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A review by tom_f
The Hopkins Manuscript by R.C. Sherriff
5.0
After savouring this for as long as I could handle, I've finished it and, despite its comparatively unambitious narrative conclusion, I confirmed my initial impressions that this is an essential piece of British science fiction, of C20th sci-fi in general.
As entertainment it successfully blends the most recognisable qualities of its two most obvious generic labels, social satire and disaster sci-fi: its keen psychological sketches and moral arc are as classic as the pulpy panache of its eschatalogical foreshadowing. Though the initial appeal is seeing these literary worlds colliding, like the moon hurtling impossibly towards Beadle village, the way Sheriff quietly tesselates and interweaves them provides a more lasting pleasure. Above all, Hopkins' repeated commitments (whether stated plainly or by some amusing conceit) to tell the world's incredible story from his own perspective makes the novel's republication by Penguin in 2018 satisfyingly timely (see High Life, Ad Astra).
But its strongest and most consistent (though most twistingly variable) strength is the way it reflects backwards and forwards onto different questions of human experience. Its contemporary relevance in 1939 is Chaplinesque and undoubtedly haunting, but more unnerving are its echoes of climate change and even Brexit. The novel works as a grim warning about the capacity of individuals (and our nation), privileged through insulation against the world's slide towards boiling point, to overcome our parochialism, our outdated morality, our inability to hold personal responsibility in perspective, and our essential, misguided lack of compassion.
The novel's two faults dovetail in the conclusion, in which Robin's and Pat's natures as narrative functions rather than actual characters are revealed through the moralistic twist, which plays a frustratingly straight line. But even here the spectre of our colonialist past casts a long shadow onto the possible futures (Sheriff's and our own) of space exploration. In a final twist of the knife, Sheriff's own voice is swallowed up in this encroaching darkness alongside its protagonist.
It's like PG Wodehouse meets Kurt Vonnegut, or if Mike Leigh cast Hugh Bonneville in a remake of Melancholia. But it's also like Threads, Children of Men, Joseph Conrad and Franz Kafka, except its ambiguities are achieved through a levity not present in any of the above. Sheriff's touch is that of a master ironist: it casts early C20th provincial British life forwards into today while also eerily chiding us for our fundamental lack of progress.
A
As entertainment it successfully blends the most recognisable qualities of its two most obvious generic labels, social satire and disaster sci-fi: its keen psychological sketches and moral arc are as classic as the pulpy panache of its eschatalogical foreshadowing. Though the initial appeal is seeing these literary worlds colliding, like the moon hurtling impossibly towards Beadle village, the way Sheriff quietly tesselates and interweaves them provides a more lasting pleasure. Above all, Hopkins' repeated commitments (whether stated plainly or by some amusing conceit) to tell the world's incredible story from his own perspective makes the novel's republication by Penguin in 2018 satisfyingly timely (see High Life, Ad Astra).
But its strongest and most consistent (though most twistingly variable) strength is the way it reflects backwards and forwards onto different questions of human experience. Its contemporary relevance in 1939 is Chaplinesque and undoubtedly haunting, but more unnerving are its echoes of climate change and even Brexit. The novel works as a grim warning about the capacity of individuals (and our nation), privileged through insulation against the world's slide towards boiling point, to overcome our parochialism, our outdated morality, our inability to hold personal responsibility in perspective, and our essential, misguided lack of compassion.
The novel's two faults dovetail in the conclusion, in which Robin's and Pat's natures as narrative functions rather than actual characters are revealed through the moralistic twist, which plays a frustratingly straight line. But even here the spectre of our colonialist past casts a long shadow onto the possible futures (Sheriff's and our own) of space exploration. In a final twist of the knife, Sheriff's own voice is swallowed up in this encroaching darkness alongside its protagonist.
It's like PG Wodehouse meets Kurt Vonnegut, or if Mike Leigh cast Hugh Bonneville in a remake of Melancholia. But it's also like Threads, Children of Men, Joseph Conrad and Franz Kafka, except its ambiguities are achieved through a levity not present in any of the above. Sheriff's touch is that of a master ironist: it casts early C20th provincial British life forwards into today while also eerily chiding us for our fundamental lack of progress.
A