The World’s End may be a shit film but at least it is full of bitterness and self-recrimination. The roots of that bitterness reach all the way back to the late 1990s when the writers of The World’s End first found success with a sitcom named Spaced.
This may be hard to believe but geek culture really wasn’t really that much of a thing before the late 90s. Sure… people enjoyed the films, books, comics and games that continue to provide geeks with a sense of common ground but mainstream culture rarely acknowledged that people (other than sports fans) were beginning to define themselves through their love of popular culture. Postmodernism was popularised throughout the 1990s but what drove that popularisation was not so much the death of cultural meta-narratives as the frisson of parental approval that came with every suggestion that a creator loved the same shitty pop culture as the rest of us. We often speak of constructing identities in terms of self-expression and self-acceptance but what really drives the adoption of a particular label is the recognition of others, particularly people in positions of authority. Simply stated, geek culture was not much of a thing until the late 1990s because advertisers and cultural creators rarely pandered directly to geeks and so rarely legitimised their identities.
Things began to change is the late 1990s when marketers noticed how devotion to a particular cultural product acted very much like devotion to a particular set of cultural values. Way back in ye olde black and whitey times, advertisers realised that if you associated a particular brand of pipe tobacco with values of manliness and respectability then people who valued manliness and respectability were more likely to buy the pipe tobacco. The success of films like Kevin Smith’s Clerks and Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction demonstrated that this transferral of affection also worked with popular culture; if a film makes a reference to some aspect of popular culture then the people emotionally invested in that aspect of popular culture are more likely to seek out and enjoy that film even if the subject of the film is entirely unrelated to the subject of the obsession. First broadcast in 1999, Spaced ruthlessly exploited these quirks in human psychology by dignifying geeks with their own slice of comedic social realism.
After something of a break, FilmJuice have my review of Julien LeClercq’s The Informant (a.k.a. Gibraltar), from which I expected a lot but received surprisingly little.
Written by the same person as the excellent A Prophet and the epic Mesrine, The Informant concerns itself with a Frenchman living on Gibraltar who gets sucked into a world of smuggling and espionage in which everyone lies, everyone betrays and most of the smart people have protection from at least one set of customs officials. Unlike many recent films about the world of espionage, The Informant doesn’t perpetuate the now ubiquitous Thatcherite saw that state power is necessarily evil and corrupt, instead it takes a much more credible tack, which is to suggest that people in the intelligence service are ambitious, incompetent and under so much pressure to deliver results that they invariably cut corners that impact upon people’s lives. Indeed, The Informant is actually based upon the real life story of a Frenchman named Marc Flevet who served as an informant for the French customs only to wind up rotting in Canadian and Spanish jails when French customs decided to disavow his existence for fear of political and diplomatic scandal. The fact that the film is based upon a real life story of government intrigue and ethical shabbiness should have made it a natural companion piece to Mathieu Kassovitz’s excellent Rebellion (a.k.a. L’Ordre et La Morale), which described the politically-motivated slaughter of New Caledonian activists by a French government desperate to look tough in the run up to elections. However, despite the fact that The Informant had the potential to be a proper espionage thriller with a potent political message, Leclerq’s film comes across as little more than an under-written drama:
This plot synopsis makes the film sound significantly more interesting than it actually is. The principle problem is one of emphasis: Had Leclerq rather than allowing the needs of his story to dictate mood and pacing, Leclerq takes his cues from the human drama meaning that a film all about international smuggling and corrupt official seems quiet and plodding rather than tense and dynamic. Leclerq lavishes time and attention on his actors who explore their characters to the full only to realise that there’s not really enough human drama in the script to support nearly two hours of film.
This rather reminded me of Kieran Darcy-Smith’s surprisingly well-received Australian drama Wish You Were Here, which made the identical mistake of taking a script structured like a thriller and using it to make a film whose pacing and emphasis were more consistent with that of a traditional drama. Thinking about it a bit more, I wounder whether this trend might not have something to do with the critical success of works like Top of the Lake and Polisse, which take their cues from TV in that they occupy the space traditionally associated with detective stories but deploy the narrative tools of TV drama. The key difference between The Informant and Top of the Lake is that while both slow the pacing and focus on the characters, Top of the Lake’s characters are substantial enough to support that level of attention while those of the The Informant are now. This also explains why I gave up on the universally-popular Breaking Bad; I enjoyed the early seasons that focused on the plot of a science teacher learning to become a drug dealer but at some point in the third season, a decision was made to slow down the pace and focus on the characters despite the fact that the characters were really not interesting enough to support hour-after-hour of detailed examination.
LonCon3 – the biggest Worldcon in history – is currently winding down. One of the more distressing pieces of news to issue from its administrative bowel is the announcement that the 2016 Worldcon will be held in Kansas City, Missouri.
Dubbed MidAmeriCon II, the Kansas City bid saw off competition from a group of Chinese fans who were hoping to bring Worldcon to Beijing for the first time ever. Given that the 2015 Worldcon is already being held in Spokane, Washington, Kansas City will make it two years in a row (and three years out of four) that Worldcon will have been held in a regional American city without a proper international airport.
As disappointing as this administrative colloquialism may be, it is not a surprise as fifty-three out of seventy-two Worldcons have taken place in the United States.
To make matters worse, a Washington DC bid has now entered the race for the 2017 Worldcon. Prior to the announcement of the DC bid, the 2017 slot had boasted an admirably internationalist slate including competing bids from Japan, Canada and Finland. People with ties to the internationalist bids are justifiably outraged:
A victory for DC would not just make it three US Worldcons in a row, but quite possibly four as the only bids to have declared for 2018 are from San Jose, California and New Orleans, Louisiana.
Aside from undermining Worldcon’s claims to be the World Science Fiction Convention, this administrative parochialism has a number of unfortunate knock-on effects:
Firstly, science fiction culture is currently trying to address its shameful track record of marginalising and excluding people from outside the English-speaking world. One of the best ways of making science fiction culture more accessible to a wider audience is by taking the biggest convention in science fiction and transporting it to a country that is not a part of the English-speaking world. By keeping Worldcon safely locked away in American venues, we are perpetuating the preposterous myth that science fiction belongs to Americans.
Secondly, one of the reasons why Anime fandom has overtaken genre fandom and begun to grow much larger conventions is that Anime cons tend to take place in large cities that are cheap and easy to get to. Favouring US regional cities favours wealthy, retired Americans who can easily afford to up sticks and travel to up-state Washington to attend a convention. The size of LonCon3 owed nothing to the strength of British fandom and everything to the comparative ease of getting to London.
Thirdly, Worldcons are run along democratic lines by groups of dedicated fans. Anyone can turn up and vote at a World Science Fiction Society business meeting as long as you happen to be attending the con. The problem is that in order to present a credible bid or introduce new business, you need to be willing to visit more than one Worldcon in a row. Favouring US venues over non-US venues means that American fans find it much easier to get involved in the running of Worldcon and this means that Worldcon is more likely to reflect their ideas and experiences. In other words, the more American Worldcons you hold, the more likely it is that future Worldcons will be held in American cities and built according to the concerns of American fans. Holding Worldcons outside of the US allows international fandom a greater chance to get involved in the running of Worldcon and the more international fans get involved in the running of Worldcon, the more likely it is that Worldcon will come to reflect the experiences and concerns of all science fiction fans.
Having read through some of the discussions surrounding the various bids, I am intrigued and frustrated by the forces that shape the bidding process. Obviously the process favours experienced con-runners but why did Kansas City stand almost unopposed and why did three credible international bids pick 2017 as their target leaving the US almost unopposed in both 2016 and 2018?
The WSFS constitution is silent on the matter. Article 4, which governs future Woldcon selection, describes the process of bidding and the hoops that bidders need to jump through but makes no reference to geographical considerations beyond tying a bid to the city it originally declared for. However, if you look back over older bids and discussions of past site selections, you find references to a system designed to prevent Worldcon from returning to the same city over and over again. From the website of the 1998 Worldcon in Baltimore, Maryland:
The rules specify conditions, both geographic and procedural, which a prospective bid must satisfy to be eligible. Bids from outside North America are allowed in any year but to ensure equitable distribution of sites, North America is divided into three regions: Western, Central, and Eastern.
Rob Hansen’s history of British fandom also makes reference to a spat between US and UK fandoms from the 1980s. The details of the spat are unimportant but the background sheds some interesting light on the hidden politics of Worldcon site selection:
During the business session of the 1984 Worldcon Ben Yalow, an East Coast fan, had suggested that for the purposes of Worldcon rotation the US in future be split into two zones rather than the current three “in order to eliminate wimpy bids”. This quote got somewhat garbled on the grapevine and word went round that an attempt was being made by East and West Coast fans to squeeze out ‘the Wimpy Zone’, i.e. the Midwest.
It is entirely reasonable for US Worldcons to rotate from region to region. One of the abiding principles of Worldcon is that it Brings Fandom to You and so any attempt to root Worldcon in a particular place has long been resisted. However, is it possible that the informal policy of rotating between different US regions has lead to a situation in which various US regions believe that they are ‘due’ even though Worldcon keeps returning to American soil year after year?
My solution to this problem is simple: Worldcon must be true to its name and impose legal limits on the frequency of American Worldcons. There should be no more back-to-back American Worldcons. Ever.
I understand that bidding for a Worldcon is an expensive and complicated process but I would like to see a situation whereby (at the very least) American Worldcon bids compete only against one another while non-American Worldcon bids are protected from opportunistic bids like that of 2017’s Washington DC.
Science fiction belongs to the world and it is high time that Worldcon recognised it.
With this year’s Worldcon imminent, the World Science Fiction Society (WSFS) have released a preliminary agenda for this year’s business meeting.
The agenda appears a good deal less worrying than last year’s, which included motions to dismantle the fan categories and impose severe limitations on the use of cheaper supporting memberships to encourage people to nominate and vote for the Hugo Awards.
In fact, this year’s agenda even includes some interesting procedural business designed to make both the WSFS and the business meeting itself more accountable to the community as a whole. Firstly, there’s a motion (PDF) to require that all changes to the WSFS constitution be ratified by a vote of the membership at large. Secondly, there’s also a move to make it much harder to use procedural rules to shut down debate at the business meeting, which is what happened to last year’s discussion about a possible Hugo Award for Young Adult fiction. The language of this second batch of motions is High SMOFese but Kevin Standlee provides some much-needed explanation.
The one thing that does worry me is the motion entitled ‘Hugo Nominating for NASFiC Members’ (PDF). The proposed amendment to the WSFS is, again, written in High SMOFese (the cross-out text is the existing rule, the underline is the proposed change):
The Worldcon Committee shall conduct a poll to select the nominees for the final Award voting. Each member of the administering Worldcon and any member of any convention sanctioned by WSFS in Article 4 held in the immediately preceding, current, or immediately following calendar year, the immediately preceding Worldcon, or the immediately following Worldcon as of January 31 of the current calendar year shall be allowed to make up to five (5) equally weighted nominations in every category.
The explanatory notes frame the motion as a matter of accessibility and a way of opening the institutions of fandom up to more people:
Because of its suitability for smaller markets that do not have the facilities or concentration of people necessary to bid for or run a Worldcon, NASFiCs have great potential to be a pathway for exposing new fans to WSFS, Worldcons, and international fandom.
The use of language is quite deliberate: In an age of increased concern about accessibility and diversity, who could possibly object to making the institutions of fandom more accessible by creating “a pathway for exposing new fans to WSFS, Worldcons and international fandom”?
For the record, I am absolutely in favour of making the institutions of fandom more accessible to American fans, just not when that accessibility comes at the expense of everyone who is not an American fan.
At the moment, if you become a Worldcon member then you get the right to vote for that year’s Hugo Awards as well as nomination rights for the three years centred on the year of your membership. For example, I purchased a supporting membership for this year’s Worldcon last year and that gave me the right to vote for this year’s Hugos as well as nominate last year, this year and next year.
What this motion is proposing is that anyone who attends a NASFiC should automatically get the equivalent of a free supporting membership for that year’s Hugo Awards. What is a NASFiC? It’s an American convention put on by the WSFS whenever that year’s Worldcon happens to be taking place abroad. In other words, whenever Worldcon does leave America, a load of American fans should get free supporting memberships in the name of accessibility.
My problem with this motion is that Worldcon is already institutionally biased in favour of American publishers, writers and fans. Since the first Worldcon in 1939, fifty-three out of seventy-one Worldcons have taken place in America. With most Worldcon members coming from America, it is rather unsurprising that American authors and publishers tend to dominate the annual Hugo Awards. This historic bias is also self-perpetuating as demonstrated by the fact that next year’s Worldcon is taking place in a small American town without an international airport rather than the capital of Finland.
Genre fandom is not a diverse place. A tiny space built by people with limited social skills, fandom has historically dealt with all major differences of opinion by excluding the outliers. However, while fandom’s history of ignoring and excluding women may be terrible, its history of ignoring and excluding people outside of the US, UK, Canada and Australia is actually far worse. One way of combatting this historical bias is to literally take the institutions of fandom and take them to countries whose fans and writers have been traditionally ignored.
Taking Worldcon outside the US makes Worldcon more accessible to people outside the US. Making Worldcon accessible to people outside of the US makes it more likely that their publishers, writers and fans will show up on the Hugo ballot. Having more non-American writers and fans show up on the Hugo ballot makes them more visible and thereby promotes not just accessibility but also diversity.
Worldcon already has an in-built bias towards US genre culture, giving NASFiC members a free supporting membership institutionalises and encourages that bias at a time when both Worldcon and the WSFS should be working to open themselves up to the world outside America.
You cannot give a free supporting membership to the members of the American national science fiction convention without also giving one to the members of every other national science fiction convention. Doing so would further institutionalise the already objectionable American dominance of Worldcon and do absolutely nothing to address the historic marginalisation of non-American voices in both fiction and fandom.
This is a motion that talks the language of accessibility whilst walking the path of historic American privilege.
Seeing as a number of people have asked me for my first impressions of the new D&D Starter Set, I thought it might be fun to write up my thoughts in a little more detail than Twitter allows. In short, the Starter Set is both a brilliant introduction to a new set of rules and a fantastic opportunity to re-launch Dungeons & Dragons both as a brand and a hobby. However, while the Dungeons & Dragons Starter Set is a breath of fresh air, it is nowhere near enough to fill the lungs of someone who is already half-drowned.
The Weight of History
I first started playing tabletop RPGs not long after the release of the Second Edition of Advanced Dungeons and Dragons. AD&D2 was really nothing more than the original 1977 D&D rules with a load of extra sub-systems bolted onto them. An excellent example of the design philosophy underpinning D&D at the time was the way that different editions handled skills:
- D&D featured no skills beyond fighting, spellcasting and a few abilities with their own discrete sets of mechanics like picking locks or noticing the gradient of a slope.
- AD&D1 kept all of these discrete mechanics and introduced the concept of secondary skills but provided little in the way of mechanical support for those additional skills.
- AD&D2 kept the discrete mechanics and introduced new rules that served to flesh out the secondary skill system. Despite presenting the rule changes as a more integrated system that encompassed languages, weapons and non-combat skills, the proficiencies were really nothing more than a tidy way of allowing players to choose and then keep track of their areas of expertise and the ever-expanding network of sub-systems that governed them.
If the name and design principles underpinning AD&D2 make it sound cluttered to the point of complete inaccessibility, then you would be completely right. It was nearly 25 years before someone thought to take D&D back to first principles and one can only assume that this reluctance to mess with the rules was derived from an unspoken assumption that the audience for D&D was the same as it had always been. If you assume that the only people buying AD&D2 are the people who already own AD&D1 then it doesn’t really matter that rules changes mean additional sub-systems… it’s not as though anyone has to learn all the rules from scratch! Similarly, if you assume that the only people interested in playing D&D are the people already playing it then every rule change runs the risk of alienating the people who have been playing the same campaign for 20 years. Do these designers not realise how difficult it is to port a 75th level Paladin Demigod from one edition to another?
The collapse of TSR and purchase of D&D by Wizards of the Coast inspired a long-overdue re-examination of the rules but while the game’s third edition replaced AD&D2’s warren of sub-systems with the integrated d20-based mechanics, the iteration of the d20 rules that became 3E was still an incredibly insular piece of game design. The reason for this creative introversion is that 3E was developed during a time when D&D was under intense pressure from games that tried to put RPGs on a slightly different footing.
The original D&D rules are a model of simplicity; After presenting its readers with the revolutionary notion that they could play a game entirely in their own heads, the box set provided just enough mechanical support to make those imaginary worlds seem concrete. However, because the rules were originally drawn up as the basis for a war game that focused upon individual characters rather than units and because the game wound up being marketed at boys, D&D came to be seen as a game primarily concerned with tactical combat, a myth that the publishers of D&D were only too happy to support through an endless barrage of publications pandering to the tactician’s need for more monsters, more traps, more encounters and more magical bling. As this ‘canonical’ vision of how to play D&D slowly emerged, gamers interested in other aspects of roleplaying such as playing roles and solving mysteries began to drift away towards games that emphasised their vision of what gaming was all about. As is so often the case in small sub-cultures, the desire for legitimacy and visibility inspired hyperbole that in turn provoked social schisms.
The more some gamers sought to distance themselves from traditional D&D, the more people interested in tactical play came to revel in a form of tactical fundamentalism in which non-tactical aspects of play received little or no support in published materials. It was during the years spanning the move from ADD2 to 3E that White Wolf Games reached out to fresh audiences with the promise that their games would not be about killing things. Despite this injection of new blood into the hobby and the manifest truth that hundreds of gamers had moved away from D&D, the game’s publishers listened to the tactical fundamentalists and turned their back on people less interested in tactical play.
Despite being built around a core mechanic that could support almost any form of tabletop play, 3E featured a set of combat and movement rules that encouraged the use of miniatures as part of a highly tactical playing style. The tactical nature of in-game combat exerted a pressure on every aspect of the game as the need to make the right tactical decisions in combat encouraged players to think more strategically about their character design, which in turn created a huge market for gaming materials aimed more at players than at the Dungeon Masters who had traditionally been responsible for buying most of the books.
Nowadays, people frequently refer to the d20/3E years as something of a gold rush in which the market for RPG books expanded massively and unpredictably heralding the rise of new companies and the collapse of older ones. However, as many books as 3E managed to shift, the gold rush was not fuelled by the arrival of new players but by the more effective exploitation of existing markets. 3E saw existing players spending more and lapsed players returning to the fold either by ‘getting the band back together’ or by engaging in a weird kind of vicarious RPG experience in which they would hang out on RPG forums and buy lots of RPG materials without ever actually sitting down to play. 3E made a lot of companies a lot of money but it did almost nothing to grow a hobby that was already showing serious signs of institutional neglect.
Unlike most geeky hobbies, tabletop gaming expects you to spend time in the same room as other people. In fact, in order to get the most out of an RPG campaign, you regularly need to spend long periods of time in the same room as the same group of people who are all doing exactly the same thing as you… and who has time for that in this day and age? Nowhere is the toxic nature of capitalism more evident than in the changing face of work: A generation ago, a family could support itself with only one person working a regular 9-5 job but the waves of economic collapse that have swept around the world since the 1970s mean that everyone now works increasingly long hours with increasingly unpredictable schedules. Ever happy to exploit, the companies that helped to shatter the traditional work/life balance now peddle their wares as rewards and escapes from the demands of the unreasonable workplace that they themselves created. The upshot of this capitalist push-me-pull-you is that people now regularly return home in a state of physical and spiritual exhaustion that lends itself more readily to medicinal applications of booze and shit TV than to arguing with your friends and doing maths. Some of the main beneficiaries of our increasingly horrid work/life balances are massively multiplayer online RPGs such as Blizzard’s World of Warcraft, a game inspired by tabletop RPGs that removes the need to prepare adventures, do maths or meet up with people in real life. Given how successful MMORPGs have become, it is hardly surprising that the next iteration of D&D would use MMORPGs as a point of aesthetic departure.
Dungeons & Dragons 4th Edition remains the most radical reworking of the rules to date. While the designers drew inspiration from the 3E rules and retained a lot of the iconography of previous editions, the game is best understood as an attempt to create a board game based upon principles of MMORPG design. Unlike 3E, which provided a flexible skill system that wound up focussing on tactical engagements, 4E was built with nothing but tactical engagements in mind resulting in characters almost entirely defined by lists of powers. Despite making some gratifying inroads into the MMORPG market thanks to the widely publicised (and presumably expensive) support of Penny Arcade, interest in D&D4 plateaued when people suddenly realised that it was nothing more than a regular MMORPG with added maths and travel times.
Dungeons & Dragons has long been paralysed by the weight of its own history. Early editions simply assumed that anyone wishing to play was already playing and when that toxic attitude finally receded it was replaced by the equally problematic assumption that anyone wanting to play D&D would want to play it in the exact same manner as the brand’s core audience. This weird cultural ego-centrism will be instantly familiar to anyone who expressed an interest in science fiction only to have Robert A. Heinlein’s Rocketship Galileo thrust into their disappointed paws. Sure… the Heinlein juveniles served as a gateway drug for a lot of young readers but should we really assume that young readers today will respond to the same things as young readers in the 1940s? This is not the 1970s and not everyone is a socially inept teenaged boy, why do the owners of D&D continue to ignore thousands of potential customers? Simple: Cowardice and short sightedness.
Interzone #253 is now a thing in the world. I would have recognised this fact a trifle sooner but for the presence of Men with Tools and Serrated Gadgets giving the innards of my woodland habitat a damn good seeing to. I know that this is the 21st Century and we’re all supposed to interact with the internet via smart watches and digital nipple clamps but I still find it difficult to do anything of substance without a proper screen and a decent keyboard.
The July-August of IZ boasts, as ever, a plurality of wonders including short fiction by James Van Pelt, E. Catherine Tobler, Andrew Hook, Neil Williamson and Caren Gussoff as well as the James White Award-winning story by D.J. Cockburn entitled “Beside The Damned River”. Non-fiction includes an interview with the editor John Joseph Adams, film columns by Nick Lowe and Tony Lee as well as reviews by Maureen Kincaid Speller, Jack Deighton, Stephen Theaker, Ian Sales, Paul Graham Raven, Ian Hunter, Andrew J. Wilson, Duncan Lunan, Simon Marshall-Jones and Jim Steel.
There’s a lot of nice stuff in this magazine but I was particularly charmed by Nick Lowe’s opening homage to the much-overlooked medium that is science fiction theatre:
There’s an old misperception that theatre is a medium in competition with film, and doomed to try to mimic its art of illusion. But theatre is above all a space of suggestion and implication, where embodied physicality can conjure worlds with a gesture or line. In that respect, it’s far closer to what sf does with the written word, only kissed with the spell of live mimesis and response. The moment that wrote the grammar of western theatre was the young Aeschylus’ staging of the Iliad with two actors, no set, and a single location. It’s a moment that theatre re-enacts nightly.
Last and almost certainly least is my column about Robert A. Heinlein, or rather the (to my mind deeply problematic) campaign to see him restored to his one-time position of prominence thanks to a sudden and unexpected flurry of biographies and (overwhelmingly positive) critical re-appraisals. Personally, I think there are far more attractive and deserving bodies to uncover. I will be republishing that column here in a few months but if you need to get your Heinlein Hatin’ fix right this minute, you can either visit the TTA Press shop or Amazon, which seems to sell electronic copies.
FilmJuice have my review of Lukas Moodysson’s thoroughly wonderful We Are The Best! Set in 1980s Sweden, the film is a densely-written and realised drama about a group of diffident teenaged girls who spin their feelings of alienation and abandonment into friendship and punk rock. Based on a graphic novel by Coco Moodysson, We Are The Best! is one of those films that renews your trust in the fundamental precepts of world cinema:
The most striking thing about this film is its astonishing density. Not content with providing his audience with a whistle-stop tour of the 1980s punk scene and producing three exquisitely drawn characters, Moodysson unpacks his characters’ motivations and uses them to critique a society that sees little of value in teenaged girls. The film is littered with beautifully quiet scenes in which the girls come up against sexist attitudes and it is in these moments that we are reminded of the central aesthetic principle underlying world cinema: The depth and breadth of human experience is not exhausted by stories about heroic tough guys and mildly depressed middle-class people, so why should cinema limit itself to those types of stories?
Re-watching the film and considering my reaction to it, I was struck by the difference between the vision of Scandinavia presented in this film and the vision of Scandinavia that is presented in the so-called Nordic Noir TV series that are currently proving popular with the British chattering classes. One of the reasons why these TV series are proving so popular is that austerity has pushed British political culture further and further towards the nightmarish individualism of American political culture and the social democracies of Northern Europe are increasingly becoming totemic symbols of what can be achieved when social institutions remain under popular control. Who wouldn’t want to live in a place filled with beautiful people, minimalist interior design and supremely competent police that drive vintage Porsches and wear cooky jumpers? In fact, going by the TV series, Scandinavia is a place entirely devoid of fat or brown people! Despite believing that the state is a more effective and humane means of government than the market, I welcome any film and TV series that critiques the creation of a racially-problematic dreamworld.
We Are The Best! is set in a sports-obsessed Swedish suburb similar to that of Tomas Alfredson’s peerless gothic romance Let The Right One In. In both films, the parents are supremely liberal and the state provides housing and schooling that ensures that no child need ever feel the sting of hunger or the lash of want. 1980s Sweden should have been a paradise on Earth but society’s largesse came an inevitable price tag: Silence. The children in these films are showered with well-meaning attention but a refusal to follow the script and enjoy society’s riches means that they are forced to the margins and denied a vocabulary with which to express their discontent. This is neither Africa nor America… this is socialist Sweden and what could a bunch of middle-class kids possibly have to complain about? While the protagonist of Let The Right One wound up expressing his alienation through an unusual relationship with an intersexual vampire, the protagonists of We Are The Best! reach for a lexicon that is at once more mundane and more universally accessible: Punk rock.