What does the title of a U2 song have to do with Michael Moorcock’s The Jewel in the Skull? Nothing, directly. It is, according to a number of sources, named for Sam Shepard’s poetry collection Hawk Moon which itself is titled in honor of Dorian Hawkmoon, the protagonist of the book as well as three subsequent volumes (The Mad God’s Amulet, The Sword of Dawn, and The Runestaff). Then there’s the English band Hawkwind with whom Moorcock has collaborated on occasion. So, while Hawkmoon himself is significantly less well known than another aspect of the Eternal Champion, Elric of Melniboné, the character has had an influence on the popular
consciousness, or more properly, subconscious.

I considered titling this “What You Bring to the Table” in reference to what both the author and reader bring to a work, intentions and expectations. In the forward to my omnibus volume, Moorcock writes “in a spirit consciously at odds with the jingoism of the day (1967), I chose a German for a hero and the British for villains.” Beyond the flip-flop of traditional (from an English point-of-view) hero and villain, he never intended the Hawkmoon books as a significant social commentary, merely stories which entertained and didn’t waste the reader’s time. Still, over the years, readers and reviewers have found commentary in the books. Moorcock dismisses the notion, having chosen this pulp sword-and-sorcery genre in which to write precisely because it had largely escaped the notice of critics and analysts. So we’re served fish and chips. Nothing wrong with that, unless you sit down expecting filet mignon, in which case you’re going to be disappointed.

By and large, The Jewel in the Skull is a simple book. There’s little introspection and just enough detail to set the scene. It’s a 2-and-a-half-minute hit rock-and-roll song. The characters are thrust into danger and almost as quickly pulled out only to stumble
into more trouble a few pages later. If there’s a moment of reflection or a realization of a deeper truth on a character’s part, Moorcock wastes no time showing us a dawning realization, he straightforwardly tells us what new insight has come to Hawkmoon as he
hacks another Granbretonian down. That's perfect for Moorcock's intent. We're not here to get bogged down. This isn't Elric gazing at his navel and bemoaning his fate; this is Hawkmoon who's come back from the pit of Hell after being captured and used by Granbretan, found a chance for revenge and love and is going to kick all the ass needed to get both.

And kick it he does, though not until more than halfway through the book. The first third focuses on Count Brass, ruler of Kamarg (Southern France) and something of an adherent of realpolitik. He doesn’t particularly care for the Dark Empire of Granbretan
but he believes the Europe rising from the ashes of the Tragic Millennium would best be united under a single ruler. That the Granbretonians use brutal tactics doesn’t trouble him as in the long run he believes they will mellow. He refuses to see the truth
completely even after the book’s villain, Baron Meliadus kills (no, it’s only flesh wound) Brass’ principle aide and friend, Bowgentle, and assaults his daughter, Yisselda. It’s only after he aids Hawkmoon, himself pawn in another scheme to seize Yisselda and by
extension Kamarg from the count, drawing an all-out attack on his lands that Brass understands the fullness of the Dark Empire’s evil.

Reading the descriptions of that battle, with the Granbretan troops in fierce animal masks and super-scientific weapons, flamelances and huge cannon, it struck me how much this series must have influenced the creators of the Warhammer game. And I wondered if the series really qualified as fantasy? That’s how it’s generally seen, or at least how I normally think of it, but this time through, it struck me as science fiction. With swords and armor, but the magic is largely performed through devices. Much like the cartoon series, Thundarr the Barbarian, the lines are blurred, as those surviving in the post-apocalyptic world neither know or care enough to make a distinction.

What it lacks in rigor of plot and deep of detail, The Jewel in the Skull makes up for in energy and inventiveness. Giant flamingoes, ornithopters, bullfighting, baragoons, Moorecock, much like his countryman Alan Moore, burns through ideas others would spend pages and pages on, using them as fuel to get to the next cliffhanger. Would the book be better if there weren’t a touch of small universe syndrome? Without the bits of deus ex machina here and there? If the characters were better developed, not the relatively two-dimensional movie serial heroes and villains Moorcock gives us? Perhaps, but is that worth pulling it away from its pulp aesthetic? Not everything has to be a sociological treatise or historical analogue. Sometimes it’s more fun to rip and romp for a
while.

(The above is a mess but blame the allergy/sinus infection I've been battling. I hope there are at least a couple of points which might spark some discussion tonight. Now, I'm going to take a nap.)