept, in effect, a technological transformation of something as central as sexual arousal, why would you have any scruples about what technology can do for the human body in far more peripheral areas? By the time an accused pederast is advised by his lawyers to claim his need for transgressive sexual encounters is due to his having the “novelty gene”, you begin to appreciate the horrors that lie ahead: for tactical advantage here and there, we’re likely to wind up surrendering strategically the essence of humanity. It is, in Crichton’s telling, both a thriller and a comedy of errors, a big grab-bag of ideas wrapped up in one kaleidoscopic whole. I wish more novelists meandering through fey limpid literary inconsequentialities would try books like this, but who knows? Maybe they lack the blockbuster gene.
In appreciation of Michael Crichton
By Marjorie Kehe 11.05.08
Christian Science Monitor
http://www.csmonitor.com/
Brad Zweerink / News & Observer
Michael Crichton, author of "Jurrasic Park," at the North Carolina Museum of Natural Sciences in 2000 after a newly discovered species of dinosaur was named Crichton's ankylosaur in his honor.
“Michael Crichton may puzzle or annoy in his occasional lapses in taste, but he cannot be dismissed. Serious questions and important issues often lurk beneath what can seem to be a slick commercial surface,” wrote Lorraine Hirsch in a 1981 Monitor interview with author, film producer, film director, medical doctor, and television producer Michael Crichton in 1981. The words continued to ring true throughout the rest of Crichton’s career.
Crichton’s death today at the age of 66 leaves millions of fans in mourning. Crichton is known worldwide for his science fiction and techno-thriller novels, films, and television programs. His books – which include “The Andromeda Strain,” (1969) “Congo,” (1980) and “Jurassic Park” (1990) – have sold over 150 million copies worldwide.
Crichton was born in Chicago in 1942. He attended Harvard as an undergraduate and also graduated from Harvard Medical School in 1969. It was while he was in medical school that he began writing novels, publishing two under assumed names.
His big success, however, came in 1969 with the publication of “The Andromeda Strain,” a thriller in which a team of scientists investigate a deadly extraterrestrial microorganism.
Crichton often wrote about technology and its failures. It was a theme he puzzled on throughout his life. In 1980 he told Hirsch, “It’s amazing that, among all the lessons of the Vietnam war, we didn’t have our faith in technology challenged. Here we were, the greatest technological nation on earth , and we marched into a little jungle nation – and lost! Obviously, technology doesn’t have all the answers.”
He also told Hirsch, “I am not a science fiction writer. My books are all set in the past and they are all about actual possibilities. I don’t write about fantasies. I write about near-reality.”
Crichton was very tall – 6′ 7″. Hirsch wrote that in meeting him in person he had “the most patient, shy curiosity of a giraffe.”
Crichton married five times in his life, but on the day that Hirsch met with him in 1980 he was single. She asked him at the end of the interview what would make him happiest in life.
“To get married again,” he told Hirsch. She wrote, “His response is as quick as it is soft. ‘I’d like to get married again and have children and live like a normal person,’ he continues. ‘I can’t explain it. It’s like being hungry for a certain food. I’d like to be like the wild gorillas in ‘Congo,’ sitting back and watching my children play in the sunshine.’ ”
Crichton got his wish. He and his fourth wife Anne-Marie Martin had a daughter named Taylor Anne in 1989.
No comments:
Post a Comment