Dan Simmons’ return to the science fiction genre was an event full of promise. Six years earlier, he had completed The Hyperion Cantos on a high note, proving his talent for epic science fiction that touched upon the Big Questions of the Universe, while still delivering amazing flights of adventure. This series left an indelible mark upon the genre, and naturally left its adherents wanting more. If Simmons was able to enter the field with such an amazing debut, what could he possibly do next?
The duology comprising Ilium and Olympos was to be the answer to this lingering question. For readers of Simmons’ work in general, it was the latest offering from a writer of dynamic imagination; whereas for those who preferred his science fiction, it was nothing less than a follow-up to the Cantos that had established his name in their hearts. Here was the chance for Simmons to once again stretch his imagination, and craft a beautiful, epic story that confronted the logic-tinged chaos of the universe. To say that my hope for these books was high is a textbook study of understatement.
Having since read through both Ilium and Olympos, closing the cover on the final volume mere days after its publication, I am both disappointed, and puzzled. The disappointment wells from the simple fact that the Ilium-Olympos sequence - herein referred to as I-O - nowhere near approaches the level of depth, insight, or adventure found in the Cantos. On its own, the I-O sequence stands as an entertaining, if unimpressive, science fiction epic. Had it been penned by any other author, its merits would outweigh its faults enough to classify it as a decent addition to the genre.
Yet the I-O sequence is not by just any author, but the very craftsman who gave the genre the Hyperion Cantos. Compared to this series, the I-O sequence is a juvenile descendant that shares the same lifeblood, but none of the wisdom or heart that made its ancestor so memorable. Which leads to the general sense of bewilderment. For not only was the novel a large disappointment, but the magnitude of its failure lay at complete odds to Simmons’ previous accomplishments. This begs the questions: what happened?
Obvious as the faults in the I-O sequence are, they do not fully answer this question. It took nearly half a day spent skimming the third and fourth novels in the Cantos - in addition to a quick glance at the last fourth of the second novel - to find that answer. After this pleasant return to some beloved literature, it is clear: the I-O sequence lacks compassion.
Simple as the answer may be, I am dumbfounded by its reality. The entire point of the Cantos is to show the binding force that love has in Life and the Universe. It is through love, we learn, that humanity can claim their place as a sentient species in the Universe, and bond with other species that came before, and may follow. Simmons skill in imparting this lesson is so precise, and the scenes where this happens so poignant, that I actually wept during the final chapters of The Rise of Endymion. Books rarely affect me on such a level, let alone science fiction novels.
Yet, somehow, Simmons has forgotten his own lessons in love and compassion, and crafted his latest science fiction epic without their presence. Gone is the warmth and intimacy that characters like Aenea, Raul, Kassad, Martin Silenus, Lamia, and others inspired, pulling the reader into a world that was not only fantastic to behold, but very human as well. Gone, too, is the sense of destiny that brought lovers together, elevating their love to that intoxicating level of purity and strength that captures the imagination, as well as the heart.
In place of heroic characters who invite our empathy, Simmons fills the I-O sequence with heroic archetypes that do little more than fulfill their intended roles. Indeed, Simmons has explicitly stated in a number of interviews that his purpose in writing the I-O sequence was to portray three different types of heroes, each distinguished by their level - or lack - of literacy. He then sought to combine these three narratives into an interweaving mega-story that contrasts the various strengths and shortcomings of these heroic ideals, and the weight they carry against the frightening backdrop of cold eternity.
To some extent, Simmons is successful in this effort. The three different heroic types are distinguishable from one another, and each inhabits a narrative that opens up with a host of compelling questions that dimly relate to the other strands of the story. These threads are further distinguished from one another by a unique point-of-view, such that the reader is offered a glimpse at many versions of various events.
So far, typical Simmons - that is, in comparison to the Cantos. And, for the most part, the first book of the duology, Ilium, offers enough of the mystery and character development that Simmons used to good effect in the Cantos, such that it seems like he has made a solid return to the science fiction genre. The characters may not be as compelling as those found in the Cantos, but then, trying to outdo the exploits and personalities of these literary ancestors would be a daunting task for anyone, including their creator.
It is in sequel, and conclusion to the sequence, Olympos, that the problems with the narrative really start to show themselves. These problems are easy to describe: flat characters; frequent and absurd cliff-hangers; long tracts of exposition that have no consequence; pornographic sex that is unattached to any concept of love or devotion; hasty answers to the major mysteries of the story; two-dimensional antagonists; and the sin of sins in science fiction - the use of deus ex machina as a solution to conflicts.
That laundry list of issues is more than enough to seal a novel’s fate, yet because of Olympos’ origins, they are all the more damning. It is surprising - in fact, almost shocking - that in a duology devoted to the various forms of heroism, Simmons would abandon the ideas he instilled in the Cantos - which contained extraordinary examples of heroism - in favor of a much more simplistic approach. In fact, the ideas in the I-O sequence are diametrically opposed to those in the Cantos.
For example, the post-humans start out weak, and unskilled, before becoming trained fighters that rely on grim determination to survive adversity. Only later, after having received superior weaponry, are they able to defeat their foes. Contrast this with Raul, who goes up against a fanatical cybrid empty-handed, in a fight that made for one of the more thrilling scenes in The Rise of Endymion. Starting out as an ordinary man with an extraordinary mission, Raul proved himself to be an example of the someone who pursues the personal excellence - arete - that Simmons is trying to push in the I-O sequence.
Once events become desperate for the posts in Olympos, they are bailed out by the moravecs, who use their high technology to whisk them out of harms way, and later equip them with the weapons they need. This is the element of deus ex that was earlier referred to. Whereas in the Cantos, Aenea tells Raul, “Humans have been waiting for Jesus and Yahweh and E.T. to save their asses since before they covered those asses with bearskins . . . we have to take care of ourselves.” And this is how events are handled in the Cantos. No benevolent Jovian moravecs, just self-reliance.
Another sore point of contrast is between the relationships that occur in the Cantos and the I-O sequence. In the former, love was the defining factor of these relationships, and while there were sex scenes, these served to underline the commitment between the two characters. The I-O sequence is devoid of this sense of devotion, and the sex scenes it contains are nothing more than that: pornographic interludes that serve to titillate the reader.
In the Cantos, especially the latter two novels, a large part of the narrative was allocated to the antagonists, and their character development. Their motivations were firmly established, and their actions explained. Rather than remain a bland source of evil, Simmons took great care to portray their point of view, and show just how greedy and determined they were. This balance of perspectives is completely missing from the I-O sequence, which only introduces the antagonist in the second novel, and then in a cursory fashion, without any attempt at character development. In fact, this antagonist is nothing more than a gigantic succubus that feeds off of evil vibes.
These disparities between the Cantos and the I-O sequence all point to a single source: the lack of compassion in the latter. The care and time that Simmons invested into the characters of the Cantos is completely missing from the I-O sequence, and without this character development, the story carries little weight. Ultimately, none of the apparently titanic events that take place in the story seem to matter, and there is no sense that the fate of the entire species is at stake. Even when we are explicitly told the stakes, it is difficult to care.
As much as the I-O sequence is suppose to deal with different heroic types, it fails to do so. The concept of arete - the pursuit of personal excellence - is touched upon, but the characters are too flat to demonstrate its fulfillment. Their exploits, however much they are obviously heroic, are little more than plot points. By contrast, the Cantos contained an eloquent study in heroism, and indeed, remains a memorable part of literature because of its heroic characters. If Simmons wanted to take his study of the subject further, why did he effectively renounce the thematic ground he previously covered, and settle for character archetypes on a convoluted chessboard?
This metaphor is very appropriate, because, more than anything else, the I-O sequence feels like a massive literary game, whose object is to graft as many allusions to Western literature as possible onto a basic sci-fi skeleton. It is obvious that Simmons loves this original source material, and did some heavy research before incorporating it into his own story. What is not obvious, however, is whether or not Simmons made sure that he had something to say that required the presence of these past masters, and their work. The result is an intertextual hodge-podge that feels forced, such that the source material dictates the story.
This does not make for an insightful study of literary heroic types, nor does it make for a very entertaining read. As stated earlier, if it had come from the mind of a different writer, it could be received in a different light. In the shadows of Simmons earlier accomplishments, however, it shrinks in stature, and crumbles under the weight of the great literature that inspired it.
Which is too bad, because Simmons accomplished so much in the Cantos. Harlan Ellison said that Simmons would go on to write incredible fiction, and thus far he can claim to have done so. Perhaps in the future, he will do so again.
