The Island, by Adrian McKinty
The Island by Adrian McKinty My rating: 2 of 5 stars Bog-Standard Survival, Served With a Side of Pretension This is one of those “family vacation turns nightmare” survival thrillers that runs perfectly well on rails, and that’s exactly the problem: I’ve seen these rails so often that there’s no tension left in them. “The Island” isn’t badly written, and it certainly keeps moving, but it’s moving through a landscape of ideas that has been strip-mined for decades. You can almost hear the genre machinery: chase, threat, escalation, “resourcefulness”, repeat. What really sank it for me is the book’s intermittent insistence on being profound. Every now and then, the prose swells up, as if volume could substitute for insight. Chapter 24 gives us: » Civilization meant nothing here. Perhaps it had always meant nothing. There were no monsters on Dutch Island, but the beast was man, had always been man. « This is not depth, it’s a poster slogan pretending it just discovered human nature. Even...