Antarktos Rising - A Review

Author: Jeremy Robinson
Publisher: Breakneck Books
ISBN: 978-0-9796-9290-1
Pages: 300

Much better! Jeremy Robinson has learned a few new tricks since last I read his work, and all of those tricks are on display in this particular title. There are deeper character sketches than usual; better scene building; and dialogue flows much more naturally this time around. The plot itself is far more complex and layered than the one in his previous work, with the usual science-speak and religious overtones seasoning the book’s broth.

Many will compare this to the glut of Christian fiction that delivers stories concerned with end times, à al Tim LaHaye, but that idea couldn’t be farther from the truth. Robinson’s tale is epic, well-written, and thought-provoking. While at times heavy on biblical concepts, the book tackles them in a way that holds interest, rather than inciting disdain; this is mainly due to the uncharted territory Robinson decides to sail into, what with the expansion of the theory surrounding the Nephilim (or “fallen ones”), a race of beings—thought to be fallen angels by some—that is granted a brief mention in the Scriptures. Robinson holds—or, that is his plot holds—that Noah and his family weren’t the only survivors of the great flood. Some of the Nephilim made it through unscathed as well. That little fact alone should assure you that this book wasn’t intended for average Christians, as many of them would balk at these very notions.

Robinson, in a note to his readers, urges as follows:

Antarktos Rising is a work of fiction. All of the characters in the novel are fictional, as are their beliefs. For your own enjoyment, don’t take fiction seriously. Authors, for the most part, aren’t trying to convert you to their personal beliefs; we’re trying to entertain you. If I accomplish that, I’ve done my job.

Funny how some of his words tie in perfectly with a previous post on this blog, the one dealing with the purpose of a novel.

Robinson also rehashes a bit of history as well, causing his characters to reenact, in a way, the Old West land claims that resulted from a race for new land—in this case, a freshly thawed Antarctica, or—to use the ancient designation, as the title of the book suggests—Antarktos. Crustal displacement, we are told, shifts the earth forty degrees, killing 2.5 billion people, and Antarctica in turn becomes “a tropical rain forest the size of the United States.” The book commences with a series of disasters that effectively set things in motion, not least the tsunami featured in chapter six, which is written so effectively it recalls the devastating events of December 2004, which were touched off, of course, by the historic Sumatra-Andaman earthquake.

Antarktos Rising, in short, is one of those rare thrillers that will keep readers turning pages, because the story doesn’t really let up, and that’s bad if one decides to crack the pages of this thing just before going to bed.

The Purpose of A Novel

Now I know I’ve touched on this particular subject in previous posts, but I have to ask the question again, “What is the purpose of a novel?” This is not necessarily related to another question, “Why have you decided to write a novel?” The second question can have various answers, many, if not all of them involving some personal agenda on the part of the writer or writers in question. But the answer to the first question, and in all truth, there really is only one answer (which I’ve supplied in this particular post already) is to entertain. Keeping this in mind, that a novel’s main—and in most cases nowadays—sole purpose, is to entertain, a writer should be able to approach a book with this decidedly singular agenda, abutting it and supplementing it with experimentation, lofty artistic objectives, or other personal goals, so long as the primary agenda remains in full frontal view.

A lot of writers lose sight of this “decidedly singular agenda,” placing everything before it, thus leaving their readers scratching their heads at the ridiculousness they’ve been mercilessly beset by. In a recent review, I criticized one writer for having written a few stories that were “absolutely vapid” and lacking plots. His best and only defense was that James Joyce was more or less accused of similar literary crimes—particularly those that concern stories without plots. This could have led to a lot of heavy-handed rebuttals on my part, not least the “how dare you compare yourself to . . . blah, blah, blah . . . albeit inadvertently?” line, yet I decided to digress, because I have no intention of belittling struggling writers. It’s neither my desire nor place to.

I said that to say this: Joyce, Faulkner, Nabokov, Pynchon . . . contemporary writers can use them as an excuse to apply their own brand of experimentation to literature all they want—as though these souls, by so doing, gave contemporary authors license to do so as well—but bear in mind that all of them experimented in various novels with the goal of entertaining their readers. And I believe all of them succeeded.

All of the aforementioned authors understood story dynamics, character, and language; they attempted to make every detail of their narratives interesting, despite the sometimes mundane nature of the action being described. Take Joyce’s Ulysses for instance. During a carriage ride—what could have easily been a dull, uninteresting narrative block—is pumped full with lyrical prose and vivid imagery, even with terse clauses and seeming half-phrases applied:

The carriage steered left for Finglas road.

The stonecutter’s yard on the right. Last lap. Crowded on the spit of land silent shapes appeared, white, sorrowful, holding out calm hands, knelt in grief, pointing. Fragments of shapes, hewn. In white silence: appealing. The best obtainable. Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor.

Passed.

On the curbstone before Jimmy Geary the sexton’s an old tramp sat, grumbling, emptying the dirt and stones out of his huge dustbrown yawning boot. After life’s journey.

Gloomy gardens then went by, one by one: gloomy houses.

Mr. Power pointed.

—That is where Childs was murdered, he said. The last house.

Joyce sets the scene for us, perfectly. Two words are used to paint an interesting picture: “Gloomy gardens,” what is essentially an antipode to our usual view of gardens. And gloomy houses follow; “gloomy” because we are to believe that someone could be murdered in one of them. And we do believe, because the imagery allows us to.

Much of the above language is almost poetic, and could stand to be read over and over again. One isn’t really concerned with plot when one is presented with language the likes of this. The beauty is in the details, and following a reading of Joyce’s work, I come away not only satisfied, but also entertained!

Films I Took in This Weekend

Shooter (Fair)

The movie revolves around a retired marksman who is seduced into a role that will supposedly prevent the assassination of a sitting President. The film, a political thriller of sorts, stars Mark Wahlberg, who is in rare form here—a string of scenes, which I’m sure took weeks to film, has him displaying a labored kind of breathing following a failed attempt on his life. Walhberg, having been shot twice, is seen hobbling about in dire pain, wincing and breathing in short, quick breaths, and this his character does over the course of an evening, night, and following morning. The consistency in this portrayal was highly convincing. The antithesis of this performance has to come from Danny Glover, who, for the first half of the film is speaking in a seeming whisper that attempts to recall a raspy tough-guy act from ages past, but comes across as woefully inadequate. He only keeps it up, as I said, for half of the film, then abandons the voice for his usual speech tones and patterns.

The movie’s plot itself, which begins well enough, soon plunges into a pool of absurdity, so much so that an FBI agent, fresh out of the academy (this doesn’t stop him from having unbelievably keen instincts that would more befit a veteran fed), is seen running around alongside Walhberg’s character as his new “spotter,” while Walhberg is shooting at bad guys and blowing things up with great relish. What I did love about the film, however, besides Walhberg’s performance (his best being his role in The Departed) are the portions of dialogue that Walhberg’s character dispenses, the ones that have him talking shop, and doling out marksman lingo like Senators dole out political rhetoric.

I was disappointed with everything else in this film, particularly the ending, and the direction the film took when the conflict began to take shape in the Second Act.

POD Critic . . . After the 4th

The week of the 4^th had me running around like a madman, what with the family outings and so forth. I attempted to write a post several times, but you all know what resulted from my attempts—absolutely nothing! This is a new week, but not necessarily a smoother one. I have to get caught up on a few things, work wise, but other than that, it is business as usual with the blog—for the most part. I’m currently reading Dan Morris’s Wealth of Deception (a longish read) but I’ll be interrupting my progress on that title to read and review an upcoming book I promised to tackle before its release in a recent post—Antarktos Rising.

This is just to keep everyone apprised as to the happenings at POD Critic. Until I’m somewhat caught up with my neglected projects, I’ll probably not be posting as often as usual, but I will make every attempt to. No fears, however, as I am not abandoning the blog. Look for more reviews, editorials, and other tidbits soon.

Thanks for your continued presence.