In April 2003, M. John Harrison created or appropriated a new genre category called "The New Weird" and tried to kick-start discussion on the internet. Ann and Jeff VanderMeer bring that discussion into the real world where we generalists can join in. But if this book is anything to judge by, "The New Weird" is a make-work label designed to give C-list writers something to talk about, and to sell books to gullible japes like me.
Jeff VanderMeer, in his introduction, spews a lot of post-grad lit major gibberish to persuade us not only that this new category exists, but that it's already dead and he has the right to perform the post-mortem. He claims it's the rightful inheritor of sci-fi's New Wave and the innovative grotesque horror/fantasy of the 1980's. But he never says what New Weird is. And the main text of the book probably shows why.
The editors start with what they call "Stimuli," a selection of stories that nourished the New Weird ethos. But for the most part I can't tell the difference between them and the Old Weird. These authors, including Michael Moorcock, Kathe Koja, and Clive Barker, appear to channel Lovecraft, Poe, and Shirley Jackson. This reads like the Old Weird's Greatest Hits.
But these stories are masterful compared to the section labeled "Evidence." I beg, implore, and defy anyone to explain what makes these stories either New or Weird. Jeffrey Thomas' "Immolation" is bog-standard sci-fi. K.J. Bishop's "The Art of Dying" and Jeffrey Ford's "At Reparata" are fantasies. Apart from a playful attitude toward events, there's little innovative or Weird about these stories
The tales by Brian Evenson, Steph Swainton, Leena Krohn, and Alistair Rennie are--not to generalize--crap. If New Weird means rejecting clear characters, plot, or momentum, then I need to dig out the stories I wrote in junior high, because I'll make a mint. The only remotely inventive story is China Mièville's "Jack." No wonder VanderMeer disparages Mièville in the intro: we can't have schlubs like me reading or caring about our proud subgenre, can we?
The next "Symposium" section attempts to critically parse this subgenre. In addition to several windy, jargon-rich essays by authors from this book, it reproduces the early entries in Harrison's web discussion on what New Weird is and if it exists. Reading this bunch of half-baked cranks justifying their opacity, I am reminded why I dislike criticism as a whole and pop-culture criticism in particular.
I couldn't even finish the "Symposium," much less the "Laboratory" section, in which the VanderMeers prompt writers to add a new round-robin story to a genre they've already declared dead. I found myself steadily losing the will to live. In Harrison's web discussion, Jonathan Strahan describes the New Weird moniker as "a load of old cobblers," and I couldn't agree more.
Hundreds of pages into this tedious exercise, I knew I'd wasted precious reading time. The editors have been given a taxonomic category and felt the need to fill it, although the category has no parameters and the putative genre doesn't exist. Some individual stories are interesting, but the collection is gormless, without any clear unifying ethos. I'm sorry to say, there is no New Weird, and this would-be manifesto is a vulgar attempt to part you from your money.