But it's damned smart, challenging writing. Alison is a young retired Superman-esque superhero, a sophomore in college, and a frustrated idealist. She wrestles with life as a reluctant celebrity, her failure to have any lasting impact on the world, her fluctuating sense of identity, her nebulous responsibilities to family, friends, and the world at large. Different opinions are proffered about what precisely are the world's problems and which strategies stand a chance at improving things. There are no easy answers. It rings wonderfully true.
One powerful plotline involves a regenerating hero who gives up crimefighting to become an organ donor. In perpetuity. 24-7. This is utterly horrifying when you think about it. It's a beautiful and painful sequence, pitting her need to change the world against her friends' need to see her healthy and whole and not in unending torment, and their skepticism that it will make any difference. Neither side is wrong.
The cast of characters is diverse in a way that I've rarely seen in graphic stuff. Gay and straight, white and not-white, disabled and/or disfigured (...otherly figured?), fat and skinny and nerdy... It slathers on another layer of delicious verisimilitude.
At a couple points I feared SFP was going to veer off to the Loopy Left (like when a president who looks remarkably like W gives a frightening speech full of paranoid nut-jobbiness and incipient Big Brotherism) but it never goes off the rails.
--It was a slog.
--Terrible Star-Trek-alienitis. The non-human half of the hero duo was just a human with a--gasp--beetle for a head. Perhaps this silly, lazy morphology makes more sense by the end but I'd be surprised.
--Miéville brandished his politics like a club, they were thuddingly obvious and unsophisticated. Government is gosh-darned corrupt, counterculture is heroic, the rich are evil and selfish. Not that these ideas aren't worth some screentime, but it was just so...simple.
--The hyper-taboo, socially repugnant interspecies sexual relationship was the best part of the book. The danger of discovery felt real. The artistic subculture that exhibited varying degrees of acceptance and laissez-faire was the only thing that made me want to keep reading.
EDIT: A friend who is good at reviewing reviews pointed out that thus far my rating is not in alignment with my "scathing" criticism. So I should add that:
--Miéville writes real purty.
--His world-building was actually quite good.
Had the library not been whanging me with onerous 25-cents-per-day fines I would have finished reading it. It's just not worth it to me to check it out again I guess.
One thing that struck me was the fact that the only universal attitude--seemingly held by pretty much every Marine in the company--was contempt for weakness and incompetence. The hyper-masculine mindlessness I expected to read about was missing. One Marine announced his intention to open a gay bar. Another preached Marxism and socialism. A third--who went by the name Fruity Rudy--was known for his physical beauty. Many of the soldiers philosophized or waxed poetic about war, America, leadership, brotherhood, death, their mission in Iraq...
Beyond painting a portrait of life in combat, the whole book seemed to be leading up to this quote in the afterword:
"It’s the American public for whom the Iraq War is often no more real than a video game. Five years into this war, I am not always confident most Americans fully appreciate the caliber of the people fighting for them, the sacrifices they have made, and the sacrifices they continue to make. After the Vietnam War ended, the onus of shame largely fell on the veterans. This time around, if shame is to be had when the Iraq conflict ends--and all indications are there will be plenty of it--the veterans are the last people in America to deserve it. When it comes to apportioning shame, my vote goes to the American people who sent them to war in a surge of emotion but quickly lost the will to either win it or end it. The young troops I profiled in Generation Kill, as well as the other men and women in uniform I’ve encountered in combat zones throughout Iraq and Afghanistan, are among the finest people of their generation. We misuse them at our own peril."
I suspect Rooms' rating has suffered for two reasons. One, there are virtually no likable characters. Everyone--including the ghosts--is alcoholic/depressed/insecure/lonely/pick-a-page-from-DSM-5.
Two, there's not much resolution. A few secrets come to light, but the characters for the most part aren't illuminated with shattering insights and new leases on life.
(For my part, I liked the ending. It affirmed my belief that personal change is generally painstaking and incremental. Had there been an epidemic of life-altering epiphanies I'd have been disgusted.)
Rooms reminds me strongly of The Casual Vacancy, which is a good thing. It's all about relationships and secrets and unhappiness and how we edit our memories to fit our narratives, and to rationalize our grudges and hatreds. It's not as well-written or epic as TCV but it shares themes and tone, and it's similarly brave in it's willingness to go dark.
The numerous "rooms" metaphors are often clumsy and forced--rooms are like secrets, and people, and chapter titles, and memories, and I forget what else--but they don't interfere with the plot so I found that particular clumsiness easy to set aside.