While I was in Greece working for two weeks I had no internet access, something of a catastrophe for my millions of fans but a strange chance to chill out for me[1]. Fortunately I had downloaded a couple of books to my kindle before I left[2] so I had plenty to occupy me, and first on my list was the Richard Morgan series The Steel Remains and The Cold Commands. In this post I will give a brief review of the two books, but what I’m really interested in with these books is the subtext, and the underlying implications of the world structure of the sub-genre they are derived from.
I have previously read and reviewed Richard Morgan’s cyberpunk/space opera cross-over novels, Altered Carbon and Woken Furies, both of which I really enjoyed for dubious reasons. Richard Morgan’s two new novels are fantasies rather than science fiction, and are also a departure from his previous style in that they are clearly intended to be “grimdark,” that new style of fantasy realism that embraces violence, rape and brutality but, most especially, rape. In his sci fi, Morgan kept the sexual violence repressed and simmering on the edge of the story: sure, there were snuff movie makers and some nasty criminal undergrounds, but they were just that – some kind of tiny minority who traded cruelty to a tiny minority. In The Steel Remains series, Morgan has moved the sexual violence to the centre of the story, along with a heavy dose of brutality, and embraced all the lowest aspects of grimdark. I have previously commented critically on his justification for doing this, and also on the general trend towards misogyny and violence in stories like A Game of Thrones, so I entered these two novels with very mixed views on what to expect.
First of all, I enjoyed these books for all the same reasons I enjoyed his previous works. In their broad outline they haven’t really deviated much from the basic themes of Altered Carbon. The story features on some elite soldiers who are veterans of a great war to save civilization. The war was brutal and they are scarred from it; but even more by the the cruelties they were forced to commit when they were deployed to put down civil revolts near the end of the war. They have emerged as scarred survivors with a very short fuse and a strong drive to hurt bullies and criminals, largely to try and rectify their own past complicity in horrible crimes. This means we get to see a healthy dose of bully-smashing, which I always find thoroughly enjoyable: child rapists, murderers, slavers, torturers and bastards get all manner of cruel and just desserts in this story, and it’s really hard to feel any pity for them. The world they’re in shows no shortage of such people, and in fact if our heroes were to set out on a mission to do in every bully and cruel bastard on the planet, they would end up very lonely. The world is divided into two main countries, a northern and southern empire that are basically equivalent to Europe and Asia Minor: the southern continent is clearly meant to be Muslim. One of our heroes is a gay son of a very privileged family, in a world where homosexuality is a deep sin; another is an outlander from horse tribes generally seen as barbarians. The main character (the gay man) is a picture in repressed rage, basically a shirt-lifting version of Kovacs from Altered Carbon. There’s a lot to like in watching these two men dispense with anyone who offends their sense of rightness which is, in general, the same as the reader’s. I think this means they are relatively (for fantasy) deep and complex characters, and generally in the right in a degraded and mediaeval kind of way. Unfortunately the story is not as tight as in his previous works: there are parts that don’t make sense and at times it feels like I missed a book, though I’m pretty sure I didn’t. Some sections, particularly those set in the faerie world, just don’t make any sense to me. There’s also a strong deus ex machina running through the whole latter part of the story, with one of the characters basically getting out of any situation through his role as vessel for some ancient darkness, the role of which is not explained. That aspect of the novels is pretty shit, actually, and I was disappointed with those elements of the story. So, although the novels retain some aspects of Richard Morgan’s best works, they represent both a structural and moral degeneration from his previous highs.
Which brings us to the issue of the grimdark. If the moral universe in which our heroes operate were to be characterized in two easy themes, it would be: every man rapes, and the strong can kill with impunity. This is grimdark, you see. At the time the story is set, the northern kingdom has instituted a new system of debt slavery, in which basically anyone who cannot pay a debt can be sold, along with their family, into permanent and brutal slavery. That is, if your neighbour goes underwater on their mortgage, you can buy them, and then rape them with impunity – and even pay for them to be sent to a special training school which will somehow (probably, the implication is, through rape and violence) turn them into willing sex slaves.
Furthermore, as far as I could tell in this world, free women seem to be divided into only two types of person: noblewomen and sex workers (who of course are routinely referred to as “whores,” a noun which in this story basically replaces “woman” in the narrative flow). The men could fill more roles, but no matter what they did, unless they were very very high in society, our heroes could murder them in the street without paying any penalty. It appears that in this world of grimdark, slaughtering people who spill your beer is pretty standard practice. I guess beer is expensive.
The implications of these setting elements are obvious and abhorrent. What kind of world can pass a law to enslave ordinary people’s neighbours? How is that going to work? Sure, one of our heroes is employed to rescue a girl from his extended family who is sold into this situation, but we’re somehow meant to believe that they are the first and only family to decide to take independent action against slavery, and that the rest of the world is just going along with it. This seems hardly credible. There is not, in general, any particular group targeted for exclusion and enslavement, and no sense that “it won’t happen to me.” Just ordinary families getting swept up in slavery because they went into debt. This scenario is just impossible to credit, even in a mediaeval dictatorship. Who would tolerate this? How long would it last before people started rebelling? Especially in a world where heroes can kill ordinary men with impunity, it seems pretty likely that a village would scrape up the money to pay a few mercenaries to go and liberate their enslaved members. It seems far less likely that they would buy those enslaved members and then subject them to the full cruelties of lifelong slavery. “Hi Bob, yes, I always enjoyed chatting with you at the pub, but from now on I own your family because you didn’t pay the beer tab, so I’m going to rape your wife and daughter every day.” Doesn’t figure, does it? But the society of these novels seems to just go along with it, as if they had a missing moral bone … which they certainly seem to lack when it comes to prostitution and murder.
There are prostitutes – sorry, “whores” – everywhere in this story. In one notable scene, our hero is stalking through some random street and hears a prostitute – sorry, a “whore” – busily sucking off a sailor in an alley, then notices a whole queue of sailors waiting for her services. This is … phenomenally weird. Everywhere we turn there are “whores,” but these men have to queue up; or is it the case that demand outstrips supply? In which case how can these sailors afford a blow job, and why are there “whores” everywhere we look? In this story “whores” serve as a kind of scenery or background the way trees, birds and carriages might be in a more standard story. Whereas in the Belgariad our heroes would be leaning against a wall and an ale cart or a bird seller might walk by, in this world it’s always a perfumed “whore,” who trails behind her (in a particularly odious moment of poor writing) “the smell of used woman.” Scanning the world Morgan lays out for us, there seem to be no female shop-keepers, apiarists, porters or grocers: just noblewoman and “whores.” And there are an awful lot of them, too. Also, just as in A Game of Thrones, these “whores” appear to be completely expendable, so if you have ever wondered what it’s like to kill a girl, you just hire one of those expendable “whore” things that are on every street corner, and no one will care if you do her in horribly. How does such a world come about, especially when there is a huge stock of slaves available to be used however one sees fit? The only way I can see this working is if there is a massive gender imbalance, but the female majority hasn’t yet figured out it can gang up and take over just from sheer weight of numbers. It’s just economically and politically weird. It seems, for example, that men care about their daughters – so how are they tolerating a world where every second daughter grows up to become an expendable “whore”? The observable nature of the world seems to run repeatedly up against the moral framework, in a way that ultimately cannot be reconciled.
The same applies with the weird phenomenon of people being able to murder each other with impunity, and also the cold-blooded way that men routinely dispose of all injured opponents by killing them. No world that works this way would stay civilized, and typically these kinds of extra-legal killings have only been possible in special places or at special times. The degree of casual murder on display in this story would be out of place in Japanese-occupied Manchuria or modern Afghanistan (as, for that matter, would the degree of misogynist violence). Those places were devastated war-zones under occupation; we’re meant to believe that this world is a functioning and stable society, bar a little bit of war recovery.
There is no place and time in history that has managed to stay civilized and maintain this degree of sexual and non-sexual violence. The setting is impossible, unless we are to imagine that the obviously basically human societies being portrayed are fundamentally amoral and alien, which they’re clearly not meant to be. It’s as if Morgan wanted to portray the moral exigencies of men trapped in total war (which is certainly the implication of his self-exculpatory musings linked to above) but couldn’t be bothered stepping outside the standard fantasy setting – as if it was too much effort to create the physical backdrop for the moral story. And who would want to write this moral story anyway?
I think this is a problem with “grimdark” generally: they want to write a world where men have unparalleled rights over and access to women, but they want to imagine a world where women can still walk the streets freely; they want men to be able to kill bullies without punishment, but they want a world where men still drink together with strangers in pubs. The reality is that these worlds don’t coincide, and the failure of the grimdark authors to realize this makes me think that they’re actually just using a cheap, knock-off fantasy setting to work through their unresolved adolescent issues: they want to get back at all the women who rejected them and all the men who bullied them, but they haven’t the imagination to construct a setting where this is possible; so they just dial our assumptions about the barbarity of mediaeval worlds up to 11, and get to work on the non-consensual sex. To me, this is lazy and weak world creation, and yet another example of how over the past 30 years the fantasy genre has consistently failed to live up to its transformative and speculative potential[3]. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that, as the nerds of the 80s grow into the peak of their spending power, and also start to experience their mid-life crises, their fiction will begin to be dominated by stories that appeal to their unresolved adolescent angst. But if it’s going to do that, I would prefer that it would at least do so in a slightly more mature and creative way than “grimdark” has so far managed to present me with. I guess I was hoping for too much …
—
fn1: That’s a lie actually, I was very angry about it.
fn2: Kindles are worth their weight in gold when you are travelling
fn3: Actually the soft-porn bdsm series Gor from the 70s(?) did this. In that story the author constructed a moral framework in which women fundamentally want to be used by men, and are turned on by male power. Although superficially based on capture and forced enslavement, willing were actually consenting to their own slavery, thus didn’t rebel and could be turned into willing sex slaves. Whether or not you think this is horrible (I don’t; I think it’s just porn) it is, at least, an attempt to make the moral underpinnings of the story match the actions of the protagonists. It’s an attempt to explore what the world would be like (from a pornographic perspective) if humans were morally different to how we actually are. Grimdark doesn’t bother with this speculation: it just rapes people[4].
fn4: that sentence sounds clumsy if it ends with the word “women,” but let’s be clear about this: by and large, grimdark doesn’t rape men (or if it does, they are generally deserving of it). It rapes women. Over and over again.
May 27, 2013 at 2:34 pm
1. I’ll add this to my “don’t bother” list
2. Grimdark doesn’t actually mean constant rape and murder. It means that “in the grim darkness of the future there is only war!” [1] or in other words it’s a shit world for everyone. Reducing the possibility that a random demon may shit down your neck due to circumstances beyond your control loses the only redeeming feature grimdark has [2] and just makes it a misogynist rape power trip fantasy. There isn’t an explicit single word genre for those.
That one redeeming feature being that: done right you can communicate that the world is stuffed, hope is lie and that throwing your life into the meat grinder isn’t going to save anyone long term – it just keeps the candle of civilisation alight for one more day. And in promoting that despairing point of view it can say something about the transient bravery of someone who throws themselves into the fray anyway. [2]
[1] Confession: Too lazy to bother looking up the actual Warhammer40K slogan.
[2] Plus grimdark kills everyone, so it’s more misanthrope than misogynist.
May 28, 2013 at 2:39 pm
I think that’s pretty close to the original 40k slogan. I also can’t be bothered checking it. I guess strictly speaking I should call it “rapey grimdark” or something, but it’s probably better not to name such a genre, lest it become A Thing…
May 29, 2013 at 12:02 pm
It actually sounds like this book was based on the FATAL RPG. From memory that game contained some terribly sourced claim that ~30% of any given community’s males had raped someone.
May 29, 2013 at 12:44 pm
Maybe this genre is a spin-off from RPGs? The main action is always a fight. You can inject a limited amount of realism (the players in the fantasy RPG I DM have left the last five towns on the run from the local law), but the mechanics rule out too instant or effective retaliation. The rape is an add-on, though – or I have never moved in circles where rapey RPGs are found.
May 29, 2013 at 1:22 pm
You could have a point there, Peter T. I haven’t ever been a part of one, but I think there are groups out there where rape is a routine part of in-game activity. It could be that this has infected literature (or the fan-base of sci-fi).
I was also thinking that Morgan might be showing an unimaginative response to the constraints of the genre. In his sci fi stories it was harder to imagine the hero getting away with simple crimes like this, for a variety of reasons: the state has bigger and better guns than him, there are more witnesses, helicopters, cctv, real time comms etc., so he was forced to look for more inventive ways to express his characters’ repressed fury. But in his fantasy world the heroes are the kind who can kill 6 ordinary fighters before they can run away. In a world without realtime communications and helicopters, this means that his heroes can wipe out a squad of guardsmen and walk away, and it will be hours before the pursuit begins. That rarely happens with modern police! In previous generations of fantasy, the characters were either unreservedly good (e.g. The Belgariad) or were constrained by social norms (e.g. Fafrhd and the Grey Mouser, who didn’t generally kill everyone in their way). In contrast with sci-fi, nothing has changed in the tech level of the fantasy settings – it’s about the way people interpret those social norms. I like a little bit of butting against social norms, especially when it means bullies get smashed – but I think the extent to which the heroes in this story get away with (literally) murder puts our conception of the strength of those social norms into conflict with the level of peace and order we perceive in the society they’re moving through. That conflict seems to me like a failure of imagination – and you could be right, it’s the kind of imaginative failure that is common in RPGs.
Maybe RPGs haven’t had a positive effect on the fantasy lit genre? That could be worth thinking about …
July 26, 2020 at 6:00 pm
I think that another issue is that earlier writers had either lived next to hard people in rough places (Robert E. Howard) or read a lot of pre-20th-century literature (J.R.R. Tolkien, Poul Anderson). So they had more models of how people could be awful to one another and of how violence works in societies. By the 1990s, it was possible to have a career writing fantasy novels without reading anything written before 1937 or spending time on the soda tank at a lumber yard with a lot of colourful characters.
July 27, 2020 at 10:58 am
Most RPGs make at least a stab at keeping the violence ‘realistic’ – in that the killing takes place in wastelands or other lawless zones.
There’s a sub-genre of fantasy where all women are basically sex objects. Like many other sub-genres, it does not make any pretense at coherence. Like the ones where monsters roam the streets, and seeing the neighbours eaten is an everyday occurrence. No-one asks how society functions with that level of predation, and no-one asks who is raising the children and doing the cooking.
July 29, 2020 at 10:51 am
I’m not convinced by either of these arguments.
Vagans, I don’t think that experiencing hard people and rough places is a predictor of willingness to be grimdark or not. I don’t think, aside from his brief period in ww1, that Tolkien (a literature prof) was especially familiar with tough people and rough places, and his work was not grimdark. I also don’t think some of those who are supposed to have been roughhouses really were. And I’m not sure there’s any evidence that modern fantasy writers haven’t read stuff written before 1937. A good example of this is Bernard Cornwell, whose work shows an obvious familiarity with two millenia of fiction and historical work, but who also has a sideline in grimdark (which is probably also his worst stuff, I’d say).
Peter T, I think the problem with your argument is that the grimdark boys do try and make a “pretense at coherence”. They want you to think that this is what pre-modern societies were really like. My argument is that they weren’t like that, and that the pretense at coherence is wrong. The sub-genre of Gor fantasy is if anything better than grimdark because it doesn’t pretend to be realistic. To me, grimdark’s problem is its pretense to be a grittier, more realistic version of fantasy. It’s the fantasy version of that Hobgoblin Ale t-shirt that says “what’s up lager boy, scared you might taste something?” Yeah, it’s very confrontational and claims to be making a better version of beer, but actually lots of craft beer sucks.
July 29, 2020 at 6:35 pm
faustusnotes, I am saying that grimdark is characteristic of writers who have not experienced many different sides of life and who have not listened to people living in places with lots of physical violence, patriarchy, etc. George MacDonald Fraser could never take George R.R. Martin’s nihilistic attitude to heroism, because he had met heroes in the war: in every Flashman book he makes sure you know that there are brave and self-sacrificing people who Flashy avoids as much as possible.
July 31, 2020 at 10:23 am
Probably not, but perhaps his experiences on the Somme were enough to last him a lifetime?
July 31, 2020 at 1:23 pm
Vagans, I want to agree with you, but I’m not convinced that earlier authors were really that close to grim things. It’s true that as a modern development it could reflect the cushy lives of the authors (I love to believe this about Tarantino wanting to be a gangster because he’s too chickenshit to actually be a gangster!) but I’m not convinced.
J-D it’s true that Tolkien’s experience in the Somme was supposed to have informed his writing. But there have been lots of Americans in all generations who didn’t go to war, and they don’t have pretensions to grimdarkery (the obvious example here is women! I doubt Shelley had many harsh experiences before she wrote Frankenstein, but she didn’t aspire to be grim did she?)
July 31, 2020 at 10:03 pm
faustus – that’s my point. It’s a pretense, because humans are not like that. We are eusocial creatures, and can’t live with too much distrust – at least within the group (chimpanzee and baboon societies are much more grimdark). The many horrors of history (and the current time) are not individualistic – they are done by groups to other groups.
August 1, 2020 at 8:58 am
I know that it’s alleged, and for all I know it may be true, but then again for all I know it may be false. If it did inform his writing, I don’t know how it informed his writing.
All I’m saying is that if somebody makes an affirmative case for some conclusion (whatever that conclusion is) and relies in part on saying he had no experience in his life of difficulties (or no experience of violence, or no experience of horrors) except for the fighting on the Somme, I think it’s worth pointing out that could be a big enough exception to undermine whatever point it is that’s being made.
I would, for example, make the same sort of response if somebody said that Tolkien chose to write about how terrible the world can be because he didn’t have significant actual experience of it or if somebody said that Tolkien chose to avoid writing about how terrible the world can be because he didn’t have significant actual experience of it.
I fear that at this stage I may at least temporarily have lost the thread of the argument as a whole, but this individual point stands regardless (I hope).
August 1, 2020 at 11:27 am
True J-D. I think I have an impulsive counter-reaction to the idea that war forges identities because it seems to be a catch-all explanation for everything. As a counter-example to the idea that being in the Somme inured Tolkien to grimdarkery (and informed his writing), consider Wilfred Owen, whose experience of WW1 is always directly said to have caused his poetry to be grim and dark. His poems are nasty! And when people teach his work they always contrast his terrible pre-war romantic poems with the power and passion of his wartime ones, which are famously grim. So here we have two men who experienced the exact same war, actually in the exact same battle, in similar positions (Owen was a second lieutenant with the Manchester regiment, while Tolkien was a second lieutenant with the lancashire fusiliers), probably with similar views of their men in their command, but Owen’s experience is credited with making him grim and dark while here we see an argument that Tolkien’s prevent him being grim and dark.
I think this is a problem with war experience as an explanation generally: it typically happens to young men in their formative years, and then explains everything they do in the rest of their lives. It can’t work, generally, as an explanation for women’s experience or the changes they go through (though it is presented as the reason for Miss Fisher’s compassion for working people, for example, and at the beginning of Outlander is clearly intended to explain much of the main character’s attitudes towards the put-upon Scots). I think it has too large an explanatory role!
Peter T, I think we’re in agreement?
August 2, 2020 at 1:04 pm
Your wider point is of course more important than my narrower one.
August 3, 2020 at 9:44 pm
Faustus, the trouble is that we would have to get out an armful of biographies and I don’t have them on hand. To pick three authors of fantastic fiction active in the 1930s:
Tolkien was a junior officer on the Western Front, enough said. He spent his whole life deep in early Germanic literature and its worldview. There are some economic things he did not grok- the Shire has too few servants and the idea that all the farms in Mordor are somewhere in the south of all the armies does not work- but he could never have been grimmdark (which is absolutely not the same as grim and dark- read Attic tragedy or Icelandic literature next to George R. R. Martin or Warhammer material, they are night and day).
REH’s boxing is a matter of public record. I have not gone on a deep dive through his letters and he liked to tell tall stories about his life, but if you read his letters you see he understood many of things about how early 20th century Texas worked and was interested in folk tales, Victorian travellers’ narratives, and so on. He was a race theorist with a high-school education so his “why” can be squirrelly, but his “what” is usually pretty close to how we see 1930s Texas, and he listened to people who had harder lives and belonged to different cultures.
As we know, de Camp’s short story “Judgment Day” about a bullied student at a boarding school who later decides to destroy the world was autobiographical. As a teenager he worked summers at a sawmill near his father’s property and had had lunch with Seneca and French-Canadians and other migrant workers. He then took his world tour in the 1950s and learned enough Swahili to pull it out as a party trick 30 years later. He was probably the most sheltered of the three, but the languages and travel and his early life kept him grounded, he could never have written grimdark.
If we move one generation later, H. Beam Piper was a Pennsylvania State Railway cop with an interest in firearms and martial arts, I have not read his biography to see what his day job involved. Harry Harrison is too obvious, David Drake also (just note how Drake engages with the Greek and Latin classics- again, engaging with people who live hard lives is at least as important as personal experience).
August 3, 2020 at 10:22 pm
And just to repeat, my position is “earlier writers had either lived next to hard people in rough places … or read a lot of pre-20th-century literature. So they had more models of how people could be awful to one another and of how violence works in societies.” Its not a claim about one of those factors, let alone that war is the only way to live next to hard people in rough places.
August 7, 2020 at 10:29 pm
Sorry Vagans, I got super busy (hard to believe in this era of covid isolation) and didn’t reply to your comments. I want to agree with your theory, actually, and I think that’s what I was thinking when I wrote this post originally. So thanks for adding some data points that might support the view! Also I’m thinking now about this kind of snotty sci-fi author from the 1950s, like John Wyndham, who were often quite wealthy and comfortable in their own lives but wrote these god-awful stories in which an older academic man uses extreme situations (disasters, alien invasions, the end of the world) to teach a younger woman that the world is a hard place. I think those authors were often quite privileged – Wyndham for example lived on his parents’ money until he became a writer. But they also experienced the war so …
August 8, 2020 at 5:25 pm
I don’t know about authors like John Wyndham, but I did read several of his books, although a long time ago, and what I recall of them doesn’t match the description you’re giving.
August 8, 2020 at 9:37 pm
Try day of the triffids j-d, it’s a completely awful series of scenes in which a middle-aged academic patronizes a young woman as she learns about how horrible the “real” world is. Ugh!
August 9, 2020 at 8:24 am
On which planet do you find a person who has read several of John Wyndham’s books but has not read _The Day Of The Triffids_? Of course I’ve read _The Day Of The Triffids_. Your description of is inaccurate (I could easily go into details).
August 9, 2020 at 9:22 am
Well it’s been 20 years at least since I did and that’s my memory! Am I confusing it with some other horrid tale?
August 10, 2020 at 10:53 am
That could easily be the case, but how could I tell?
Something which I remember in general terms from both _The Day Of The Triffids_ and _The Kraken Wakes_, and which may well also be present in other John Wyndham books, are scenes in which characters talk about the nature of human beings and the way they make the world for themselves: social commentary, I suppose, of one kind or another. However, as best I can recall, these scenes often if not always involve back-and-forth between the characters, not just one expounding (which is probably good, because a character expounding social commentary to a passive audience is a hard kind of writing to make interesting, or to justify including in a novel, although hard is not the same as impossible). There’s probably more of this commentary coming from male characters than female characters, because male characters generally have the leading parts in his books (which might be considered a flaw, but is hardly a highly distinctive characteristic of his work, being so widespread). It’s possible that his male characters are older than their female partners (or companions/associates/interlocutors); I can’t recall any strong indications one way or the other, but I admit it’s a point on which my recollection may be faulty. The kind of scenes I’m describing don’t make up a large fraction of any book I recall, but for somebody with a low opinion of that kind of writing, even a small fraction might seem excessive: I have to say that to me it seems plausible that people (at least some of them) facing the collapse of the world they’ve been used to would spend some time ruminating on the kind of general observation that springs to my mind.
As I said, I could go into the details I remember from _The Day Of The Triffids_, if anybody’s interested, but of course there are almost certainly other details I’ve forgotten. Still, I remember it better than any of his other books, and I’m confident I remember enough to be sure it doesn’t match your description. I don’t remember any of the others I read as matching your description, either (I could go into the details I remember from them if anybody’s interested).
Incidentally, I’m not suggesting that John Wyndham is a great writer or that his books are great books; I’m sure they have their faults and I know many books (and writers) I’d recommend ahead of them. I just think your recollection of them is non-specific and therefore distorted. You probably did have good reasons for not liking them when you read them, I just doubt you are now recalling those reasons with precision. I suspect this because I know pretty much the same thing happens to me: that is, I form a negative opinion of something but at a later date am unable to recall the reasons with precision.
August 10, 2020 at 8:37 pm
No worries faustusnotes! We all have more urgent things to do than talking on the Internet.
One thing that grimdark reminds me of is the kind of very learned and fussy poetry about the joys of the simple country life which aristocrats applauded then went home to their slaves and their intrigues and their meeting with their accountant. Either way, the creation makes a point of saying something about life, but its not reflected in how the creators or their audience live. It also reminds me of the “different times, different values” argument, when often it turns out that the awful thing someone did in the 19th or 20th century was criticized at the time- it erases the fact that people have sincere values and these are always contested with “everyone sucked and only fools have honour.”