It's for their own good! [Reviews: Never Let Me Go and Tangled]

From where I'm sitting, cinema is looking up for 2011: The Sci-Fi Gene is particularly looking forward to Apollo 18, Sucker Punch and The Adjustment Bureau although I'm hoping the latter isn't just another Philip K. Dick story turned into a chase movie.

Now to business: two recent films about wrapping children up in cotton wool. There's been much said about the pupils of Hailsham and the fact that they don't rebel against their organ-donor status but instead seek meaning and love within the parameters of their short lives: apparently that's why Never Let Me Go is literature rather than science fiction.

Tosh. Good science fiction is about taking extraordinary concepts and exploring their implications in a world that is otherwise recognizable. The best science fiction does so in a way that is relevant to all of us. Kazuo Ishiguro's novel is amongst the best, and as far as the film goes, if you missed the universal themes, there's an unnecessary voice-over at the end to spell it out. This doesn't spoil the film which is so beautiful and poignant (there were tears) and that should tell you how good the rest of it is. Andrew Garfield and Carey Mulligan act their little hearts out.

Incidentally one way in which Ishiguro's story stands out from Spares, The Island and the rest of the clone army is that the Hailsham kids are not personal clones of rich individuals but, amazingly, part of the National Donor Programme - a state sponsored, socialized medicine scheme and an alternate history version of the NHS.

Moving on. Like the children of Hailsham, Rapunzel was confined throughout her childhood by the walls of her tower and by horrific scare-stories about the world outside - and in Disney's latest film it turns out this was because she also has a part of her body - her hair - desired for it's healing qualities.

With the aid of her trusty frying pan Rapunzel escapes her captor, so Tangled is science fiction. It's also a fine film where all the strands are neatly plaited together - the beautiful art and animation, the plot, the original characters and humour, and the obligatory Alan Menken score. There's lots of slapstick and sentimentality for younger viewers, but there's also a strong rebellious theme and a (subtle) loss-of-virginity metaphor for those old enough to know what a metaphor is.

Literary vs non-literary science fiction

What's the difference?

For the purposes of this post, let's take The Time Traveller's Wife, Never Let Me Go and The Handmaid's Tale as examples of literary science fiction (sorry, Margaret). I'm not reviewing any of these here - I'll make a case for why everyone should read them another day.

Literary sci-fi novels that get a very wide readership and critical acclaim outside the sci-fi genre, still having sci-fi themes at their heart. They're usually acclaimed as being of quality authorship. I wouldn't question this but many people in sci-fi, fantasy and related genres also have a very high quality of writing. The style of writing can be deceptive - Stephen King may write brief MTV soundbite style chapters but there's a lot of depth to many of his books. I also find it hard to think of a single sci-fi book I've read that doesn't use sci-fi as a way to explore deeper issues and questions or at least to attempt this. I'll accept that this is often not true of films.

I've just finished reading Lifeboat. My final word - most of the book is perfectly paced, however in the last chapter there's suddenly a series of convoluted and unlikely plot twists - I think the enjoyment to be had from this book was definitely the journey rather than the destination. I was reflecting on this question as I started my next book - Jack Vance's classic The Dying Earth, a novel I've been meaning to read for ages - as I think the answer may be in the first chapter or even paragraph.

Basically, writers have audiences in mind when they write - and they try to direct the book towards them from the first word onwards. The authors of the three above novels all introduce the main themes of their novels - love and the agony of being apart, caring for each other and making sacrifices, and the role of women - in the first chapters, but they do so with only gradual hints at the sci-fi concepts to come. Dying Earth, on the other hand, begins outright as a fantasy novel with the protagonist's failing attempts to create magical life. This is an opening gambit to intrigue and draw in a sci-fi or fantasy reader - it worked for me! - but a more general reader might be turned away by this point. Perhaps they need some reassurance that the book is going to tackle Big Issues or reach Great Depths before they'll accept their six impossible things before breakfast.