To Say Nothing of the Dog

Neargh. I couldn't wait for this to end.

I discovered Connie Willis long ago, via her Hugo/Nebula winner, Doomsday Book, which is a great read. It's rich in detail, with a good balance of humor and pathos, and a tantalizing glimpse both into the deep past (14th century, Black Plague-ravaged Oxford) and into the near future (21st century, slightly high-tech Oxford). Unfortunately, Willis did have a tendency towards flat characterizations and one-note plotting - something which you don't really notice in Doomsday, since the parallel of plague-ridden Oxfords was compelling enough. But you really, really notice it in this. (And it makes me worried about All Clear, despite the Hugo/Nebula wins, since I've seen these same criticisms leveled at her before.)

From the same Oxfordiverse, here we follow a different batch of time-traveling historians, this time a group scrambling to reconstruct the WW2-destroyed Coventry Cathedral. The protagonist, Ned Henry, gets sent to Victorian era Oxford to (1) recover from his pretty severe case of time-lag (kind of like existential jet lag), and (2) do the usual Time Travel Plot Device - that is, address an “incongruity” in the fabric of time-space before the entire universe collapses or multiple timelines develop and the Nazis end up winning.

The book is an examination of that darling of 1990s pop science: chaos theory. Cue Dr. Malcolm. It's also a bit about historiography, and free will vs. Fate. And that's all fine and well and interesting. But Willis, unfortunately, ruins everyyyything by turning it into a madcap, Victorian farce that is, oh my Lord, not funny at all. Ever. I can get what she's going for: that old fashioned comedy of manners stuff where doors open and close a lot, there are lots of missed calls and close calls, and everything could probably be resolved if just one character explained The Problem to everyone in about ten minutes. That stuff can sometimes be funny, if the dialogue's good enough - though it does try my patience even then.

But in this book! Oh dear. Every character is a flat caricature who engages in broad comedy, mostly relating to either One Principal Behavior (e.g. American is bossy, loud, and American! Oxford don is eccentric and spouts Latin!) or a semi-offensive “funny” accent (e.g. “Yes, sorr!” the Irish maid says). The same gags are endlessly repeated (e.g. Ned is oh, so tired - but - ho ho! - his sleep is interrupted again; or, Cyril the Dog is anthropomorphized and funny!). And - worst of all - I DON'T CARE ABOUT THE CATHEDRAL. OR THE BIRD STUMP. OR WHO MARRIES WHO. I also don't care for the uber-twee Anglogasm setting, full of dreadfully English things and words and people. Or the weird sexism, where the female characters are divided between (1) objectified, or (2) completely ridiculous (giggly, or shrewish, or just stupid).

You let me down, S.F. Masterworks series!