Whatever Happened to Space Cruiser C-57D?

Forbidden Planet (1956) is one of those films that stays with you. It must, because I recall seeing it when it first played at the Bay Theatre in National City. Back in those days, people arrived at the theater whenever they arrived. If they arrived late for the start of a film, they stayed until the film restarted, leaving when they could say, "Ah, this is where I came in." My parents were not great film goers and not at all science fiction fans, so I'm really surprised they went to this film at all. I don't recall the other film, cartoon, newsreel or serial that was also shown that day, but I do recall when they left ("Ah, this is where we came in") because, as I was being carried out (I was much smaller in those days), I saw, over my dad's shoulder, the steps leading to the spaceship bending under the weight of the "monster from the id." I really wanted to stay, but, given that I had already seen the monster, I also really wanted to leave. Looking back, I think I was actually more frightened of the invisible menace, the sight of those metal steps bending when I could see nothing upon them, than I was of the roaring, fiery creature that manifested itself from the savage and primal "id" of Doctor Morbius, augmented by the technomagical devices of the lost Krell Civilization. It is a great film and still holds up now, nearly seventy years later. Unfortunately, MGM chose not to cash in on the success of its surprise hit. So, we have been left to wonder all these years, whatever happened to Space Cruiser C-57D and its intrepid crew after escaping the destruction of Altair IV?

I suppose it was inevitable in this age of fan fiction and instant publication that someone would accept the challenge and give the world the rest of the story. This happened in 2016 when Tony Rubolotta published Forbidden Outpost, a novel "for the fans of Forbidden Planet."

Available from Amazon

The rubber-stamped "AMAZING!" on the cover is taken from the promotional poster and lobby card of the film, but it's a fairly apt description of Rubolotta's story. Although there are a few awkward plot elements and an intrusion from a notable frontier stereotype, the author does a very good job of carrying the story forward, expanding upon the characters from the film and fleshing out the world of the United Planets, which was only mentioned in passing in the original film. And, of course, we find out more about the mysterious Krell...a lot more.

I thought one of the most clever aspects of the story was how Rubolotto depicted the human settlement on the planet where a hidden outpost of the Krell survived unsuspected. Instead of reaching into our future, which would have been the book's present, he instead went Retro, drawing upon Mid-Century tropes, types and architecture. Really, it's a great idea. The 1950s is just ancient and alien to the characters in the book as it is to most people now. I don't want to give away anything of the story, but if you like the film, you'll probably like the book.

When Science Fiction Died

I rarely meet people I knew when I was a teenager, but when I do, they usually ask me, "Are you still reading science fiction?" When they knew me, I was usually engrossed in a novel by Asimov or van Vogt, or reading the latest issue of F&SF or Galaxy. I was also the kid who took off from school (with the principal's permission) to attend such events as a lecture by Rod Serling and a writing workshop with Ray Bradbury. I think they thought I was defined by what I read...and they were not far wrong.

Prior to the turn of the century, my answer was a forceful affirmative, which they found amazing. In their own lives, they had moved on from youthful pursuits, strayed from the paths that defined them. The musician became a dental assistant, the marine biologist a financial manager, and the math whiz a cashier at the local big-box store. Any hobbies they had as teens had also fallen by the wayside. And yet there I was, nearly four decades on, still reading science fiction, still being defined by cosmic literature.

Nowadays, however, my answer to the question is, "No, not much anymore." As the Twentieth Century began to unwind to the Year 2000, there came a sea change in my reading. The first rumblings of it took the form of a novel called Darwinia.

I read this book a year or two before the world moved into a new century. It came to me via the Science Fiction Book Club and was the last "new" science fiction book I read. In any fictional account, a "suspension of disbelief" is necessary, but it is absolutely vital in the science fiction genre. About three-quarters of the way through the book, during a particularly epic description of the galactic archive, I thought: This is just ridiculous. My disbelief in the book's universe was no longer suspended. In fact, it came crashing down.

I really can't entirely blame the book, and the writer not at all -- Robert Charles Wilson is a talented and imaginative author. No, the fault was, as Shakespeare might have said, not in the book but in myself. When I set aside the book (I did finish it) I thought about the SFBC bulletin from which I had ordered the book -- it had been the only book even remotely intriguing to me in amongst the graphic novels, fantasy trilogies, "message" books, and authors I'd never heard of. That set me to thinking about how all the science fiction writers I liked were either dead, had stopped writing, or were trying to write for a new, younger, more callow demographic. So, I stopped reading science fiction.

Not entirely, of course, for I do find novels in the sub-genres of Alternate History and Steampunk that interest me. But the names are unknown to me. Sometimes, I'll pick up a magazine from back then and compare it with a current issue of Asimov's or Analog (the market has gone from dozens of magazines to three) -- in the older magazine, I'll recognize 90+% of the names, maybe one name in the new magazine. Same with anthologies. When I go to a bookstore, a trip through the science fiction section is an exercise in frustration and confusion, and an urge for nostalgia.

Nowadays, my usual reading fare in fiction are mysteries. I especially like novels from the Golden Age, but there are many current novelists who entertain me -- Michael Connelly, Christopher Fowler, and Stephen Puleston. Occasionally, I revisit science fiction, but the author is usually long dead or forgotten by the brash young savages of today. Even science fiction fandom has outpaced me, becoming mired in activism, political agendas, revisionism and literary tyranny of all kinds.

The world changes and the people in it. Even the Pole Star changes every 26,000 years as the Earth orbits the Milky Way Galaxy. But not me, I think.