Alec Nevala-Lee

Thoughts on art, creativity, and the writing life.

Posts Tagged ‘James Cameron’s Story of Science Fiction

The bedtime story

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Earlier this morning, I finally got my hands on the companion book to James Cameron’s Story of Science Fiction, which is airing this month on AMC. Naturally, I immediately looked for references to the four main subjects of Astounding, and the passage that caught my eye first was an exchange between Cameron and Steven Spielberg:

Spielberg: The working title of E.T. was Watch the Skies. Which is sort of the last line from The Thing. I just remember looking at the sky because of the influence of my father, and saying, only good should come from that. If it ain’t an ICBM coming from the Soviet Union, only good should come from beyond our gravitational hold…He was a visionary about that, yet he read all the Analog. Those paperbacks? And Amazing Stories, the paperbacks of that. I used to read that along with him. Sometimes, he’d read those books to me, those little tabloids to me at night.

Cameron: Asimov, Heinlein, all those guys were all published in those pulp magazines.

Spielberg: They were all published in those magazines, and a lot of them were optimists. They weren’t always calculating our doom. They were finding ways to open up our imagination and get us to dream and get us to discover and get us to contribute to the greater good.

The discussion quickly moves on to other subjects, but not before hinting at the solution to a mystery that I’ve been trying to figure out for years, which is why the influence of Astounding and its authors can be so hard to discern in the work of someone like Spielberg. In part, it’s a matter of timing. Spielberg was born in 1946, which means that he would have been thirteen when John W. Campbell announced that that his magazine was changing its title to Analog. As a result, at a point at which he should have been primed to devour science fiction, Spielberg doesn’t seem to have found its current incarnation all that interesting, for which you can hardly blame him. Instead, his emotional associations with the pulps were evidently passed down through his father, Arnold Spielberg, an electrical engineer who worked for General Electric and RCA. The elder Spielberg, remarkably, is still active at the age of 101, and just two months ago, he said in an interview with GE Reports:

I was also influenced by science fiction. There were twins in our neighborhood who read one of the first sci-fi magazines, called Astounding Stories of Science and Fact. They gave me one copy, and when I brought it home, I was hooked. The magazine is now called Analog Science Fiction and Fact, and I still get it.

And while I don’t think that there’s any way of verifying it, if Arnold Spielberg—the father of Steven Spielberg—isn’t the oldest living subscriber to Analog, he must be close.

This sheds light on his son’s career, although perhaps not in the way that you might think. Spielberg is such a massively important figure that his very existence realigns the history of the genre, and when he speaks of his influences, we need to be wary of the shadow cast by his inescapable personality. But there’s no denying the power—and truth—of the image of Arnold Spielberg reading from the pulps aloud to his son. It feels like an image from one of Spielberg’s own movies, which has been shaped from the beginning by the tradition of oral storytelling. (It’s worth noting, though, that the father might recall things differently than the son. In his biography of the director, Joseph McBride quotes Arnold Spielberg: “I’ve been reading science fiction since I was seven years old, all the way back to the earliest Amazing Stories. Amazing, Astounding, Analog—I still subscribe. I still read ’em. My kids used to complain, ‘Dad’s in the bathroom with a science-fiction magazine. We can’t get in.'”) For Spielberg, the stories seem inextricably linked with the memory of being taken outside by his father to look at the stars:

My father was the one that introduced me to the cosmos. He’s the one who built—from a big cardboard roll that you roll rugs on—a two-inch reflecting telescope with an Edmund Scientific kit that he had sent away for. [He] put this telescope together, and then I saw the moons of Jupiter. It was the first thing he pointed out to me. I saw the rings of Saturn around Saturn. I’m six, seven years old when this all happened.

Spielberg concludes: “Those were the stories, and just looking up at the sky, that got me to realize, if I ever get a chance to make a science fiction movie, I want those guys to come in peace.”

But it also testifies to the ways in which a strong personality will take exactly what it needs from its source material. Elsewhere in the interview, there’s another intriguing reference:

Spielberg: I always go for the heart first. Of course, sometimes I go for the heart so much I get a little bit accused of sentimentality, which I’m fine [with] because…sometimes I need to push it a little further to reach a little deeper into a society that is a little less sentimental than they were when I was a young filmmaker.

Cameron: You pushed it in the same way that John W. Campbell pushed science fiction [forward] from the hard-tech nerdy guys who had to put PhD after their name to write science fiction. It was all just about the equations and the math and the physics [and evolved to become much more] human stories [about] the human heart.

I see what Cameron is trying to say here, but if you’ve read enough of the magazine that turned into Analog, this isn’t exactly the impression that it leaves. It’s true that Campbell put a greater emphasis than most of his predecessors on characterization, at least in theory, but the number of stories that were about “the human heart” can be counted on two hands, and none were exactly Spielbergian—although they might seem that way when filtered through the memory of his father’s voice. And toward the end, the nerds took over again. In Dangerous Visions, which was published in 1967, Harlan Ellison wrote of “John W. Campbell, Jr., who used to edit a magazine that ran science fiction, called Astounding, and who now edits a magazine that runs a lot of schematic drawings, called Analog.” It was the latter version of the magazine that Spielberg would have seen as a boy—which may be why, when the time came, he made a television show called Amazing Stories.

The multiverse theory

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Yesterday, I flew back from the Grappling with the Futures symposium, which was held over the course of two days at Harvard and Boston University. I’d heard about the conference from my friend Emanuelle Burton, a scholar at the University of Illinois at Chicago, whom I met two years ago through the academic track at the World Science Fiction Convention in Kansas City. Mandy proposed that we collaborate on a presentation at this event, which was centered on the discipline of futures studies, a subject about which I knew nothing. For reasons of my own, though, I was interested in making the trip, and we put together a talk titled Fictional Futures, which included a short history of the concept of psychohistory. The session went fine, even if we ended up with more material than we could reasonably cover in twenty minutes. But I was equally interested in studying the people around me, who were uniformly smart, intense, quirky, and a little mysterious. Futures studies is an established academic field that draws on many of the tools and concepts of science fiction, but it uses a markedly different vocabulary. (One of the scheduled keynote speakers has written and published a climate change novella, just like me, except that she describes it as a “non-numerical simulation model.”) It left me with the sense of a closed world that evolved in response to the same problems and pressures that shaped science fiction, but along divergent lines, and I still wonder what might come of a closer relationship between the two communities.

As it happened, I had to duck out after the first day, because I had something else to do in Boston. Ever since I started work on Astounding, I’ve been meaning to pay a visit to the Isaac Asimov collection at the Howard Gotlieb Archival Research Center at Boston University, which houses the majority of Asimov’s surviving papers, but which can only be viewed in person. Since I was going to be in town anyway, I left the symposium early and headed over to the library, where I spent five hours yesterday going through what I could. When you arrive at the reading room, you sign in, check your bag and cell phone, and are handed a massive finding aid, an inventory of the Asimov collection that runs to more than three hundred pages. (The entire archive, which consists mostly of work that dates from after the early sixties, fills four hundred boxes.) After marking off the items that you want, you’re rewarded with a cart loaded with archival cartons and a pair of white gloves. At the back of my mind, I wasn’t expecting to find much—I’ve been gathering material for this book for years. As it turned out, there were well over a hundred letters between Asimov, Campbell, and Heinlein alone that I hadn’t seen before. You aren’t allowed to take pictures or make photocopies, so I typed up as many notes as I could before I had to run to catch my plane. For the most part, they fill out parts of the story that I already have, and they won’t fundamentally change the book. But in an age of digital research, I was struck by the fact that all this paper, of which I just scratched the surface, is only accessible to scholars who can physically set foot in the reading room at the Mugar Library.

After two frantic days, I finally made it home, where my wife and I watched last night’s premiere of James Cameron’s Story of Science Fiction on AMC. At first glance, this series might seem like the opposite of my experiences in Boston. Instead of being set apart from the wider world, it’s an ambitious attempt to appeal to the largest audience possible, with interviews with the likes of Steven Spielberg and Christopher Nolan and discussions of such works as Close Encounters and Alien. I’ve been looking forward to this show for a long time, not least because I was hoping that it would lead to a spike in interest in science fiction that would benefit my book, and the results were more or less what I expected. In the opening sequence, you briefly glimpse Heinlein and Asimov, and there’s even a nod to The Thing From Another World, although no mention of John W. Campbell himself. For the most part, though, the series treats the literary side as a precursor to its incarnations in the movies and television, which is absolutely the right call. You want to tell this story as much as possible through images, and the medium lends itself better to H.R. Geiger than to H.P. Lovecraft. But when I saw a brief clip of archival footage of Ray Bradbury, in his role in the late seventies as an ambassador for the genre, I found myself thinking of the Bradbury whom I know best—the eager, unpublished teenager in the Great Depression who wrote fan letters to the pulps, clung to the edges of the Heinlein circle, and never quite managed to break into Astounding. It’s a story that this series can’t tell, and I can’t blame it, because I didn’t really do it justice, either.

Over the last few days, I’ve been left with a greater sense than ever before of the vast scope and apparently irreconcilable aspects of science fiction, which consists of many worlds that only occasionally intersect. It’s a realization, or a recollection, that might seem to come at a particularly inopportune time. The day before I left for the symposium, I received the page proofs for Astounding, which normally marks the point at which a book can truly be said to be finished. I still have time to make a few corrections and additions, and I plan to fix as much of it as I can without driving my publisher up the wall. (There are a few misplaced commas that have been haunting my dreams.) I’m proud of the result, but when I look at the proofs, which present the text as an elegant and self-contained unit, it seems like an optical illusion. Even if I don’t take into account what I learned when it was too late, I’m keenly aware of everything and everyone that this book had to omit. I’d love to talk more about futures studies, or the letters that I dug up in the Asimov archives, or the practical effects in John Carpenter’s remake of The Thing, but there just wasn’t room or time. As it stands, the book tries to strike a balance between speaking to obsessive fans and appealing to a wide audience, which meant excluding a lot of fascinating material that might have survived if it were being published by a university press. It can’t possibly do everything, and the events of the weekend have only reminded me that there are worlds that I’ve barely even explored. But if that isn’t the whole point of science fiction—well, what is?

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