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A review by kleonora
The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells
3.0
Verdict: This may be first iteration of a now-familiar paradigm but it still has a few shocks and surprises up its sleeve. Certainly better than that Tom Cruise crap.
In my review for The Time Machine I commented on how incredible it was that this ancient book which has spawned so many of our now familiar sci-fi elements should still read as fresh and inventive. I’m afraid I cannot bestow similar praise upon The War of the Worlds. I’m afraid it’s just a case of H.G. Wells being a bit too ahead of his time. After all, this is a man who lived in a world before the invention of airplanes, much less spaceships. (A fact that might explain why Martians prefer to do their interstellar travel by space cannon rather than more conventional UFO methods)
I found that the book dragged a bit, especially at the beginning. Wells is not a ‘story based’ writer, in that the plots in most of his books are fairly thin and linear. The brilliance comes from the scenario, the big idea that the book is based around. Perhaps Wells’ contemporaries had to take a little longer to understand the implications of life on other planets coming to Earth, but as a 21st century nerd I’m pretty familiar with the subject. I’ve seen numerous movies, TV episodes of varying budget and quality, and read a stack of books on the subject of alien invasion, most drawing in no small way from this very novel. I therefore came into War of the Worlds already very well versed in this particular ‘big idea’.
Oh the aliens are from Mars? Well duh. They have a heat ray? Makes sense. Tentacles? Kind of obvious. Wait what’s this? They’re experimenting with some sort of rounded…no. It can’t be. It is! My God, the Martians are building some sort of saucer shaped flying machine! And so on. I’m sorry but these are just not new ideas to me and Wells, you have no one to blame but yourself. If you hadn’t been such a goddamn visionary your source material might not have been the subject of wholesale plunder. This, of course isn’t really a valid criticism to lay at Herbert’s feet, but its all I have. I didn’t enjoy reading this as much as my past Wells’ forays and, as far as I can tell, the fault lies with the fact that it has so completely permeated scifi that I found it rather dull at points.
But I did like it, definitely. Though I’ve absorbed many fictional accounts of space invaders, never has one been so quaint. I’ve already mentioned the adorable terror the people of London had that the Martians might actually make a machine that could fly. Beyond that though, you have people fleeing in dog carts and hackney carriages. The artillery’s guns are on wheels and dragged about by horses. Normal people can afford to live in Zone 1. Truly, this is sci-fi like you’ve never seen it before; in Edwardian sepia.
Also, once Wells is satisfied you’ve overcome the shock of envisioning space folk arriving on Earth, the story actually returns to our nameless narrator and picks up in pace a bit. We meet The Curate and The Artillery Man. Though their responses to pressure do not live up to (cannot live up to) Montgomery’s Bank Holiday they are, nonetheless, interesting character studies.
I especially like the Artillery Man, keen to go feral, form a new city underground from the sewers and tube lines, amass a collection of whatever advances they can glean from the Martians and then, eventually, steal a Martian machine and wipe them all out. Naturally even grand plan starts with digging a ditch in Richmond. Also, ditch digging is thirsty work and this abandoned champagne isn’t getting any fizzier. Hey, you ever played poker? I dunno what Whatshisface got so uppity about. I would totally have chilled with the Artillery Man.
It may not be my favourite, but I was always going to enjoy this book because it’s all about London. Nowadays, thanks to the hubris of Hollywood, it’s always the bloody Whitehouse that’s first on the ET hit list, but Wells’ Martians had it right. They knew right where they wanted to be; Woking. And from there, onto London; Greatest City on the 3rd Rock from the Sun and really the only place worth invading. As you may have deduced I am rather enamoured of my adopted hometown and am almost physically unable to dislike books that name checks places I know.
War of the Worlds, especially towards the end, (I have no great knowledge of Chobham) was a veritable disaster travel-log of places I’ve lived and wandered. Ole Whatshisface even ends up in Regent’s Park standing on Primrose Hill, a locale down the road from where I currently reside. Needless to say, I was thrilled and considered the conclusion a stirring success. I was even pleased by the sappy happy epilogue. An exuberant 3.
In my review for The Time Machine I commented on how incredible it was that this ancient book which has spawned so many of our now familiar sci-fi elements should still read as fresh and inventive. I’m afraid I cannot bestow similar praise upon The War of the Worlds. I’m afraid it’s just a case of H.G. Wells being a bit too ahead of his time. After all, this is a man who lived in a world before the invention of airplanes, much less spaceships. (A fact that might explain why Martians prefer to do their interstellar travel by space cannon rather than more conventional UFO methods)
I found that the book dragged a bit, especially at the beginning. Wells is not a ‘story based’ writer, in that the plots in most of his books are fairly thin and linear. The brilliance comes from the scenario, the big idea that the book is based around. Perhaps Wells’ contemporaries had to take a little longer to understand the implications of life on other planets coming to Earth, but as a 21st century nerd I’m pretty familiar with the subject. I’ve seen numerous movies, TV episodes of varying budget and quality, and read a stack of books on the subject of alien invasion, most drawing in no small way from this very novel. I therefore came into War of the Worlds already very well versed in this particular ‘big idea’.
Oh the aliens are from Mars? Well duh. They have a heat ray? Makes sense. Tentacles? Kind of obvious. Wait what’s this? They’re experimenting with some sort of rounded…no. It can’t be. It is! My God, the Martians are building some sort of saucer shaped flying machine! And so on. I’m sorry but these are just not new ideas to me and Wells, you have no one to blame but yourself. If you hadn’t been such a goddamn visionary your source material might not have been the subject of wholesale plunder. This, of course isn’t really a valid criticism to lay at Herbert’s feet, but its all I have. I didn’t enjoy reading this as much as my past Wells’ forays and, as far as I can tell, the fault lies with the fact that it has so completely permeated scifi that I found it rather dull at points.
But I did like it, definitely. Though I’ve absorbed many fictional accounts of space invaders, never has one been so quaint. I’ve already mentioned the adorable terror the people of London had that the Martians might actually make a machine that could fly. Beyond that though, you have people fleeing in dog carts and hackney carriages. The artillery’s guns are on wheels and dragged about by horses. Normal people can afford to live in Zone 1. Truly, this is sci-fi like you’ve never seen it before; in Edwardian sepia.
Also, once Wells is satisfied you’ve overcome the shock of envisioning space folk arriving on Earth, the story actually returns to our nameless narrator and picks up in pace a bit. We meet The Curate and The Artillery Man. Though their responses to pressure do not live up to (cannot live up to) Montgomery’s Bank Holiday they are, nonetheless, interesting character studies.
I especially like the Artillery Man, keen to go feral, form a new city underground from the sewers and tube lines, amass a collection of whatever advances they can glean from the Martians and then, eventually, steal a Martian machine and wipe them all out. Naturally even grand plan starts with digging a ditch in Richmond. Also, ditch digging is thirsty work and this abandoned champagne isn’t getting any fizzier. Hey, you ever played poker? I dunno what Whatshisface got so uppity about. I would totally have chilled with the Artillery Man.
It may not be my favourite, but I was always going to enjoy this book because it’s all about London. Nowadays, thanks to the hubris of Hollywood, it’s always the bloody Whitehouse that’s first on the ET hit list, but Wells’ Martians had it right. They knew right where they wanted to be; Woking. And from there, onto London; Greatest City on the 3rd Rock from the Sun and really the only place worth invading. As you may have deduced I am rather enamoured of my adopted hometown and am almost physically unable to dislike books that name checks places I know.
War of the Worlds, especially towards the end, (I have no great knowledge of Chobham) was a veritable disaster travel-log of places I’ve lived and wandered. Ole Whatshisface even ends up in Regent’s Park standing on Primrose Hill, a locale down the road from where I currently reside. Needless to say, I was thrilled and considered the conclusion a stirring success. I was even pleased by the sappy happy epilogue. An exuberant 3.