Taking Suspension of Disbelief to New Heights

Roofworld
by Christopher Fowler
p. 1988

High above the city streets of London there exists a culture of young people who live among the rooftops, swinging from metal cables and living off the grid, unseen and largely forgotten by the world below... that is, until a couple of hapless twenty-somethings stumble upon their niche society and get thrown in the middle of an urban gang war fought right over our heads. That is the general idea behind Christopher Fowler’s Roofworld—a dark, at times absurdly comical, at times distinctly horrific thriller novel—that introduces the reader to a different kind of ‘high society,’ and one that exists entirely in secret.

As a part of his boring job finding books to translate to the big screen, 24-year-old Robert Linden must track down Sarah Endsleigh, the elusive daughter of a recently murdered author, as she holds the rights to her mother’s only novel. In doing so, Robert meets Rose, the author’s feisty, independent landlord, and the two of them stumble upon Sarah’s alternative lifestyle—as one of the inhabitants of ‘Roofworld,’ a community of young people who live on the rooftops and travel among a long-existing series of cable wires in order to escape the drudge of everyday society. There are two warring factions, Sarah’s people, led by her enigmatic boyfriend (who later turns out to be a dud), Nathaniel Zalian, and a much larger, Nazi-esque lot of screw-ups, skinheads and drug addicts who bumble around under the guidance of their cult leader, who calls himself Chymes. It’s got something to do with occult mumbo jumbo—something about the sun and the moon and zodiac signs or whatever and there’s a lot of cult-ish yammering going on amongst Chymes and his disciples, but it’s all very boring and eye-roll-inducing and really only there to amp up the danger element.

I had a funny moment early on, when it struck me how similar Roofworld felt to Neil Gaiman’s novel Neverwhere, which Iread a few weeks back, except that Roofworld was published 8 years prior to Gaiman’s book.

It’s pretty striking: a boring, young man in a dead-end job (even their names are similar—Richard/Robert) meets a mysterious girl and is thrust into an alternative London society that ‘normal’ people completely overlook in their day to day lives—only while Neverwhere implores you to look below, Roofworld has you looking at what’s above. When his life is threatened, the unwitting hero must summon  unnatural courage to save the day. There are dubious allies, lots of murders going on thanks to a villain with a God complex, and, although Roofworld is mostly grounded in ‘reality,’ there is still a distinct magical feel to it reminiscent of Gaiman’s Neverwhere.

All of this is not to say that Gaiman stole his idea from this lesser known author. I fully believe that it’s possible that two authors can come up with the same idea independent of one another, or that even if one did inspire the other, the interpretation of the idea can vary and the author’s can have different things to say. Besides, Neverwhere is supposedly based on the book Free Live Free, by Gene Wolfe, and that was published four years before Roofworld. Having not read that one, I can’t claim any similarities but it does illustrate the point I’m getting to here, which is that this journey—the unwitting hero who is thrust into a world parallel to our own—is quite a popular one in fantasy/science fiction. And it’s not hard to see why—the idea that there is an escape to the mundane, that we are destined for something greater, that it’s waiting for us just outside the door if only we would look, it’s the stuff urban adventure tales are made of, and it’s applied here to great effect.

Though I found Fowler’s book hard to put down, I still had some complaints about it. The focus shifts around too much, like Fowler couldn’t decide what kind of a story he wanted to write. There are the chapters focusing on the Roofworlders and their battles, there are the chapters about Robert and Rose—the newcomers and outsiders—and there is a third thread about headstrong, sexist Detective Ian Hargreave, his coworker/lover Janice, and the commissioner’s puny son, Butterworth, a young constable needing to prove himself and whom Hargreave constantly picks on. And littered in between all of this are a smattering of tedious chapters wherein Chymes predictably offs another dumb disciple. Fowler tried to go in too many directions at once and the whole thing is just kind of a mess. Though occasionally entertaining, Hargreave and Butterworth’s side adventures were totally unnecessary and detracted from what should have been the main focus—the state of Roofworld and the people who inhabit it.

Set in 1988, Roofworld has a style that is—at times painfully—reflective of its time. This is a deviation where I appreciate Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere over Roofworld, because the former painted a decent comparison to our tendency to overlook the disenfranchised, while the latter focused on people who chose to be disenfranchised, and spent a lot of time ragging predictably on big corporations and ‘the man,’ though not in so many words. I believe Fowler had some big ideas but not enough follow through for it to mean anything. Roofworld, though it is swinging away towards its inevitable dissolution, is presented as a sort of utopia, but I felt no compulsion to join them. Perhaps it was in part due to my inability to fully picture Fowler’s strange world. Having never lived in an urban landscape, I have a hard time picturing how such a thing would even be possible.

But mostly, I just found the Roofworlders obnoxious and pretentious ‘kids’ who don’t want to grow up.

Roofworld is not a bad book, and it certainly gives you some things to think about, but I’m going to need more than a few cables and wires attached to buildings to suspend my disbelief for that long.

(And let's talk about that byline on the back page for a minute... "You won't see them unless you know where to look"? Well that just sort of invalidates the entire plot of the book you're about to read. Shame on you, publishers!)

Evil People Doing Things Evilly

Neverwhere

by Neil Gaiman
p. 1996
  

Existing beneath the surface of London streets is a rail system that connects all parts of the city. According to Neil Gaiman’s fantasy romp, Neverwhere, also existing beneath the city streets is an entire culture of people who have fallen through the cracks of society, people who possess magical abilities unheard of above ground. Neverwhere is the story of one young man’s journey as he becomes part of this figurative and literal ‘London Underground.’

Richard is an average guy (which, of course, is the best kind of guy for these kinds of stories); he has an average job with promotion prospects, a serious girlfriend with marriage prospects, a decent apartment and his health. He is all set up for a normal and innocuous (if a bit dull) life, until he helps an injured girl he meets on the street. In an act of mercy, Richard rescues Door, a girl on the run from a pair of nasty characters who chased her to ‘London Above’ after murdering her entire family for their unique abilities in—what else—opening doors most cannot.

As a direct result of his brief interaction with Door, Richard’s life is slowly stripped away as he is first ignored then entirely forgotten by his peers, essentially becoming invisible to the world. Left with no other choice, Richard takes to the London Underground to find Door and her bevy of curious comrades and restore the life that was stolen from him. Instead he finds himself pulled along on a dangerous journey to discover the truth about Door’s family’s demise—and a plot that would forever change life Underground.

Though I own the movie adaptations of two of his other novels, Neverwhere is my first foray into the works of Neil Gaiman and I have to say, I like his ideas here. He has a fantastic imagination and it manifests itself in a lot of creative ways, such as the Floating Market—a gypsylike bazaar that changes locations and can only be reached by word of mouth, the mysterious warring class system that exists in London Underground, and of course, the various machinations of Door’s protector, family friend, and requisite scene-stealer, the marquis de Carabas, a harlequin-esque rogue to whom there is more than what appears. Gaiman’s best idea, though, is his ability to draw parallels between the various characters that populate the Underground and the very real homeless and disenfranchised. The fact that an entire world exists that no one can see unless they are looking for it, where people are lost and forgotten and overlooked, where you too could find yourself if you fell far enough... it’s all strikingly real when you think of how easy it is for the world to turn a blind eye on its societal problems. Gaiman just took this parallel many steps further and turned this land of lost souls into a world unto itself, one with a purpose and a style all its own.

I enjoyed Gaiman’s imagination when it came to setting and theme, but I found myself unable to fully immerse myself in the atmosphere of Neverwhere, littered as it was with clichés. Richard and Door and even the roguish marquis are charming heroes, but there’s nothing new about them. Richard is your standard everyman, whisked away unwittingly on an adventure. No one expects much of him and he is entirely unremarkable and yet, when faced with a challenge that hundreds have failed he inexplicably passes with flying colors, no explanation given. Door is sweet and innocent, a speaker for and lover of helpless rats, but she’s got spirit and moxie and it all just makes me want to gag. She never fully takes credit for destroying Richard’s life and no one ever calls her on it. The marquis is clever and keeps the reader on their toes. He was definitely my favorite character but even he failed to completely win me over with his charm, maybe because I’ve seen it all before.

By far the worst offenders are the villains, though. The treacherous duo that doggedly chase our heroes all throughout the book are the demonic Mr. Croup and Mr. Vandemar whose villainous villainy is shoved down your throat until you choke on it (Croup would probably like that though). I found myself rolling my eyes every time Croup was likened to nails on a chalkboard, every time Vandemar devoured a small creature, and especially every nauseating time they were respectively referred to as a fox and a wolf, two creatures which we all know are notoriously evil in reputation. I feel like the exaggeration was meant to convey to the reader exactly what bad news these two were, but it was just so over the top, I found myself not the least bit creeped out by them. In fact, in most encounters, they aren’t even allowed to engage the heroes physically, making them the most ineffective creepers in fantasy. Then there’s the lead villain, the head honcho, a literal fallen angel who speaks in wispy platitudes and is generally aloof to the fact that he is a raging douchenozzle with a God complex. I could go on, but I think you get the picture.

I think Gaiman was onto something comparing his ‘London Underground’ to London’s disenfranchised. I very much liked the idea that there is a society of people the world has forgotten who have found their own power and their own place. Gaiman doesn't just leave the door (no pun intended) open for a sequel, it's wide and gaping with a heavenly chorus of angels beckoning you through it without subtlety, and perhaps he’ll get around to it one day. If that happens, I for one hope Gaiman focuses more on drawing out that parallel and less on over the top characters having predictable adventures.