Super-Cannes by J.G. Ballard (2000)

‘Madness – that’s all they have, after working sixteen hours a day, seven days a week. Going mad is their only way of staying sane.’ (Frank Halder to Paul Sinclair)

You can tell late-period Ballard novels by their sheer size – Super-Cannes is a whopping 392 pages long, in the shiny Flamingo paperback edition I own.

The swimming pool had calmed.

The book is on the same topic and has much the same structure as its predecessor, Cocaine Night, but is, at least to begin with, noticeably more believable and enjoyable.

I circled the artificial lakes, with their eerily calm surfaces…

The plot – 1

First the plot: As with its predecessor, we’re among an élite of the well-educated, prosperous, professional middle-classes again. And abroad again: in the Costa del Sol for Cocaine Nights, the South of France for Super-Cannes.

At Eden-Olympia the medical staff were calm and unrushed…

And Super-Cannes is, like Cocaine Nights, told by a first-person narrator, in this case Paul Sinclair (how does Ballard manage to come up with such boring names for his protagonists?).

Trying to calm her, I took the phone from her surprisingly soft hand…

Paul is a pilot of small planes and editor of a couple of aviation magazines. He was injured in a flying accident nine months earlier and his knee refuses to heal properly. As the novel opens it is still in an uncomfortable brace.

Calming myself, I stared down at the dappled floor…

His new young wife, Jane, has taken up a post at the newish Eden-Olympia complex, part of the European Silicon Valley being built north-west of Cannes (in the south of France), a self-contained luxury business park which contains the European headquarters of major European banks and car manufacturers, along with exquisitely manicured villas, a world of tennis courts and swimming pools, luxury homes where all these busy executives spend the little time left over when they’re not at their offices.

 Jane sat calmly in her white coat, dwarfed by a black leather chair contoured like an astronaut’s couch…

The story opens with even more doctors than usual for a Ballard story (if I had a pound for every Ballard protagonist who is a doctor): Paul’s wife, Jane, is a doctor and is replacing the previous doctor working in the Eden-Olympia clinic, Dr Greenwood, and they’re met on arrival at the park by its head psychiatrist, Dr Wilder Penrose, who plays a pivotal role in the story.

Sitting by the open doors of the limousines, they were almost Roman in their steely-eyed calm…

The similarities to Cocaine Nights are obvious from the start: just like Estrella da Mar in that novel, Eden-Olympia looks, on the surface, to be a perfectly organised, self-contained, respectable and hard-working bourgeois paradise, located in an idyllic setting on the Mediterranean, and yet… it has a dark side! Oooh, yes, I know… who would have imagined!

Halder gave up his attempt to calm me…

The two books share the same basic structure in the sense that a 1. mass murder 2. triggers a visit from 3. an outsider who proceeds to 4. investigate deeper and deeper into this self-enclosed sub-culture’s 5. murky depths, and 6. finds himself becoming changed and depraved by it.

Calmly, I said: ‘You’ve had a bump. Cutting corners too fast?’

In Cocaine Nights it was the arson attack on one of the ex-pat community’s luxury villas in which five leading figures burned to death which led to the narrator’s brother being arrested for the crime (because of the strong evidence against him), and prompts the protagonist to fly out to the beach resort to investigate…

Her fingers moved towards a salt sachet, stopped and calmed themselves by eviscerating the stub of her cigarette…

In this book, Jane’s predecessor as doctor at the business park’s clinic, Dr Greenwood, ‘went postal’, went on the rampage with a rifle, locking three chauffeurs hostage in his garage, before going to the business district and cold-bloodedly assassinating seven managing directors and top executives, before returning to his villa and executing the three ‘hostages’ in his garage.

Or did he? [Cue spooky made-for-TV thriller music]

The first person narrator, Paul Sinclair, is disconcerted to discover that he and his wife have been allotted the very same villa Greenwood lived in, and where the hostages were kept and then shot dead – though he is assured the house has been deep-cleaned and, in the case of the garage, rebuilt.

I imagined her lying awake at night, in this electrified but nerveless world, thinking that if only she had forgone her holiday she might have reached out to Greenwood and calmed his dream of death…

Except that Paul finds some evidence overlooked by the police, three bullets in and around the swimming pool which conflict with the official version of events. And, with his wife quickly drawn into the austere work culture of this dream executive-class business park, Paul finds himself with plenty of time on his hands to hobble round the manicured woodland, and explore the office blocks, and to start to make appointments to interview people involved in ‘the tragic events’, including, for example, the three widows of the hostages supposedly shot in cold blood.

He calmed himself, trying to steady his pulse…

Thus, on one level, the book amounts to a long investigation, as Paul slowly increases elements of the chain of events which are at odds with the official story put out by the business park’s press and PR people, and is given (pretty heavy-handed) clues from various officials – from Wilder Penrose the psychologist to Frank Halder, a senior security guard, who takes a strange watchful interest in Paul’s well-being.

‘He helps me park my car, and hangs around the clinic with those calm eyes. He’s waiting for something to happen.’

Slowly pretty much the same picture emerges as in Cocaine Nights, which is that the pampered, bored, professional bourgeoisie need livening up, need excitement – and that this takes the form of random crime, drug dealing, BDSM sex and so on. The usual suspects, then. The characters don’t really hide this, it is mentioned right from the start thus killing off any sense of suspense.

‘I like to stir things up, keep the adrenalin flowing. The more they hate you, the more they stay on their toes.’ (Wilder in chapter 1)

The posh neighbours, Simone and Alain Delage, don’t mind parading round in the nude. Pretty soon they are coming over to Jane and Paul’s to smoke dope and watch porn movies. Paul sees plastic sachets of white powder in various offices and in still photos of the crime scenes and he, and we, are quick to suspect they contain cocaine or heroin.

Halder raised a hand to calm me…

On one of his forays into Cannes proper, Paul stays on into the evening and watches the streets bloom with prostitutes and their terrifying East European pimps. He’s particularly struck, attracted and appalled at the same time by the vision of an 11-year-old girl wearing inappropriate make-up and sexualised clothes and finds himself approaching her pimp and asking how much she is with a view to ‘saving’ her. At least that’s what he tells himself.

Halder pinched his nose, and calmed his fluttering nostrils…

In the event he doesn’t get far with the transaction because a squad of three Range Rovers screech onto the scene, out of which leap a bunch of men in tight black leather jackets wielding baseball bats who proceed to beat the crap out of the little crowd of pimps. The leatherjackets beat the East Europeans and Arabs to the floor, smashing their teeth and smashing in the windscreens of their cars. Paul himself receives a hefty whack over the back before he’s pulled into a doorway by a figure he realises is the park security guy, Halder, a figure who slowly develops into his guardian angel. Paul is to discover that these are regular outings by the more psychopathically-minded senior executives at the business park and are jocularly referred to as ratissages.

He opened his envelope of photographs, waiting for me to calm myself.

Thus it comes as little surprise to the savvy reader when, once the mayhem is over, some of the leather-jacketed vigilantes remove their balaclavas and are revealed as the head of security at Eden-Olympia and several of its younger chief executives. Do they do it out of morality, policing Cannes’ underworld? Paul asks Halder. ‘No,’ Halder replies. ‘For kicks.’

Later, when Paul mentions why he got caught up in the vigilante attack to Penrose, the latter quizzes him about his interest in the 11-year-old girl and then goes on to be as plain as can be about the worldview which underpins the book:

‘Sordid. What can one say? Tragic for the child, but sexual pathology is such an energizing force. People know that, and will stoop to any depravity that excites them.’

So before we’re half way through the book we are fully informed that the business park full of hard-working European professionals is also a hotbed of drugs, kinky sex and violent vigilante squads, and we know at least one of them went off the deep end and went on a killing spree.

‘Some people say she tried to calm him down.’ ‘Brave woman.’

So there’s little surprise about the story. There’s not much place for it to go if we’ve established before we’re even half way through, that the main character is at least partly attracted to the idea of child sex, that the business park’s resident psychiatrist more than half sympathises with him and finds an attitude like that perfectly natural.

He composed himself, waiting for the muscles of his face to calm themselves…

Savvy and grip

Still, what makes Super-Cannes feel significantly better than the previous three or four novels is the savviness of the narrator.

He thrust the envelope of photographs through the open window, his face fully calm for the first time that day.

Rushing to Paradise is an unsatisfactory book because, although the plot has a certain plausibility (oddball environmentalists left on a remote Pacific atoll forget their eco crusade and descend into Lord of the Flies psychosis) the central character whose eyes we see it all through, 16-year Neil Dempsey, is very slow on the uptake. Slow and dim. It takes him ages to cotton on to things the savvy reader has spotted hundreds of pages earlier, such as that the leader of the eco-warriors is a psychopath. The reader is way ahead of the characters, which makes for a frustrating read.

She spoke calmly, her face only a few inches from mine, and I could smell the sweet Turkish tobacco on her breath.

A bald summery of Cocaine Nights also makes it seem groovy (man arrives at self-contained ex-pat community on the Costa del Sol to discover its cheerful bourgeois daytime life conceals a jungle of dark-side activities such as hard drugs, wifeswapping, BDSM and, at its extreme, murder). It’s a good idea but, again, lacks suspense because the reader is way ahead of the plodding narrator.

‘Forget it.’ I tried to calm her. ‘They’ve gone.’

Grip No, if you’re going to write in the thriller genre (which Ballard seems to have decided to do in his last books) you need to demonstrate the quality that one of its founding fathers, Henry Rider Haggard, called ‘grip’.

In romance ‘grip’ is almost everything. Whatever its faults, if a book has ‘grip’, these may be forgiven. (The Days of My Life by Henry Rider Haggard, 1912)

By ‘grip’ Haggard means that the reader’s imagination is so gripped, so thrilled and excited that you can’t stop turning the pages.

The last book I read which had ‘grip’ in the way Haggard describes was Mutant 59: The Plastic Eater by Kit Pedler and Gerry Davis, a few years ago. I was on a weekend break and picked it up in the hotel library. I planned to get up the next morning in time to a) go for a swim in order to b) enjoy the massive hotel breakfast before c) going to visit a nearby castle. But all my plans were wrecked because I found myself literally unable to put Mutant 59 down. I knew it was pulpy rubbish and at midnight, and 2 and 3 o’clock I tried to mark the page and turn the light off, telling myself I’d finish it tomorrow – but each time ended up picking it up again to read ‘just one more chapter’, and the next thing I knew dawn was coming up. That’s grip.

Alarmed, Frances held my wrist. ‘Calm down. You’re safe here.’

So Cocaine Nights is clever: its basic plot proposes a sociological theory about human nature and culture (humans need excitement and their society must find some way of providing that or they’ll engineer their own wayward forms).

Penrose tried to calm me…

It is carefully plotted, contains a number of vivid scenes, and is written in Ballard’s artful style which combines incisive descriptions with a careful deployment of his key terms and phrases (characters are constantly unsettled, need calming, sooner or later become ‘demented’ or ‘deranged’; have their ‘reasons’ and their ‘motives’ which the narrator always struggles to figure out; the narrator never notices, guess or intuits, he always ‘senses’: thus Ballard artfully creates a claustrophobic world by the almost incantatory repetition of the same words, same attitudes, same situations, etc).

‘Jane…’ I stepped through the clutter of unpaired shoes that she was rooting from the cupboard, placed my hands under her arms and lifted her to her feet, surprised by how much weight she had lost. ‘Calm down…’

But I found Cocaine Nights a struggle because it was so obvious what was going on, and when the ‘revelation’ came I thought, ‘oh, OK, that’s clever’ and went to sleep.

I wanted to calm her, and took away her cigarettes.

Part of the reason for this is that the narrator is depicted as implausibly naive, in order that he can then be ‘shocked’ when he discovers some of the prim bourgeois types he’s introduced to take drugs or have rough sex.

Frances had calmed herself, and waited for me to reply.

Shocked? That’s standard behaviour in a Ballard novel. That’s what we come to a Ballard novel expecting.

So part of the reason Super-Cannes is distinctly better than Cocaine Nights – even though it has a similar structure and is putting forward much the same view of human nature – is that the central character is that much more sophisticated and savvy.

As we took the lift to the basement garage she touched the dinner jacket, trying to calm a fleeting ghost.

Paul Sinclair is funny. His wife, Jane, is funny. Thus he or she can engage in banter that is genuinely funny. Super-Cannes is a better book despite the fact that the plot structure and worldview are almost identical to its predecessor, largely because the narrator is more sympathetic.

‘Frances, relax…’ I moved her edgy hand from the gear lever, trying to calm her.

Some of the exchanges with Wilder made me smile and, as I did so, I realised that’s a quality you rarely associate with Ballard – humour. Here are Paul and Jane in their car, just as they arrive at Eden-Olympia and the psychiatrist Penrose has gotten into the car and is guiding them through the quiet avenues to their villa.

We were driving along the shore of a large ornamental lake, an ellipse of glassy water that reflected the nearby mountains and reminded me of Lake Geneva with its old League of Nations headquarters, another attempt to blueprint a kingdom of saints. Apartment houses lined the waterfront, synchronized brises-soleils shielding the balconies. Jane slowed the car, and searched the windows for a single off-duty resident.
‘A fifth of the workforce live on-site,’ Penrose told us. ‘Middle and junior management in apartments and townhouses, senior people in the residential estate where you’re going. The parkland buffers the impact of all the steel and concrete. People like the facilities yachting and water-skiing, tennis and basketball, those body-building things that obsess the French.’
‘And you?’ Jane queried.
‘Well…’ Penrose pressed his large hands against the roof, and lazily flexed his shoulders. ‘I prefer to exercise the mind. Jane, are you keen on sport?’
‘Not me.’
‘Squash, aerobics, roller-blading?’
‘The wrong kind of sweat.’
‘Bridge? There are keen amateurs here you could make an income off.’
‘Sorry. Better things to do.’
‘Interesting…’ Penrose leaned forward, so close to Jane that he seemed to be sniffing her neck. ‘Tell me more.’
‘You know…’ Straight-faced, Jane explained: ‘Wife-swapping, the latest designer amphetamines, kiddy porn. What else do we like, Paul?’
Penrose slumped back, chuckling good-humouredly.

A rare burst of genuine comedy in Ballard. And a moment’s reflection suggests why: it’s because humour, to some extent, relies on the unexpected. A good punchline reveals a hidden connection or punning misinterpretation you hadn’t seen, and the sudden short circuit makes you laugh.

Careful to remain calm, and glad of the day’s first injection, I returned the sergeant’s salute…

Pondering this made me realise that there is little or no humour in Ballard because, in a way, everything in his stories is totally predictable and expected. In pretty much all his novels and short stories the characters do one and the same thing, which is go downhill – from an initial position of pukka British correctness they descend by carefully calibrated steps into mania and psychosis.

Frances gripped the steering wheel as if to brace herself before a collision. Trying to calm her, I moved her hands to her lap…

Arguably High Rise is the epitome of this narrative arc because it pushes the classic Ballard narrative of decline and fall to genuinely gruesome depths, into final scenes where it is revealed that some of the characters have resorted to cannibalism, which did come as a surprise.

The release of this long-repressed material seemed to calm her, rage diffused into the cooling waters of truth.

This is one of the reasons Rushing to Paradise is disappointing, because the characters follow exactly the same downward spiral as in all the other novels, but the descent only gets as far as the vengeful women hunting Neil through the tropical rainforest in scenes which, far from taking us into new levels of late 20th-century psychosis, ought to remind any reader of Lord of the Flies. I.e. instead of going forward, the novel, in the end, takes the reader (surprisingly) backward to a conclusion about human nature first made (much more powerfully) in the 1950s. That’s not prophecy: in a twisted kind of way, it’s almost nostalgia.

Her moment of panic had passed, and she spoke calmly.

Anyway, in a sentence, Super-Cannes is the best of these later novels because the narrator is as funny and savvy as the reader. And these moments of banter with the resident shrink, Dr Wilder Penrose, are indicative of a kind of confidence which the book exudes overall. It’s not perfect as a thriller, but I actively wanted to get back to reading it, whereas I had to more or less force myself to read Rushing To Paradise which is brilliantly written but whose plot I found a predictable chore.

I wrenched myself from him, and raised a fist to strike his face, but he clamped his hand over my mouth, trying to calm me. ‘Mr Sinclair… take it easy. I’m with you.’

The plot – 2

The tour of the murder scene  Running WildCocaine Nights and Super-Cannes are all set in gated communities of upper-middle-class professionals which go badly off the rails and become the scenes of massacres. Each of them features a tour of the crime scene, in the company of a police or security guard, which allows Ballard to describe the gruesome and sadistic killings with lipsmacking precision. Thus the nervy black security guard, Halder, takes Paul on an extended recreation of the route taken by Dr Greenwood as he went on his killing spree.

 I pulled away from them and leaned against the roof of the Mercedes. Calmly, I said: ‘I’m glad I came. What exactly is going on?’

The Big Speech explaining everything In the second half Paul – with breath-taking naivety – decides he’ll go meet and share with the business park psychiatrist, Dr Wilder Penrose, what he’s discovered so far, and the scenes he’s witnessed, specifically the gangs of leatherjacketed vigilantes who let off steam by beating up pimps and low-level crims in the backstreets of Cannes.

Only to discover that, of course, Wilder knows all about it. In fact Wilder is given a BIG SPEECH in which he explains the secret of life at the business park. He explains that the park managers slowly realised that these busy executives were working themselves to death and coming down with all kinds of psychosomatic ailments. They needed some RELEASE. What started as tentative suggestions that they try transgressive behaviours (the usual checklist of banned drugs, BDSM sex, combined with violent forays into the rougher parts of Cannes where they beat the crap out of East European pimps and Arab immigrants) turned out to be spectacularly successful at curing the busy executives’ many psychosomatic illnesses, boosting their immune systems and, above all, improving their decision-making and managerial effectiveness. Boosting profits. Thus every level of Eden-Olympia has been drawn into turning a blind eye to, or actively encouraging, the violence and decadent behaviour of the most aggressive executives.

She peered at me over her sunglasses, unsettled by my restless and eager manner.

The whole conception that our ‘innocent’ hero confronts the mastermind behind a wicked plan, who then proceeds to give an extended explanation of what is really going on, and how the hero ought to ‘join us’, comes straight out of a James Bond movie or any number of other tuppenny thrillers.

The victim turns out to be as bad as the baddies Similarly, just as we slowly learned that Frank, who’s been locked up for the arson attack in Cocaine Nights, is not as innocent as his brother thinks, in fact by the end we learn that he is deeply implicated in all the criminal activities at Estrella de Mar; so we now slowly learn that the Dr Greenwood who went nuts and went on the shooting spree that triggers the start of Super-Cannes, was himself deeply implicated in some very unsavoury behaviour. He was a volunteer at a clinic for immigrant children in a poor part of Cannes which sounds noble enough, he has thirty or more copies of Alice Through The Looking Glass in his spare bedroom which – apparently -he read to them;, but slowly the truth emerges that he took these vulnerable children back to his villa in Eden-Olympia for sex. The other doctor in the clinic, who he shot? She helped round up likely child sex victims from the slums of Cannes. They were both in it together.

The hero’s wife becomes involved Paul has realised from quite early on that his wife Jane is perfectly suited to the park. She loves working long hours. He has previously told us that she’s always been a rebel, a loose cannon, previously a punk and into drugs, she did a medical degree to piss her parents off, and was insubordinate to the male medical hierarchy. As the months go by Paul realises she only married him on an impulsive whim, and also begins to realise their marriage is ending at Eden-Olympia.

Jane becomes notable for two things:

1. She starts to have a lesbian affair with the Belgian woman who lives opposite and often traipses around naked on her balcony, Simone Delage, late-night sex with marijuana. Which turns into a threesome with the husband, Alain.

2. Paul’s knee continues to play him up and Jane takes to prescribing him painkillers, so much so that he wanders round in a daze and finds himself going along with the increasingly outrageous behaviour he sees around him. Eventually he stops taking the painkillers Jane is mixing for him, and has them analysed in a lab and discovers they contain a very strong tranquiliser used on mental patients. I.e. Jane has gone over to Eden-Olympia and is doping him.

The party at the Villa Grimaldi How far they have both fallen becomes clear on the night of a swanky party at the Villa Grimaldi overlooking Cannes attended by lots of swells from the Cannes Film Festival. After some satire about the film world, a complex little sequence of events follows. Greenwood had shot dead the park’s previous head of security. He had been replaced by a big boorish drunk, Pascal Zander. Paul learns that on one of the many evenings when he’s in Cannes late, Zander had been at his house and had come on very strong to his wife Jane. When Paul arrived home that night it was to find Jane in bed with a bruised mouth and face where Zander hit her.

Now, at this party, Paul goes in search of Zander and nearly has a fight with him,. He’s dragged away to her car by his lover Frances Baring (Paul has started an affair with this nervy woman who works in Eden-Olympia’s personnel department and had herself had an affair with Dr Greenwood). They leave the party a few moments later and slowly become aware that they’re being followed by an Audi. But then Paul realises that the Audi is itself being chased by two huge BMW limousines. He and Frances duck into a side street to let the other cars overtake them, then pull out again and watch the chase become more intense, like a scene from Crash. Eventually the big BMWs railroad the Audi into crashing through a roadside barrier and flying down onto the beach below, landing on its roof upside down on the edge of the surf.

Paul and Frances park up and Paul goes down onto the beach where he discovers the driver – who is dead – is Pascal Zander. He was a loose cannon, he had been finding out too much about the illegal activities at Eden-Olympia and so the leatherjackets killed him.

But here’s the thing. Paul walks up from the beach to the limos, opens the door and discovers… his wife Jane cowering in the back seat, stoned off her face. Next morning he describes all this to her and she point blank rejects it. She has been told Zander died in a freak car accident, that she went down to the beach to verify the body – neither of which is true. But she believes it. Paul grasps the extent to which she really has been sucked into Eden-Olympia’s dark underbelly.

She had relaxed a little, no longer unsettled by my presence,

Racism And just a note that this is the first Ballard novel I can remember where the issue of race is mentioned. Frank Halder, who guards Paul and intervenes at key moments to rescue him, is black and resentful of the way he is made to feel it by the powers-that-be at the park. Paul witnesses half a dozen violent outings or ratissages carried out by the leatherjackets, and it is obvious that they target Arab immigrants. Early on he witnesses some park security guards severely beating a harmless Arab street vendor. There’s a strong element of racism in the fact that Pascal Zander, the admittedly fat, sweaty, creepy drunk who takes over as head of park security, is eventually hounded to his death, partly because he was trying to blackmail the leading organisers of the park’s criminal activities, but just as much because he was an Arab.

This element of race-awareness is new in Ballard, and permeates the entire novel, and is part of the justification for characters making rather wild comparisons with Hitler and the Nazis (both mentioned twice in the text), which lead up to the preposterous idea that European business parks might be the breeding ground for the next fascist leaders (see below).

A lot more happens but it closely follows the same broad trajectory as Cocaine Nights, namely Paul finds himself drawn more and more into Eden-Olympia’s dark underbelly, but not in a good way. There are two more key elements:

Paul’s presence in Eden-Olympia is an experiment Between Wilder Penrose and the security man, Halder, Paul realises that the park authorities housed Paul and Jane in Dr Greenwood’s old villa as an experiment. They wanted to understand what made Greenwood snap. Why? Out of more than scientific interest. As the novel approaches its climax we learn that a second, far more extensive business park is being planned and laid-out close to the original Eden-Olympia. 20,000 people will end up living here, and Penrose and his clique will be wanting to extend their experiments in psychopathy to the new inhabitants. Therefore it’s vital they understand what factors drove Greenwood off the rails. And thus Paul realises he is the lab rat in an experiment; they are trying to recreate the circumstances which led to Greenwood snapping, so they can prevent it happening in the future. That’s why Penrose approved Paul’s ambiguous interest in the 11-year-old sex worker in the back streets of Cannes; he was excited that Paul really did seem to be going down the same track of paedophile exploitation which eventually led Greenwood to such a pitch of self-loathing that he set out on his killing spree which, Paul now realises, was designed to expose what was really going on at the park to the world at large.

They murder Paul’s lover, Frances Baring The key trigger point comes when he drives out to his lover Frances’s apartment and discovers she has been beaten to death by the leatherjackets. At that point something in him snaps, and he realises he is going to have to repeat Greenwood’s modus operandi. He acquires guns and ammunition from the brother of one of the chauffeur-hostages who was killed in the Greenwood massacre, and gets Halder’s co-operation. Halder gives him his gun and then promises to take Jane, stoned off her box, to the British consul in Marseilles and then packed on a plane back to London.

And the novel ends early in the morning as Paul psychs himself up to go and finish what Greenwood began, to kill all the senior personnel at the park starting with Penrose. Just as Charles Prentice turns into his predecessor, his transgressive brother, in Cocaine Nights, so Paul Sinclair turns into his predecessor, Dr Greenwood, on the last page of Super-Cannes.

I loaded the shotgun, and then stowed it under the rear seat. By the time I reached Eden-Olympia my targets would still be asleep. I would start with Alain and Simone Delage, drowsy after their late night in the Rue Valentin. Jane had told me that Simone kept a small chromium pistol in her bedside table, so she would be the first. I would kill her while she slept, using Halder’s handgun, and avoid having to stare back into her accusing eyes. Then I would shoot Alain as he sat up, drenched in his wife’s blood, moustache bristling while he reached for his glasses, unable to comprehend the administrative blunder that had led to his own death. The Delages slept with their air-conditioning on, and no one would hear the shots through the sealed windows.

Wilder Penrose would be next, ordered from his bed at gunpoint and brought down to the bare white room where he had set out his manifesto. He would be amiable, devious and concerned for me to the end, trying to win me with his brotherly charm while unsettling my eyes with the sight of his raw fingernails. I admired him for his hold over me, but I would shoot him down in front of the shattered mirror, one more door to the Alice world now closed for ever.

Destivelle and Kalman would follow, and the last would be Dmitri Golyadkin, asleep in his bunk in the security building. I would reach the TV centre in time for a newsflash on the early-afternoon news, but whatever happened I knew that Eden-Olympia would lead the bulletins. This time there would be questions as well as answers… I drove on, thinking of Jane and Frances Baring and Wilder Penrose, ready to finish the task that David Greenwood had begun.

In both cases I think the reader is meant to be shocked and horrified by this last-page revelation, and that we are meant to have shared the hero’s descent into psychosis. But, I’m afraid to say, in both instances I saw it coming a mile off and felt the endings were cheesy and predictable.

Ballard’s bogus futurology

‘The future is going to be like a suburb of Stuttgart.’ (Paul Sinclair to Frank Halder)

Only it isn’t, is it? It’s going to be a world of sprawling slums without clean water or enough food, in an overheating world subject to more and more extreme weather events and characterised by the extinction of species, the destruction of entire eco-systems, and increasingly desperate mass migrations of people.

The future is emphatically not going to be a sanitised business park full of trim, fit chief executives of Siemens and BMW who are so bored they indulge in heavy drugs and kinky sex with a bit of vigilante work against foreign pimps thrown in on the side.

You could only possibly believe that this is a useful idea of the future if you live in an upper-middle-class professional bubble, or have the poor grasp on reality of a literary critic or a university-bound academic, both groups which tend to mix with unrepresentative, well-educated, young cosmopolitan progressives.

But the London I live in is now 45% white i.e. the majority of modern Londoners in the London I live in come from an amazing range of non-caucasian ethnic groups.

At the 2011 census, London had a population of 8,173,941. Of this number 44.9% were White British. 37% of the population were born outside the UK, including 24.5% born outside of Europe

In my borough there are high-profile Somali and Brazilian communities, plus a whole range of African and Caribbean nationalities, alongside the usual groundswell of hard-working Polish labourers. Every day I’m amazed at the number of dirty, exhausted-looking Chinese labourers on my train home, and I don’t understand why most of the people having loud mobile phone conversations on my commuter train are Spanish.

So the future I’m already living in is one where huge mongrel populations from all over the world inhabit sprawling cities and live in a sort of surly indifference alongside each other, none of them speak what was once the native language, most scratching a living on zero hour jobs, as Uber drivers or riding Deliveroo scooters, work long hours labouring on building sites or as cleaners or who knows what activities in the black economy.

Towards the end of the book Paul’s lover, nervy Frances Baring, wails that ‘they’re’ coming to get us, the business parks are expanding in all directions, that one day a new Hitler or Pol Pot will emerge from them.

‘Their moral perception of evil was so eroded that it failed to warn them of danger. Places like Eden-Olympia are fertile ground for any messiah with a grudge. The Adolf Hitlers and Pol Pots of the future won’t walk out of the desert. They’ll emerge from shopping malls and corporate business parks.’

That just struck me as modish twaddle.

‘Wilder Penrose and Delage have to be stopped, along with their lunatic scheme. Not because it’s crazy, but because it’s going to work. The whole world will soon be a business-park colony, run by a lot of tight-lipped men who pretend to be weekend psychos.’

That’s just melodramatic tripe.

They are entertaining, written with real style and inventivness and full of hundreds of brilliantly perceived details – but Ballard’s three novels about über-privileged, gated communities full of entirely white, upper-middle-class professional types  – Running WildCocaine Nights and Super-Cannes – might as well be messages from the moon for all the relevance they have to my life and the life of my times.


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Rushing to Paradise by J.G. Ballard (1994)

‘Is this how new religions begin?’ (Neil to Carline)

The problem with Ballard’s later novels

Empire of the Sun (1984) and The Kindness of Women (1991) are powerful displays of fictional autobiography, of Ballard taking autobiographical elements from his life and creating highly contrived, posed and arranged scenes and narratives, which both display the autobiographical roots of his peculiar imagination and arrange and elaborate them for purely fictional purposes.

However, as if in some Faustian fable, the imaginative effort which went into creating these two highly crafted novels seems to have involved some kind of trade-off, seemed to use up his ability to conceive decent plots or stories which adequately support, justify and contextualise his weird imaginative insights, obsessions and language.

What I mean is: the three early ‘disaster’ novels, and then the three ‘urban disaster’ novels of the 1970s, and then the two autobiographical novels, are all centred on clear narrative ideas which justify his dazed, feverish way of looking at the world. That the characters in The Drowned WorldThe Drought or The Crystal World go slowly mad seems a wholly adequate response to the extreme situations they find themselves in. Ditto Crash and High Rise where we accompany relatively small groups of people step by step as they go to pieces.

The power of all these books derives from the way you can half imagine yourself responding sort of the same way. Empire of the Sun may appear to be a realistic autobiography, but it is in fact very artfully designed – very focused in conception and shape and pattern to – again – draw us in to what, when you really examine it, is a tissue of feverish hallucinations and extreme mental states.

Ballard had already turned his back on traditional science fiction by the time of The Atrocity Exhibition (1970) in order to focus on the intense and claustrophobic urban situations depicted in CrashConcrete Island and High Rise. The intensity is achieved by having small casts, set in concrete urban environments, who go to pieces. It helps that all three of these books are also relatively short, so that they read more like novellas, their brevity contributing to the feeling that they have an almost allegorical simplicity you get from fables.

However, around the time of Empire of the Sun (1984), and maybe as a result of writing it, Ballard seems to have made a conscious decision to let his fiction become longer and more discursive. As a result it becomes less focused. Since the stories are longer he comes to rely on plot structures which are much more ‘conventional’ than anything that came before, set in recognisably contemporary places, and featuring larger and larger casts of people. (He also comes to copy the plots of previous ‘classic’ novels, as I’ll explain below.)

The problem with all this is that contact with the modern world and a wider cast of characters somehow highlights how narrow, intense, weird and, ultimately, how unreal, unique and idiosyncratic Ballard’s vision is.

When one man, Robert Maitland, is marooned in a stretch of waste land between two motorway spurs, and goes hungry, and thirsty and becomes malnourished and feverish and eventually goes schizo, the reader can go all the way with Ballard because it is just one man, and accidents and extreme things do happen to individuals, and it is a short, punchy narrative which has the super-real power of a fable or deranged fairy tale.

However, in the later novels, Ballard takes on the attempt of describing relatively large groups of people, in a recognisably contemporary world, in the kinds of situation many of us might have experienced ourselves – and this results in the reader finding themselves repeatedly thinking, ‘Well, that just wouldn’t happen’, or ‘I just don’t believe they’d behave like that.’

Rushing to Paradise 1

Take Rushing to Paradise. A discredited English doctor (if I had a pound for every Ballard protagonist who’s a doctor), Dr Barbara Rafferty, a 40-year-old obsessive, was struck off the Medical Register for euthanasing some old ladies in England. She left the UK, knocked around the world a bit and has ended up running a home for disabled children in Honolulu, Hawaii.

Here she learns from Kimo, a disgruntled Hawaiian policeman (who got fired from the force because of his obsession with setting up an independent Hawaiian nation and kicking out the American tourists) that the French military are reopening a nuclear testing facility on Saint-Esprit, a remote atoll 600 miles from Hawaii and, in so doing, are wiping out the colonies of rare albatross that live there.

At a stroke Dr Rafferty takes up the cause of the albatross and starts carrying a banner reading SAVE THE ALBATROSS and hanging round posh Honolulu restaurants haranguing rich diners.

It’s outside one of these posh restaurants that rootless 16-year-old, Neil Dempsey, having just had dinner with his mother and American step-father, sees her being pushed around by security guards and takes pity on her.

Dempsey is the son of a London radiologist who died three years earlier. He is obsessed with nuclear weapons and abandoned nuclear test sites, partly because his father had attended the British nuclear trials held at the Maralinga test site in Australia, and his widow (Neil’s mother) claims that her husband’s cancer could be traced back to these poorly monitored atomic explosions.

Neil was brought out to Hawaii by his widowed mother who has fallen in love with an American colonel in the Marines, Colonel Stamford, but Neil packs in school, becomes a beach bum, and develops into a fit, long-distance swimmer who gets a job working as a part-time projectionist at the University of Hawaii.

When she learns about this job, Dr Rafferty is instantly convinced Neil must know all about cameras, so can film her heroic exploits, and bullies him into accompanying her and Kimo on a hired steamer all the way to the remote atoll.

Here they go ashore in an inflatable dinghy and are filming each other struggling to hang up one of her home-made SAVE THE ALBATROSS banners when a few lazy French troops emerge from the jungle and, when our little squad make a run for it, shoot Neil in the foot.

Cut to six weeks later and Neil has become a worldwide celebrity and poster boy for the environmental movement due to the footage of him being shot which has been shown on all the news channels. After remanding the hapless trio in custody for a few weeks, the French authorities had been forced by diplomatic and media pressure to repatriate them to Honolulu.

Here Neil watches from his hospital bed TV an endless loop of footage of environmental protests by students at universities round the world, intercut with Dr Rafferty making grandstanding speeches. She has become ‘the bag lady of the animal rights movement.’

She finds a sponsor, Irving Boyd, a reclusive thirty-five-year-old computer entrepreneur now living in Hawaii. He had recently retired after selling his software company in Palo Alto to a Japanese conglomerate, and is now devoting himself to wild-life causes, starting with media star Dr Barbara Rafferty. Boyd has donated the Dugong, a 300-ton Alaskan shrimp-trawler which he has had equipped as a floating marine laboratory, and which Dr Rafferty insists she’s going to sail right back to the Saint-Esprit.

Neil hobbles along to the Honolulu docks to watch the fuss around the Dugong as it is loaded with food and equipment, as tourists come down to watch and film it, as a pop up market appears to cater to the tourists, and as the whole ‘expedition’ turns into a media circus.

What is this book about?

At this stage, about page 60, I was really wondering what this book is ‘about’.

Is it a satire on the TV age, the media age, in which any damn fool with a cause can find themselves at the centre of a media storm?

‘The Dugong‘s a stage-set, Dr Barbara. Like the replica of the Bounty. For him everything turns into television.’ (Neil to Dr Rafferty)

Ballard was obsessed with television. The psychological impact of the supposedly desensitising affect of endless atrocity footage from Vietnam and Africa is at the core of The Atrocity Exhibition and Crash.

The simultaneously alienating and empowering power of the camera is also a recurrent theme in his fiction. In High Rise it is attached to the figure of the TV documentary film-maker, Richard Wilder, who makes a long, arduous and doomed ascent of the vast luxury high rise carrying his trusty ciné-camera, long after it has been smashed beyond repair and become a psychological talisman rather than a rational aid.

A central sidekick character in Day of Creation is the academic-turned-TV-star, Professor Sangar, who flies in with the full panoply of TV cameras and lights and tapes and monitors and editing machines so he can make a documentary about his heroic efforts to feed Africa, a plan which goes badly awry.

And one of the handful of recurring characters in the supposedly autobiographical book The Kindness of Women is Professor Richard Sutherland, psychologist-turned-TV pundit, whose scenes provide Ballard the opportunity for extended conversations / meditations on the peculiarly alienating effects of TV, which makes everything histrionic and fake while at the same time making even the genuinely weird seem domesticated and tame.

Is that the way to read this novel, as an extended riff on the theme of television fame, the odd combination of super-saturation and utter vacuousness which television creates?

Rushing to Paradise 2

No, is the short answer.

It turns out to be another utterly Ballardian vision of decline and fall, of the physical, moral and psychological collapse of a small group of initially posh, intelligent, middle-class types who end up hunting each other like feral animals.

It turns out, in other words, to be a rewrite of Lord of the Flies for the TV age. At the last minute Neil is persuaded to join Dr Rafferty on the second expedition, kidding himself that he is going to ‘look after’ her. Also on the team are:

  • Monique Didier, in her late thirties, daughter of one of France’s first animal rights activists, the writer and biologist René Didier. She and her father had set up a wild-life sanctuary in the Pyrenees for an endangered colony of bears. For years they endured the abuse and hostility of local farmers angered by the bears’ sheep-killing and their sentimentalised image in the metropolitan press. All this had made Monique prickly and defensive, but she was dedicated to her campaign, brow-beating her first-class passengers on the Paris-New York and Paris-Tokyo runs. After repeated warnings, Air France had lost patience and sacked her
  • A young Japanese couple, Professor Saito and his wife, professional botanists, who abandon their careers at the University of Kyoto to join Dr Barbara’s crusade.
  • A film crew of three – Australian director Janet Bracewell, camera-man, her American husband Mark, and Indian sound-recordist, Vikram Pratap
  • David Carline, the last volunteer to join the expedition. The president of a small pharmaceutical company in Boston, he had been on holiday in Honolulu when he learned of Dr Barbara and her mission to save the albatross. The family firm had for decades supplied its pharmaceuticals to the third world, and Canine had frequently taken leaves of absence to join American missionary groups in Brazil and the Congo, teaching in mission schools and delivering lay sermons at the open-air church services.
  • Captain Wu and his seven Filipino crew crew

When they arrive at the atoll after weeks at sea, things take an ominous and tragic turn. The Dugong is menaced by a French frigate which cuts across its bows and, in a freak miscalculation, sheers of the stern railing and walkway, tipping the cameraman, Mark Bracewell, into the sea where he is crushed to death between the hulls of the two boats. Mourning. Grief. The French crew take the expedition members aboard and give them medical treatment. The Dugong drifts onto the reef outside the atoll, where it is holed and starts leaking polluting engine oil. The crew go ashore to bury Bracewell, stay in makeshift tents and when they wake up – the French have gone. The French authorities recognise bad publicity when they see it and have decided to abandon the atoll and announce the cancellation of any forthcoming tests.

Our heroes are alone on the island with their passion and their albatrosses.

They had taken footage of the Dugong resisting the beastly French, which had been beaming out live to a worldwide audience of millions via Irving Boyd’s state of the art satellite technology, so a huge audience had watched Bracewell die on live TV.  The result is that a flotilla of volunteers and supporters deluge the atoll, bringing food and volunteers. Dr Rafferty gives TV interviews declaring the atoll a sanctuary and refuge for endangered species from around the world, and donors give greenhouses and human cages and all the equipment you need to house and nurture rare species.

The motley crew of nine (Rafferty, Neil, Kimo, Carline, Monique, the Saitos, Janet, and Vikram) begins setting up a camp and for months afterwards they find a) regular planes flying into the military runway bringing generous donations of food from round the world and b) a steady stream of ships, yachts and schooners anchoring inside the atoll’s reef and coming to interview the noble environmentalists, or also bringing endangered plants and animals from around the world.

The middle part of the book lists the various boats with oddballs, fanatics and genuine helpers who anchor and hang out, before moving on. One bunch who stay is a quartet of German hippies who arrive in a dishevelled yacht painted psychedelic colours, the Parsifal, and set up their own little camp on the beach, nursing a Downs Syndrome child, Gubby, between them.

But what follows is not a David Attenborough documentary. It is not only like Lord of the Flies but like The Beach by Alex Garland which was published two years after Ballard’s novel.

For weird changes are afoot. The relentless intrusion of the outside world makes Dr Rafferty increasingly antagonistic and bitter. She persuades them to pull down the French army’s radio aerial across the atoll’s military runway. The American, David Carline, had enjoyed running the radio shack which he used to guide planes with donations and supplies into the French airstrip, but one night it is burned to the ground. No more planes, no more of the generous supplies which were being landed every month by Captain Garfield, the cheerful sixty-year-old Queenslander.

The German hippies are always hanging round cadging food and one evening Dr Rafferty persuades the impressionable Neil to fire up the massive bulldozer the French left behind, and to bulldoze all the crates of food and material brought from the outside world, pushing them across the beach and into the sea. Now, Dr Rafferty beams at the dazed and appalled members of hewr little crew who have woken to find this sabotage being carried out. They will have to be strong, they will have to provide for themselves.

And so they have to turn to foraging, to finding yams and beating yarrow to make it edible. They lose weight. They develop sores and ulcers. Dr Rafferty eggs them on with over-bright eyes.

Ballard has turned the tropical paradise they arrived at into a passable imitation of the Lunghua Internment Camp whose long shadow hangs over Empire of the Sun (1984) and The Kindness of Women (1991). An outbreak of diarrhea weakens everyone. Dr Rafferty takes to lecturing everyone that the men are particularly weak, worn out by centuries of competition and fighting.

Slowly, the colony becomes more feral. The gung-ho American, Carline, takes to organising night-time ‘attacks’ on the German hippies in which the more fired-up colonists blow a whistle and then charge the hippies’ ramshackle tent on the beach, knocking it over, waving flaming brands in their faces, Neil accidentally swings a club into the (defunct) television screen they’d half embedded in the sand, shattering broken glass everywhere. The laid-back daytime activities of sunbathing and lazing give way to something much darker at night-time.

In the same spirit, everyone is shocked one evening to see the ramshackle yacht the hippies arrived on, the so-called Parsifal covered in psychedelic patterns, burning, all the masts and rigging burning down. Now even more impoverished and wretched, the hippies come begging to the main camp every day until Dr Rafferty loses her temper and declares no-one is to give them any more food, forcing a kind of moral decision on the colonists, whether to follow their conscience, or obey the Fuehrer. Most obey.

Gubby, the Downs Syndrome child of the German hippies, comes down with diarrhea and Dr Rafferty reluctantly agrees to admit it to her ‘clinic’ and treats it carefully, even as its condition deteriorates. Eventually Gubby dies.

Monique had been joined, back in the early weeks while there was still contact with the outside world, by her ageing father, René Didier the famous environmentalist. Now he too becomes very ill, bed-ridden, and one night dies of a stroke.

But Neil sees the pillow which he suspects Dr Rafferty held over Gubby’s face. And later sees the same marks and a few bloodstains on René Didier’s pillow.

The other men fall ill. Professor Saito keeps himself to himself in the special greenhouse he’s constructed from donated material to house his collection of rare fungi. But he too falls ill and, the more Dr Rafferty tends him in her ‘clinic’, the sicker he becomes.

Now, it is no secret that Dr Rafferty was struck off for performing illegal euthanasia on her elderly patients back in Britain. Neil read the full details in a magazine profile of Rafferty published back in Honolulu. What puzzled me is that the book presents the sequence of events on the island as if it is all an imponderable mystery instead of being bleeding obvious. Neil is portrayed as going along with Dr Rafferty’s explanations for the mysterious deaths, despite the fact that we are told that he read about Dr Rafferty’s record of criminal euthanasia while he was in hospital in Honolulu. Later on, he admits that he’s known all along that Dr Rafferty is killing off the men, but at the time he is powerfully under her sway. We are meant to believe he knows and doesn’t know, at the same time. Basically, for me, this doesn’t work.

This is vividly demonstrated when the increasingly psychotic Dr Rafferty disappears after Gubby’s death. She just ups stumps and disappears.

Her crew are bereft without her but Neil, more given to roaming the atoll’s forest than the others, comes across her holed up in some kind of concrete bunker embedded in a cave half way up a densely forested hill. Here Dr Rafferty completes her domination and enslavement of Neil by a) getting him to help her steal endangered animals from the compound, whisk them away, and cook and eat them outside her cave; and b) having sex with him.

Swaying her shrivelled dugs over his face, Dr Rafferty rides Neil’s penis with feverish eyes until she climaxes, then stands over him and urinates all over the sores on his chest, before finally lying on his body and letting him stroke her fevered hair. Quite enough to enrapture any 16-year-old boy, let alone one already deranged by an obsession with nuclear war, and in the standard Ballard state of advanced malnutrition and feverish decay.

After a few weeks, Dr Rafferty returns to her colony and they, who had been bereft without her, welcome her back as a saviour. It turns out to have been a clever psychological move.

Throughout this long period of decline, as the mood darkens and intensifies, Neil is warned and protected by Major and Mrs Anderson, American donors who wisely choose to remain aboard their yacht anchored in the lagoon. Neil himself realises that they are just the latest in a succession of surrogate parents which he seems to attract.

In this respect he slowly comes to resemble, the wayward feverish teenage protagonist of Empire of the Sun right down to the way the others are always trying to ‘calm’ his feverish over-excitement.

But one night, as they are visiting ashore, the Andersons’ yacht, like the Germans’ before them, is hit by a drastic fire which burns most of the superstructure. The Major swiftly makes a decision to leave, totally sure the fire was no accident but arson. They don’t have many supplies and their dinghy was damaged in the fire but they sail off. As they leave, Neil happens to be swimming in the lagoon and finds himself swimming out to them, and for a few minutes believes he’s going to grasp the hand the Major is reaching out to him. But as usual, he is conflicted and ambiguous, and when voices call him from the shore he finds himself turning back, and watches the Andersons sail away as best they can in their damaged boat.

In among the other slow deteriorations in morale, as Professor Saito falls ill, as Kimo comes down with dysentery, the German men spend their time trying to repair what’s left of the Parsifal. One day the German hippy girls wake to discover their menfolk have left, sailed off in their leaky boat to get supplies from the nearest island. According to Dr Rafferty, that is. The characters appear to believe her, but the reader doesn’t, which makes the characters appear dim and slow.

Although the first flush of publicity has long waned, other boats do occasionally still call by the island, anchor and come ashore. In every case all the women are welcomed ashore but, after a few days, their husband’s or parent’s boats abruptly leave, usually leaving a message with Dr Rafferty that they have left to go fetch food or cruise a bit more before returning…

Eventually, in a succession of dialogues, Dr Rafferty explains to Neil that she is building a feminist colony, a sanctuary for women.

‘Saint-Esprit isn’t a sanctuary for the albatross, it’s a sanctuary for women – or could be. We’re the most endangered species of all… Who were the first domesticated animals? Women! We
domesticated ourselves. But I know women are made of fiercer stuff. We have spirit, passion, fire, or used to. We can be cruel and violent, even more than men. We can be killers, Neil.’

Professor Saito wastes away and dies, but by this time his hard-eyed wife is so indoctrinated by Rafferty that she doesn’t care.

Part of the reason she doesn’t care is because she’s pregnant, but not by her husband. As the narrative becomes weirder and more intense, Dr Rafferty plays on Neil’s naivety and trust (and his strikingly fit, lean body and his teenage hormones) to suggest that he, er, impregnates all the women.

The idea takes a while for Neil to process, and maybe the women, too – and yet Ballard has, by now, created such a weird feeling about the island of dead men, that the reader accepts that the German hippy women, then angry Monique, and even fierce Mrs Saito, let him inseminate them. Or in Mrs Saito’s case, briskly and brutally milk him for his seed.

Other degradations happen. The women are now openly killing, butchering and cooking the once-precious endangered species. It is under the eerily empty eyes of these towers and bunkers, built to monitor nuclear test explosions across the lagoon four kilometers away, that this Lord of the Flies scenario plays out.

There are strange and beautiful descriptions of Neil learning to dive deeper and deeper into the reef offshore, in order to catch fish for the increasingly malnourished little crew. He finds that classic Ballard prop, a drowned warplane which crashed decades earlier, whose pilot was still in his straps but has long ago been eaten by the fishes.

Poor Kimo had been wasting away with the same illness as Professor Saito. He dies almost unnoticed.

Women recruits arrive in dribs and drabs: the Van Noort sisters, daughters of ‘an amiable Amsterdam architect and his handsome wife’ in the yacht Petrus Christus; two New Zealand nurses, Anne Hampton and Patsy Kennedy; the grand-daughters of a rich Canadian couple. They are welcomed, taken in, start helping with chores and maintenance. One night a few weeks later the van Noort parents ship anchor and sail away, leaving a message with Dr Rafferty for the girls that they had sailed for Tahiti and would return in a month or so’s time.

But a few days later, from up on the mountain, Neil realises he can make out the shape of a yacht sunk beyond the reef. Because he is the colony’s fit sea-diver it is easy for Neil to swim out and then down to the submerged yacht and to discover that is it the Petrus Christus, the yacht which brought the Dutch sisters. Not only that, but it is attended by a festival of fish, feasting on fresh food stored below decks. Having read one or two books, and seen one or two thrillers, the reader has a good idea what has happened. The parents have been murdered and their yacht scuttled.

Neil surfaces, swims ashore and rushes to tell Dr Rafferty about it but almost faints from hunger and the effort of diving and swimming. Dr Rafferty soothes him (‘calms him’ in the lexicon of the novel), deflects all his excited claims by saying he is tired, he needs rest, he should come to the clinic where she can look after him, and, pressed against her chest and smelling her smell, Neil falls under her sexual-psychological spell and forgets his urgent message.

He settles into the ‘clinic’ and into the same routine of ‘care’ as Dr Rafferty administered to Prof Saito and Kimo. Neil is reassured and soothed by her mothering presence even as he becomes more feverish and weak, but deep down knows what happened.

A few weeks later he wakes from his fever in the night and staggered to the doorway of the clinic where he had seen Carline, the only other man left in the expedition, and who continues to have a very odd, tangential relationship with the psychotic doctor, slipping down to the beach in the middle of one night and hours later, returned dripping wet. Next day, Neil overhears that the Canadian grand-parents have sailed off in the night but left a reassuring message with Dr Rafferty for their puzzled grandchildren. But now Neil knows now that Carline goes silently out to their yachts and kills them, all the inconvenient male or older relatives, sails the yachts a little beyond the reef, and scuttles them, leaving the colony of young women to grow.

Also on board the Petrus Christus when it first arrived had been a copper-skinned 14-year-old Moluccan cabin boy, Nihal. As Neil gets sicker and sicker in the so-called clinic, he is aware that all the by-now heavily pregnant women have taken to petting and feeding Nihal. He is their new favourite. Neil realises he is past his sell-by date. By now he is spending all his time in bed ill with an intense fever, in the same bed where Professor Saito sweated his last, and is being regularly injected by Dr Rafferty. He is so delusional that he still trusts her, and this is really the hardest part of the entire story to believe.

Problems with Rushing to Paradise

We are now in the final third of the book and there are two glaring objections to the whole thing:

  1. Neil is a bright boy. He must have known for a long time that Rafferty was becoming psychotic, had killed off the other men, commissioned Carline to murder the adult yachters, and is now killing him.
  2. For this long second half of the book I think readers are meant to be puzzled and a little unsure what’s happening, thus giving the book some elements of thriller or whodunnit… But – as Ballard’s earlier ‘whodunnit’, Running Wild – it was extremely obvious to me what was going on: that Dr Rafferty was going psychopath crazy from fairly early on, and then there were hundreds of clues all pointing one way.

Is the book intended to be a whodunnit? Is the reader meant not to understand what is going on? Are we meant to be on tenterhooks of suspense?

In which case it’s a fail, because not only is the entire decline and fall narrative super-familiar – it’s Ballard’s basic plot – but the ‘clues’ are so blatant as to generate no suspense and no tension at all.

Or is Neil’s slowness on the uptake meant to indicate the strange psychological hold Dr Rafferty exerts over everyone so that they all know exactly what is going on but accept it? This is a subtler artistic goal, and the book comes closer to achieving it, but it boils down to whether you go along with Neil’s self-deceit: this is why the backstory of his dead father, his distant mother and his obsession with nuclear test sites are so structurally important: they are meant to indicate that Neil was psychologically damaged or vulnerable from the start and so easily manipulable by Dr Rafferty even though he knew what was going on.

In a way the entire novel stands or falls on whether you accept the character of Neil and his schizophrenic gullibility.

By presenting events very artfully Ballard is able to elide obvious common-sense questions like: doesn’t Mrs Saito care that Dr Rafferty murdered her husband? Don’t the two German hippy girls care that Dr Rafferty murdered their child? Doesn’t Monique care that Dr Rafferty murdered her father? And doesn’t Neil, in the end, care that Dr Rafferty murdered the kindly gentle Hawaiian Kimo, and the whip-smart troubled Carline who always gave Jim, er I mean Neil, such good advice?

No. All of them are swept along by the logic of the narrative which can brook no hesitation or complications.

I’m guessing that in interviews about Rushing To Paradise Ballard would invoke the real-world example of the Jonestown Massacre (November 18, 1978) in which a total of 918 people died from cyanide poisoning, many murdered, but many willingly going to their deaths, and all overawed, frightened by or obedient to their charismatic leader Jim Jones. Or maybe the tragic events surrounding the Waco Siege, which reached its bloody climax in February 1993. Maybe he said this novel was an ‘investigation’ of the way one charismatic psychopath can come to dominate a group of submissive well-intentioned helots, and lead them eventually to their deaths…

But saying that something similar happened in real life doesn’t help you when your book is judged as a work of fiction. I mean it needs more than factual references indicating that something like this is possible. It needs to persuade us, to show us how it is possible.

I suppose Ballard and his supporters would argue that the novel is an extended fictional investigation of the nature of fanaticism and that the environmentalism topic is just a current, modish focal point for what has obviously been an enduring type of fanatical human behaviour. Ballard appears to have had a dim view of environmentalists, as this casual remark Super-Cannes suggests:

 ‘It could be racist, or some mad animal rights thing. Fanatical Greens always veer off-course, and end up trying to save the smallpox virus…’ (spoken by Paul Sinclair, the 1st-person narrator of Super-Cannes)

Ballard must have taken pleasure in conceiving the genuinely unnerving reversal of the entire colony’s environmentalist aims when we learn that, first Dr Rafferty, and then by insensible steps, all the other women, take to killing, butchering and cooking the endangered species which have been brought from all round the world and entrusted to their care, and which are meant to provide the colony with its raison d’etre, while Neil watches and accepts this, as he does every other twist and perversion of their original purpose.

All this sounds like a good idea, it is quite a good idea – the problem is whether you really believe or buy into the actual execution of it in this novel. I struggled.

Rushing to Paradise 3

Anyway, Neil is obviously being brought to death’s door by the good doctor’s ‘treatment’ when one day, by accident, he stumbles out of the ‘clinic’ and around Dr Rafferty’s vegetable garden which she’s been digging and preparing for as long as anyone can remember. Only to discover that this is quite literally where the bodies are buried. Delving with the spade sh’d left in the earth, Neil discovers that here are the two German hippies buried one on top of the other, and here is Carline who everyone had assumed had left with one of the many yachts which mysteriously vanished in the night, and here…. here is a shallow grave prepared for Neil, and already filled with his few spare clothes!

Finally, finally, sparked to act on all his knowledge and suspicions, Neil staggers off away from the settlement and up into the forested hillsides. Here there is freshwater, berries and he is able to kill wild animals and eat them raw. Slowly his ‘fever’ wears off and he realises the extent to which Dr Rafferty was poisoning him.

Several mornings in a row, he sneaks back to the camp and pinches the fresh bread left out to cool by Monique who has emerged as the baker among the colony of pregnant women. Except that the second time he tries it the women are lying in wait with knives and machetes. He is stabbed in the arm and has burning coals thrown over him before he can break out of the circle of vengeful women, and run off into the jungle.

The women chase him like maenads in a Greek myth but he has built up a good knowledge of the jungly hills and goes to ground in a cave and dozes. He wakes from a fevered sleep to realise the hillside is covered in smoke, The mad women are pouring gasoline from the French army bulldozer all over the hillside and setting fire to it.

At this point, I realised the narrative was following William Golding’s 1954 novel Lord of the Flies not just in a general way, but has converged to become almost an exact copy. In the Golding book the schoolboys-turned-into-savages hunt the last decent boy, Jack, through the tropical forest, and set fire to it to flush him out.

Now we find Rafferty’s women doing exactly the same, setting fire to the island to flush Neil out.

And then, exactly as in Lord of the Flies, as the chase reaches its climax and the women confront Neil with their terrifying knives and are just about to kill their sacrificial victim… they all hear the sound of a helicopter overhead and then see a French naval vessel out at sea. The grown-ups are back. The descent into hell is over.

(Realising just how closely the climax of the book copies the climax of Lord of the Flies reminded me of how much Day of Creation mimics Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. Ballard is not exactly plagiarising – the original stories are too well known for anyone to think he’s pinching them. On one level he is rewriting them for the age of satellite TV. On another level he is invoking their power as predecessors, as so many literary authors do. In another way he is laying claim to be the successor to these feted authors. There are probably other elements to it, but this deliberate echoing of two super-classic narratives in his two post-Empire novels is very noticeable.)

The women flee although the hillside is still in flames. Some time passes while Neil checks it is safe, and then makes his way by circuitous paths back to the camp. Here he wanders in a daze and discovers that half the women are lying dead in their bunks, the hard core followers Monique and Mrs Saito dead in each others’ arms, the other women dying of poisoning. Looks like Dr Rafferty persuaded them all to be injected with poison and end their lives rather than capitulate to the enemy or let the colony be broken up by the approaching French.

Just like Jim Jones persuaded all his followers to die rather than ‘surrender’ in the Jonestown Massacre.

Dr Rafferty has disappeared. The last Neil saw of her she had taken Carline’s gun and was shooting and stomping the dying albatrosses. Dying? Yes, for some time Dr Rafferty had been injecting poison into the fish on the shoreline which the albatross ate. Why? In order to exterminate them. Extermination. ‘Exterminate the brutes’ as Colonel Kurtz said. The degradation of the environmentalists’ cause into its exact opposite is symbolically complete.

Then she ran off into the forest.

Neil comes across some of the more recent converts, the New Zealand nurses and the Canadian girls, half conscious and is able to get them to vomit up the poison Dr Rafferty had administered and to massage their circulations back into life. And it was this obvious life-saving action, testified to by the survivors, which stands him in good stead when the French ship finally anchors and sends ashore a landing party. The French had been tipped off by Major and Mrs Anderson whose yacht did indeed sink, as Rafferty and Carline had intended, but who managed to survive and be picked up by a rescue ship. Now the French authorities come ashore and try to establish exactly what has happened in this madhouse.

Rather like the reader. The last word is given to Neil who lies to the authorities, telling them he saw Dr Rafferty running into the waves to her death. But she didn’t. She escaped into the jungle. And Neil knows that if she resurfaces, alive, and if she asked him to join her again on another of her expeditions… he would! Thus right to the end the psychological ambiguity of Neil is the keystone on which the entire narrative depends.


What was that all about?

It’s about so many things that, is Rushing to Paradise about anything in the end?

1. Television I dislike Ballard’s obsession with TV and the media, it feels sooo dated. I worked in broadcast TV from 1987 to 2000 and so much satire about TV, in my opinion, makes obvious points about celebrity and media circuses, goes on to claim that TV has created a new ‘reality’ and so on but somehow misses the point. The truth is subtler than that. Everyone knows that TV is not ‘reality’, but it does create a certain kind of discourse, or whole networks of discourse, which have a variety of effects, which would repay careful study, but… there’s nothing that subtle in this book. When Ballard writes that:

The endless bedside interviews and television appearances had done their work, Neil reflected. He was now a talisman of the animal rights movement, to be carried shoulder-high like the stuffed head of a slaughtered bison.

You reflect that it sounds good, but that TV celebrity is not actually like that. Ballard’s view on it is distorted by his wish to present it as some kind of latter-day religion, creating tribal totems. But even if we think about Greta Thunberg, who is quite a close comparison with Neil, the media discourses around her are more interesting, more complex, and far less melodramatic than what Ballard needs for his macabre tale of decline and fall.

2. Environmentalism Similarly for the big central theme of the novel which appears to be satirising environmental activism. No doubt there is a satirical novel to be written about Greenpeace and Friends of the Earth, but this isn’t it, not least because, by the end, the Lord of the Flies horror show has drowned out anything which isn’t drenched in blood and psychosis.

Satire works best when it has a sympathetic understanding of its subject, and knows just where to stick the knife for maximum effect, but in his book Ballard describes Dr Rafferty is a deranged old baglady from the beginning, and one with an unhealthy old lady-murdering past.

Friends of mine work for The Worldwide Fund for Nature and the Forestry Stewardship Council. The ambience and mindset is nothing at all like this book. Ballard isn’t interested in ‘investigating’ environmentalism, it’s just a hook for his enduring central obsession with mental collapse.

3. Feminism in the second half of the novel Dr Rafferty is given a stream of speeches promoting women, declaring women are stronger than men, that women do all the real work, women have more endurance yet are exploited and abused in the real world.

‘There are too many men, Neil. We simply don’t need so many men today. The biggest problem the world faces is not that there are too few whales or pandas, but too many men… Their time has passed, they belong with the dugong and the manatee. Science and reason have had their day, their place is the museum. Perhaps the future belongs to magic, and it’s we women who control magic. We’ll always need a few men, but very few, and I’m only concerned with the women. I want Saint-Esprit to be a sanctuary for all their threatened strengths, their fire and rage and cruelty…’

As she goes into a phase of declaring the island will be a sanctuary for women as well as other endangered species, women who, it turns out, will be fertilised by one tame male kept as a farm animal, but easily eliminated when he is surplus to requirements.

‘Men exhausted themselves building the world. Like tired children they’re always fighting each other, and they can’t see how they hurt themselves. It’s the women’s turn to take over now – we’re the only ones with the strength to go on. Think of all-women cities, Neil, parks and streets filled with women…’

If it had stopped there, the novel might have been a sort of satire on feminism, except that it, of course goes further, and in the end even Dr Rafferty’s beloved women, like her beloved albatrosses, turn out not to be up to her demanding vision, and she tries to exterminate both groups.

So what is it saying? That feminism – like environmentalism – is a creed which attracts homicidal maniacs? Or are both the environmentalism and feminism included solely to show how a psychopath can twist any cause, no matter how well-intended, to his or her purposes? Or did Ballard’s long-term girlfriend, Clare Churchill, just tell Ballard to put more feminism in his books?

4. Group psychology Is it a fictional investigation of the Jim Jones-Waco psychology – of the fanatical leader-worship which leads a group of already slightly unhinged followers to go off to a remote jungle fastness where they can go suicidally nuts? On paper, yes, it certainly is something like that: the entire narrative can best be summarised as a group of high-minded environmental activists find themselves marooned on a remote Pacific atoll where they submit to the homicidal impulses of their psychotic leader.

In the six weeks since the destruction of the radio-cabin the sanctuary had come to resemble the encampment of a religious sect….

Maybe it is the simplest and most obvious interpretation of what the novel is ‘about’.

5. Sympathetic magic But although this sounds like a reasonable description, in fact almost all the characters are mentally unstable right from the start. Doc Rafferty we have already established was an enthusiastic murderer of old ladies, but Neil himself, the central figure, is mostly defined by his unhealthy interest in nuclear weapons and testing grounds. He doesn’t give a damn about the albatross, he wants to see another nuclear weapon detonated at Saint-Esprit.

And alarm bells ring – we realise we are among hard core Ballard characters – when we learn that the Japanese taxonomist Professor Saito’s wife thinks they are travelling to Saint-Esprit as the delegates of all the nuclear casualties of World War II. We enter the world of Ballard logic when she says that, by saving the albatross, they will be helping the spirit of many people in Hiroshima, and all other casualties of nuclear bombing and testing.

As I read this passage I suddenly realised that this kind of thinking, which afflicts so many of Ballard’s characters, is a form of sympathetic magic.

Sympathetic magic, also known as imitative magic, is a type of magic based on imitation or correspondence.

A shaman sticks pins in a doll, the person the doll represents will feel pain; a shaman does a dance mimicking the falling rain, it will rain. In just the same way, the Japanese couple believe that, if they can ‘save’ the albatross, they will also ‘save’ the Hiroshima victims, and all the other people either physically or mentally damaged by nuclear weapons. Professor Saito has brought along a terracotta jar of human ashes, a small sample entrusted to him by the keepers of a Hiroshima ossuary, which he hoped to bury beside dead albatross on the quiet sands of the Saint-Esprit lagoon.

If it’s an investigation of how charismatic psychopathic leaders emerge, it’s also a description of an odyssey from Western ‘rational’ thought into the realm of more primitive, tribal psychology.

Descent into primitivism

‘Is this how new religions begin?’ (Neil to Carline)

Maybe looking for a ‘rational’ explanation is pointless because Ballard is determined to push us towards far more primitive, pagan forces at work. There are distinct and eloquent passages about:

  • the television age
  • modern feminism
  • environmentalism

But rumbling along beneath the entire text is a deeper bass drone about the fundamentally irrational roots of human behaviour, and in particular a careful littering of the text with numerous words  and terms connected with primitive religion:

  • A concrete blockhouse sat in a grove of tamarinds, a forgotten totem of the nuclear age that seemed more ancient than any Easter Island statue
  • ‘You’re a shaman, Neil, you’ll live in the forest with Professor Saito and count the winds.’ (p.82)
  • The towers on the high island had been swallowed by the advancing forest, ancient megaliths left behind by a race of warrior scientists obsessed with geometry and death.
  • Dr Barbara lifted the flap of the tent and pointed to the runway, where Kimo and Carline, Monique and the Saitos sat under the palms beside the bulldozer, watching the clouds. The surface of ground coral had been swept by Kimo to befit the arrival of a queen. ‘Waiting for the sky. We’re turning into a cargo cult.’
  • He was now a talisman of the animal rights movement, to be carried shoulder-high like the stuffed head of a slaughtered bison.
  • Dr Barbara clasped the rusty safety pin between her breasts, a talismanic brooch… (p.100)
  • The gleaming complex of reaction vessels and separation chambers filled with ion exchange resins sat under the trees like a machine deity, its bowels emitting curious noises and a few drops of rusty water… (p.105)
  • Too busy to consider this, Dr Barbara hacked away at the undergrowth, and at last Monique took pity on them and told them to consult the desalination plant, which she described as the island’s oracle… (p.106)
  • This glass structure became their tribal wigwam, around which they gathered in the evenings to smoke their pot. (p.109)
  • ‘Saint-Esprit isn’t a sanctuary, it’s a rubbish tip picked over by TV crews. You may not realize it, David, listening to your head-phones, but you’ve been running a cargo cult.’
  • Werner muttered a mantra over the creature, plucked a feather from its wing and stitched it through the collar of his sheep-skin jacket. (p.139)
  • Around this dour tribe the endangered plants and animals thrived and bred like visitors from another planet
  • Neil replied cautiously, aware that Dr Barbara was standing among the trees above the beach, a latter-day Margaret Mead watching the courtship rituals of an island tribe. (p.149)

Noticing the care with which Ballard has scattered these references through the text makes me realise:

  1. What a canny and careful contriver he is, in this as in all his other books, creating themes and topics and threads for readers no notice and unweave.
  2. How it doesn’t work. It works intellectually – any fool could write a paper about ‘The Imagery of primitive religion in Rushing To Paradise‘. I mean it doesn’t excite, surprise or amaze the reader. It feels too artful and contrived.

And the fundamental message – that beneath the veneer of ‘civilisation’, we’re all ‘savages’ – wasn’t even that new when Freud wrote about it in the 1920s, and has been the subject of vast swathes of literature and art ever since, sepecially after the Nazis and the Holocaust and Hiroshima. Ballard is so often described as a ‘prophet’ and prescient writer of the future, and yet the future he writes about is eerily reminiscent of the past, of the darkest perceptions of the 1940s and 50s – just updated to include satellite TV and Greenpeace.

Ballardisms

And also, woeven into the narrative, are the same handful of key words which push and compel and constrain our responses into the same narrow set of emotions and attitudes. Neil and the feverish Doc Rafferty are always having to be calmed:

  • Kimo steadied the trembling gate, his huge arms raised as if to calm the air.
  • Neil tried to calm her trembling shoulders, but she pushed him away.
  • Neil pulled her hands from the air and pressed them together, trying to calm her
  • Neil tried to calm himself…
  • Though thrilled at first by her own daring, Dr Barbara soon calmed herself…

This is because the lead characters are permanently at odds with the world, ill at ease and unsettled.

  • Neil had been unsettled by the fate of the huge birds, but he already realized that he was filming a well-rehearsed scene in the theatre of protest.
  • Neil was still unsettled by the suicide of his father, a radiologist who had diagnosed his own lung cancer and decided to end his life while he could breathe without pain.
  • The sight of the unguarded stores and the three inflatables on their trailer seemed to unsettle him Neil felt distanced from the rest of the expedition.
  • He missed Louise, and had been unsettled by her self-immersed chatter on the radio-phone.

The next stage beyond unsettled is the state of permanent over-excitement which so many Ballard characters seem to spend their entire lives in, or are stricken with the symptoms of actual fever. In the last quarter or so of the book Neil is in the Clinic suffering a permanent fever caused by Dr Rafferty’s slow poisoning of him, and the word ‘fever’ appears multiple times on every page.

  • The ordeal of Didier’s first month on the island and the nights of feverish sleep had wasted the old ecologist.
  • After a feverish night he ate a bowl of tepid tapioca, which set off another bout of vomiting and diarrhoea…
  • Dr Barbara helped herself to a second glass of communion wine. Already her face and neck were flushing, and she ignored the feverish ramblings of Professor Saito in his mosquito net.

And the next stage beyond feverish hallucination is actual insanity.

  • Neil held her around the waist, fearing that the deranged physician would leap into the bloody waves…
  • Neil tried to restrain her whirling hands, moving across the night air like deranged birds…
  • This storm-battered sloop was the Parsifal, and its hull and patched sails were painted with psychedelic colours, slashes of mauve and acid green that flared from the waves like the fins of a deranged kraken…
  • Carline rowed through the burning waves, his oars scooping up pockets of flame, grinning owlishly to himself like a drunken parent at a deranged children’s party…
  • A delirious convention was taking place, a deranged banquet of the fathoms…
  • Carline stood at the controls, working the brake levers with his frantic hands like a fairground organist grappling with a berserk calliope…

I don’t know what I think about Ballard’s obsessive use of the same key words over and over again, in book after book.

On one level it is a highly stylised gesture, like Japanese or ancient Greek theatre, a narrow set of stylised masks and gestures, created and arranged with a limited compositional vocabulary in order to create a more narrow and intense effect.

On the other hand, it means the reader is not surprised. If characters are described as ‘demented’ right from the start, then there isn’t a long way for them to fall, and you lose the psychological and fictional interest of following the process of watching someone really falling apart, travelling from a state of what most of us would call ‘normality’ to genuine psychosis. Describing your characters as ‘deranged’ almost from the start of the book, removes the element of surprise when they actually do start behaving deranged.

If anything it has the opposite effect. I knew Dr Rafferty was killing off the ‘patients’ in her ‘clinic’ well before all the other characters, and got bored waiting for them to catch up.

Because Neil himself is an odd boy right from the start, because he begins the story with feverish dreams of atom bombs and searing light across the lagoon, we miss out on any genuine sense of shock when he makes his final discovery, of the murdered bodies in Dr Rafferty’s ‘garden’. My reaction wasn’t one of shock and horror but relief that he’d finally cottoned on to what the reader has known for a hundred pages.

In another author’s hands the various stations of the community’s descent into madness might have been accompanied by genuine jolts of adrenaline. For example, I still remember the genuine bolts of terror I felt when I read Ira Levin’s two brilliant chillers Rosemary’s Baby and The Stepford Wives. They are very focused narratives which are written in a cut-down prose which is incredibly effective at conveying shock and then terror.

There was nothing like that in Rushing To Paradise. It’s a much more literary book, self-consciously stuffed with ideas and issues, and conveyed in a highly wrought prose full of careful analogies and repeated diction, whose characters are bonkers from the start. And therefore the entire thing feels more like a dream or fantasia, like a kind of slow-motion nightmare, than an actual thriller.


Related links

Reviews of other Ballard books

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