A Princess of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs

Carl Sagan has a lot to answer for. In 1980, the famous astronomer and rationalist (Dawkins would have loved him) wrote the book and TV series Cosmos. The book kicked around my house until I was of an age to read it, and I found it a real treasure- a sprawling account of the universe and our relationship with it, told through science, myth, history and literature. No stone remained unturned- in a chapter on Mars, Sagan rightly devotes as much time on the impact writers such as H. G. Wells and Burroughs had on the public’s perception of the red planet as the 1970’s Viking missions.

Sagan grows particularly misty-eyed as he recalls the exploits of Burroughs’ hero John Carter of Mars. He recalls daring adventure, exotic locales and beautiful heroines. He recalls the best damn two-fisted adventures in the history of literature. All in all, he recalls too much.

It was many years later that I finally got my hands on a Burroughs book. It was A Princess of Mars, the first book Burroughs ever wrote (in 1912), and the first one that featured John Carter.

Carter is a good ‘ol boy from Virginia who, at the end of the Civil War, finds himself destitute, and with ‘his only means of livelihood, fighting, gone’ (Not to worry, John. There’ll be plenty of fighting where you’re going). While prospecting in Arizona, Carter gets trapped in a cave by some marauding Indians. Apropos of nothing, he suddenly looks up to the sky to the planet Mars, and announces that, actually, as a fighting man, he’s always had a fascination with the planet of the god of war, don’t you know. He finds his spirit somehow transported to Mars, while his body lies in the the cave on Earth.

On Mars, Carter encounters a version of the red planet that was very much in the public mind of the time- a dying world of dried-up seas, cris-crossed with canals as ancient civilizations carry out last-ditch efforts to make the planet habitable. He encounters the Tharks, eight-foot tall green men with four arms who live to fight. He fights alongside them and earns their trust and respect, and eventually goes on an expedition to rescue the beautiful (and notably more human) princess Dejah Thoris from the clutches of an enemy people.

As Sagan notes in Cosmos, the popular idea of an old, dying Mars was largely due to an American named Percival Lowell, who also influenced Wells. Lowell was an astronomer who believed he could see canals on Mars using his telescope, and produced remarkably consistent maps and globes of their positions over a period of many years in the late 19th century, even going so far as to name many of them. He was a respected astronomer and no crank, and whatever it was that he was chronicling is still something of a mystery today.

So that was the state of Mars in the public perception, circa 1912. What Burroughs brings to the table is that his Mars is a place of ADVENTURE! Unfortunately, what 'adventure' means to Burroughs is endless captures, escapes and fights. Carter faces pulpish creatures on almost every page- in cities, in deserts, in arenas- but he’s such a designated hero that none of it seems to matter. He’s such a hardass that we never believe he’s in the slightest danger. Couple this with a ‘heroic, manly’ attitude reminiscent of Sir Galahad, and Carter quickly becomes a bore.

I am not prone to sensitiveness, and the following of a sense of duty, wherever it may lead, has always been a sort of fetich (sic) throughout my life; which may account for the honours bestowed upon me by three republics and the decorations and friendships of several lesser kings, in whose service my sword has been red many a time.

Not a humble chap, our John. He’s almost like Flashman played straight, and while this uncynical view of manliness and heroism is often part of the charm of early 20th-century fiction, here it grates immensely. Carter never admits a weakness. He’s nothing but a tremendous Mary Sue- a stand-in for the author, only faster and stronger and more popular. His black-and-white world view is vindicated by all the characters he meets- Thoris is good because she is a beautiful woman who knows her place and falls in love with him immediately. Tars Tarkas the Thark is good because, though a barbarian, he has a sense of honour and duty similar to Carter’s own. And bad characters are similarly flat- jealous and conniving from the moment they are introduced. Character development is not one of Burroughs’ strong points.

So is the novel saved by the exotic locales and fantastic events? For the most part, Burroughs neglects to describe the scenery and architecture of this I’m-sure-it-would-be-fascinating-if-I-could-see-it world. In fact, his most poetic prose appears instead on those rare occasions where he lets us know what the narrator is feeling- when he is scared, or anxious, or lonely. Of course, Carter is such a manly man that he doesn’t allow this to happen too often.

There are few ideas here beyond a straightforward adventure story. Attempts to flesh out the details of the Tharks alien society do add some depth and interest, but once we discover that these underachieving ‘barbarians’ are in fact merely squatting in the ruins of great cities built by a lost utopian race, who were of course wise, noble and very white, the charm does fizzle somewhat. As Carter is looking at the frescoes of one of the most beautiful buildings-

They were of people like myself, and of a much lighter colour than Dejah Thoris. They were clad in graceful, flowing robes, highly ornamented with metal and jewels, and their luxuriant hair was that of a beautiful golden and reddish bronze. The men were beardless and only a few wore arms. The scenes depicted for the most part, a fair-skinned, fair-haired people at play.

This is such a common trope amongst fiction of the period that it quickly becomes tiresome. Did anybody of the time, even just once, posit a utopian society that did not have elitist, racist undertones? Finding it in this novel, mentioned briefly and with no relevance to the plot, is quite disheartening. It’s like Burroughs interrupts the narrative to shout ‘hey kids, I know it’s not really relevant, but I thought I’d remind you that only white people can be civilized- even in fantasy!’

Perhaps it's unfair to ask such things of a rock-em sock-em pulp adventure. But the truth of the matter is that other authors have done this kind of thing, before and after Burroughs, far better. According to Sagan, there’s a lot more books where this one came from, but don’t be expecting a review of them to pop up here anytime soon.

The Devil Rides Out (1968)

It strikes me that there are certain kinds of ‘supernatural’ occurrences or superstitions that most people take more seriously than others. Obviously, few adults are deeply troubled nowadays by movies that feature stock horror elements such as vampires, werewolves and the like. But mention demonic possession, or ouja boards, or satanic worship, and these same people will begin to harden their eyes and quiver their lips.

“Well, I’m not superstitious,” they’ll say, “but there are some things out there that are just not worth messing with, right? I mean, just in case.”

For some reason, these elements are in a vague way treated seriously, and even with some element of real fear, by otherwise skeptical persons. Moreso than other fantastic evils, they seem to belong in some arcane corner of our real world. We all know a spooky story about someone who messed with ouja, and we’ve all noticed those ‘satanic abuse’ scandals which occasionally pop up.

It seems almost like shooting credulous fish in a skeptical barrel to make a scary movie using these elements- The Exorcist, The Wicker Man, and today’s feature, The Devil Rides Out, are all excellent films that gain at least some of their power from the fascination the public has with their esoteric subject matter.

Many moons ago, as a child, I was prevented from watching a movie by my mother. No matter that I gorged myself on daily repeats of taped-off-the-telly VHS versions of Jurassic Park and Terminator 2: Judgment Day. As scary and brutal as those movies are, they seemed to her to be definitely ‘fantasy’, and thus not deeply unsettling. But this old-fashioned, plodding supernatural chiller about uptight Englishmen messing about with pentagrams and goats’ blood, though containing little overt horror, was, for some reason, a no-no. Her reaction left a deep impression on me- that this kind of horror was somehow more serious, perhaps because it was something that actually happened in the real world.

Years later, I was able to track it down using the wonderful ‘I Need to Know’ board on IMDB. Turns out it was The Devil Rides Out, starring Christopher Lee, with a screenplay by Richard Matheson. Now that’s pedigree!

Christopher Lee plays the Duc de Richleau, an upper-class English gent who discovers that his close friend Simon has become involved with the Occult. Eventually, it becomes clear that the somewhat naive Simon, along with the beautiful Tanith, has come under the power of the black magic adept Mocata (played by one-time Blofeld Charles Gray). The Duke and his stalwart companion Rex Van Ryn track down Mocata’s satanic cult, crashing their midnight sabbat and having lots of car chases through the British countryside.

Richleau lives in a 1930’s Britain where the attitudes and class system of Victorian days has not yet entirely faded. He is an aristocratic gentleman of leisure, of the kind that would not survive the next War- his friends are all upper-class, and have servants and nannies for their children. Despite the budgetary constraints of the Hammer studio, the period feel is wonderfully evoked through the use of old country houses, fantastic sets and beautiful 1930’s cars. It’s a fun look at a dying world.

One of the strengths of the film is its restraint- the horror builds through a growing sense of unease rather than through frequent horrific imagery. Of course, in a movie about the occult, the film-makers are going to have to show something supernatural sooner or later. Aside from one early apparition, the film delays doing this for as long as possible- and with good reason, for the special effects are mostly disappointing. It’s really the only element at which the low budget really slaps the viewer in the face. It is strange to hear Lee constantly enthuse on the commentary that the film would have been much improved by the use of elaborate CGI boogies- seemingly missing much of what makes the film so effective.

Lee seems to have been a bit of a Dan Ackroyd for the 60’s, given his intense interest in the occult. He did much of his own research for the movie, making sure that all the Duke’s esoteric ramblings have a ‘genuine’ background in lore. Its something the movie shares with the source material- the 1931 novel by Denis Wheatley- and adds to making the subject seem credible.

All in all, The Devil Rides Out is an entertaining watch for those with in interest in Hammer films, British society in the early 20th century, and of course, those who enjoy performing the age old rite of the sacrifice of the white hen and the black cockrel when the planets are in alignment.

And for real Grand Masters of the Left Hand Path, here’s a link to a documentary about Hammer films.

Young Indiana Jones Chronicles- Ireland, Easter 1916

One of the great common archetypes of Empire-themed fiction (and reality) is the civilized white man who immerses himself in some alien culture, becoming involved in local affairs and generally having colourful adventures. The country he visits will, of course, be a Hollywoodized version of its real-life counterpart. Naturally, the exoticism of the country will be ramped up the max, and at every turn the hero will encounter interesting historical characters and events, despite the fact that they may not have been around at the same time. It's kind of like history as a theme-park, if you will. How exciting it is, so, to see Ireland finally portrayed in such a manner.

So Indiana Jones spent a little time on the old sod? According to the dubiously-canonical 1990’s TV show Young Indiana Jones Chronicles, he did. With unfortunate timing that Harry Flashman would be proud of, he arrives during Easter in 1916. Pulling into the port of Queenstown (now Cobh) bound for Europe and the Great War, he quickly leaves this writer's home county behind and heads for the capitol, where adventures await. Sean O’Casey, W. B. Yeats, the Abbey Theatre and the Easter Rising are all ahead of him. Ah well, at least there’s no snakes. Young Indy even finds time to romance the sister of future Taoiseach Sean Lemass (!).

As crazy as it sounds, this episode is actually one of the less cringe-inducing Hollywood versions of Ireland (or Diddely-Ireland, as Colin Murphy once called it). Because Young Indiana Jones Chronicles appeared to have been rather a big-budget show, they immediately trump 99% of movies set in Ireland by 1) actually filming on location, 2) actually getting Irish actors to play Irish characters, and 3) actually doing their homework regarding the history. Diddley-Ireland does occasionally raise its freckled face (there is a bar fight while stereotypical music plays), but its most conspicuous occurrence is rightly lambasted minutes afterwards.

When Indy first meets Lemass and his friends, the sister, who has no interest in nationalism, takes him to the music hall, where the audience sings along with a maudlin performance of ‘When Irish Eyes Are Smiling’. It’s played dead straight. Indy thinks that this is grand, until he meets the frustrated socialist playright Sean O’Casey.

“Have ye been to the theatre?” asks O’Casey. Indy says yes, but O’Casey bitterly corrects him on the difference between the stage-Irish of the music hall and the reality portrayed in the plays that run in the Abbey Theatre. O’Casey is wonderfully played by John Lynch. Throughout, the show does bravely attempt to hint at the complexity of the situation, but it’s through the character of O’Casey that this really comes out. Having said this, my favourite line in the whole thing is still when he calls Yeats a bollox. Neil Jordan was never so brave.

When the rebellion does get underway, the show does not simplify the nationalists by making them unquestionably heroic. They are rightly portrayed as brave men who knowingly sacrificed their lives for what they believed in, though through the character of O’Casey the show also questions the necessity of their violent methods. Nor does it whitewash the anti-nationalist sentiment that was common amongst the populace of Dublin. When the proclamation is read from the front of the GPO by Padraig Pearse- a moment of Irish history made sacred by decades of Fianna Fail education, and one that still causes a twinge in this writer’s innards-randomers in the street express skepticism and grumble about not being able to collect their pension.

All exteriors appear to have been shot in Dublin, with the city’s many beautiful Georgian streets providing an easy period feel. The GPO, acting as itself, provides a dramatic focus for the action scenes during the Rising. It’s really stirring to see such a seminal event in Irish history portrayed with a decent budget in the actual locations. It’s great to place the Rising alongside other epic set pieces of the British Empire- Rorke’s Drift, Balaclava, the Indian Mutiny, etc. Each of them was tragic, epic, dramatic, sad, and not at all simple. But sometimes it helps to have a fictional portrayal to bring it all home.

While Young Indiana Jones Chronicles is naturally primarily concerned with the tribulations of its foppish title character (young Indy is quite likeable, actually), the research and care given to this episode make sure that the Ireland he encounters is more than just a colourful background.

Most of the episode is viewable on Youtube- check it out here.

Traumatising Paranormal Literature

A strange and unsettling thing began to occur during the early 1970’s- the term ‘paranormal’ began to replace the older word ‘supernatural’. This may seem a trifling point, but it actually has a subtle importance. This new term was deliberately intended to indicate that the study of the weird had evolved into an actual science, with established rules and methods.

As a child, I was led by the literature I consumed to believe that the ‘paranormal’ was taken seriously by all. I presumed that most universities probably had departments dedicated to researching this most important of topics, with methods standardized by decades of practice. If the evidence was as overwhelming as was claimed in the books I was reading, surely only a fool would remain skeptical. After all, they laughed at Copernicus too, right? Obviously, movies such as Ghostbusters and Poltergeist didn’t exactly help to straighten me out on this issue either.

But at least I knew they were fiction. It’s those who promoted this stuff as fact, often to impressionable children, that I will concern myself with in this article.

A certain brand of scientific-seeming paranormal literature continued until the 1990’s, but it was certainly at its apex during the 70’s, when it seemed you couldn’t even pick up an astronomy book without reading at least a short chapter about those puzzling (but factual) flying saucers. But there was one man who did more than his fair share to convince me that we lived in a strange world. He was an Englishman named Colin Wilson.

Wilson is an infamous figure in British literature- a self described ‘genius’ whose philosophy work was first hailed and then reviled in the 1950s. During his extended exile from literary respectability, he produced books about the paranormal. Most appeared to be harmless potboiler-type collections of odd tales, with generic titles such as World Famous Strange But True. A closer look, however, reveals a more calculating, scientific approach that made the super-normal seem far actually believable (and hence utterly terrifying).

In the period after spiritualism had failed to change the world and the first wave of New-Age mysticism had broken, Wilson saw the ‘paranormal’ as exactly that- simply an extension of the natural world that we couldn’t yet explain. An umbrella term that could encompass apparitions (the term ‘spirit’ had too many religious, non-scientific connotations), UFO’s, extra-sensory perception as well as all manner of other weirdness, the ‘paranormal’ was different to what had gone before. For one thing, there was no spiritual aspect whatsoever. Any unusual phenomena-that most delightfully non-commital of words- was expected eventually be explained as a natural law. Kitchen implements are floating around your house? Spoons are bending? It’s just some aspect of physics we haven’t figured out yet. We’re not there yet, but we’re working on it. This week Uri Gellar, next week cold fusion. That’s science. This was the attitude that prevailed during this time.

By this logic, ghostly encounters that early 20th-century investigators would interpret using outmoded ideas like ‘souls’ and ‘demonic possession’ would instead be seen in the light of proper ‘scientific’ ideas such as ‘psychokinesis’ and ‘telekinetic energy’. Yep, I can sure see the boffins down at the lab congratulating themselves on that breakthrough in weasel-words.

Even old Freud was dragged into this reassessment of values, as the unconscious mind was called upon to carry out what was once the Devil’s work. Wilson in particular liked the idea that poltergeist cases were not what they seemed. Even if a poltergeist openly declared itself to be a demon or a witch or the spirit of a dead person, this was nothing but a cover story. The real poltergeist, according to Wilson, was the suppressed sexual energy of some troubled adolescent in the house. It’s true enough that most reported poltergeist cases have revolved around a child close to the age of puberty. It’s also true that during puberty, frustrations and tensions often cause intense feelings and emotions. And lastly, it’s true that there is much we have still to learn about how the mind works. Perhaps the unconscious mind sometimes taps into some store of energy during this turbulent time? Given an already-existing belief in psychic energy, the whole thing almost sounds reasonable! It’s a stirring concept- a poltergeist as a powerful manifestation of teenage angst; a pimply Creature from the Id.

When presented in the guise of a ‘factual’ book, these ideas were very impressionable to the young mind. Wilson believed he was helping to figure out and demystify the workings of the universe, but in fact he was making traumatizing phenomena seem horribly plausible. Imagine being a child in a world where at any time, for no reason at all, your house might be invaded by forces that could explode windows, cause chairs to march about the house, and create a cacophony of inexplicable sounds at all hours of the night. And knowing that ghosts might be explained by ‘tape recordings’, or energy from a violent, emotional event that is somehow trapped by the surroundings, makes them no less disturbing. If anything, it makes them moreso, simply by providing a convincing explanation.

Wilson was not, in fairness, writing for children. An outfit that does write for children, and that made some extremely strange decisions round about this time, is Usborne Publishing.

It was the 70’s. Everyone was getting into the whole ‘paranormal’ thing. But Usborne was, and is, a tried-and-trusted brand known for producing quality children’s books. When they publish a book about rockets, or pets, or the countries of the world, you know it’ll be a solid, educational read. So when they produced the Supernatural Guides in 1979, it was akin to announcing to the children of the world that this stuff was real.

The Haunted Houses, Ghosts & Spectres Guide is chock-full of traumatising nightmare fuel- floating heads covered with blood, poltergeists throwing children out of bed and pulling their hair, the spectre of a tongueless woman, spirits setting houses on fire- and all illustrated with horrifying pulp-esque oil paintings. Not only were the pictures seriously scary for a book with writing apparently pitched at the level of a ten year old, but nowhere did it indicate that this stuff might not be real. To the literal mind of a child there is no difference between a Supernatural Guide and a newspaper, so the presentation of the material in this way raises some serious questions.

A sample ‘ghost report form’ is even provided, with tips on how to investigate hauntings in a systematic way. Information was also provided on the history of the Society for Psychical Research, without mentioning that they were, at best, a group of dedicated, largely-amateur enthusiasts rather than a pillar of the scientific establishment. Prior to the age of instant information, how was a child to have the slightest shred of doubt that ghost-hunting was an accepted, matter-of-fact science?

Similarly, the Mysterious Powers Guide includes rundowns on ESP and other oddities of the mind, all of which are, again, treated as though they are completely real, accepted phenomena. The use of Zener cards (recognizable from the opening of Ghostbusters) to scientifically quantify the existence of mental powers is mentioned. So is the work of Cleve Backster, who famously believed that he had proven, using polygraph testing, that plants respond emotionally to the world around them. Such examples seem to provide the trappings of real scientific research, when in fact they were already discredited, fringe works. It is not the place to begin explaining how these researchers acquired false positive results -the explanations are far more complicated and less interesting than the initial results. The use of such material, out of context, provides a false image of the place of paranormal research within the scientific thinking of the day.


























These publications could only have happened in the 1970’s, a time when the paranormal was briefly regarded as a legitimate field of study by some. Today’s reader has to wonder whether the writers believed that this was really an important topic for children to read about, given the climate of the time, or whether they were simply careless in how they presented the material.

Flashman and the Mountain of Light

The British Empire- as some wit once said (probably a Belgian, too)- was acquired in a sort of ‘fit of absence of mind’. In this volume of old Flash’s adventures, G. M. Fraser shows his distain for this particular myth, and attempts to educate the reader (by way of Edgar Rice Burroughs) as to the real state of affairs in many of the Indian native states before they were ‘invited’ into the civilizing embrace of the British. Dipping once again into his well-thumbed volume of ‘Queen Victoria’s Little Wars’, Fraser comes out with an almost forgotten campaign to chronicle- the Anglo-Sikh War of 1845.

As the novel begins, the Punjab is in a state of unrest. Incompetent leaders shamble drunkenly on and off the throne as their own relations scheme against them. The Khalsa- the living embodiment of the Sikh nation and the most powerful, well-trained native army East of Suez, is spoiling for a fight, with its beady eye on the power-hungry East India Company to the south. And into this hellish situation is thrust one Harry Flashman. The table is set for a rare feast of literary delights.

As usual for late-period (though chronologically early: why doesn’t Flashman remember meeting John Nickelson again in 1857?) Flashman, there’s a political point to be made. See, in this case the British don’t want to own the Punjab. In fact, it’s useful to them as a buffer state against the hostile Mohammadan hordes of Afghanistan. It’s just that the damn Sikhs, being Oriental and all, can’t keep their affairs in order. Their rulers are so corrupt and debauched, with endless drinking and rutting going on at the Lahore durbar (court) that the country is about to tear itself apart. It all sounds rather jolly to Flashman of course, until he hears about the wanton cruelty of the ravishing Maharani. Yep, the Orientalism factor here is high enough to make Edward Said snap his hookah in half with anger. Oriental rulers are, by and large, barbarous, decadent and sensous; with Fraser’s famous historical accuracy, it's difficult to know how much of this is true and how much is Imperialist bilge. Many of the excesses of the native Indian state rulers were absolutely mind-boggling-witness the recent Victoria & Albert exhibition of Nabob finery. Regular parades, with elephants bedecked with jewels as big as your head, were the order of the day- and this at a time when most Indians were lucky if they could afford a nice patch of dirt to burn their wives on, as Flashman might have put it.

So eventually the British have to step in and sort all this out. How will it end?

Now while almost every Flashman book serves up a delightful curry of exotic thrills, Mountain of Light does a particularly sterling job of keeping historical accuracy and Fraser’s political commentary firmly within the boundaries of telling a rip-roaring good story. ‘Like a page out of Burton’s Arabian Nights’, says Flash frequently as he languishes next to dusky maidens in moonlit pleasure gardens, or clashes steel with blackguards and badmashes in a Lahore dungeon. Of course, he’s referring to the lavasciously-illustrated versions you could only get on the continent (that Burton, eh? Chap had a touch of the Flashman himself, I’d say). And the rub is that it was all- more or less- real. Palaces, beauties, dungeons, back-stabbing Viziers- it’s all in the history books. As if to make this point clear, Fraser includes Dr Josiah Harlan and Alexander Gardner (and comes close, by association, to including the incredible Joseph Wolff), both adventurers whose real-life careers were, if anything, more incredible that Flashman’s own. Sometimes the reader’s just gotta be reminded how strange truth is before (s)he’ll accept the fiction.

Though all the usual treats are present and correct, including Frasier’s ability to make the events of the past seem alive and real (they were, you know), Mountain of Light reads like the most fantastic adventure story ever concocted. In fact, when he hits this kind of magic equilibrium, his writing provides the kind of thrills that Edgar Rice Burroughs fails to provide for anyone above the age of 14 (I was intensely let down by Burroughs when I finally read him. Can you tell?).

No, it isn’t just the sex, juvenile and Flemming-ish as it is. There’s more to being ‘adult’ than that, I hope. Mountain of Light is simply an adventure story that functions on a higher level- it takes the basic framework of a Burroughs novel, but adds great writing, emotion, historical interest, politics and fully-rounded characters. There’s no reason why anyone who was intensely affected by John Carter of Mars or The Lost World as a teenager shouldn’t be able to get the same thrill as an adult, but the writing must rise to the occasion. Flashman and the Mountain of Light is the answer to this conundrum, and is simply one of the most enjoyable entries in the series.