Michael Marshall
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That time my wife and I watched literally all the Star Trek films

8/9/2024

 
During the covid-19 pandemic, beginning August 2020, my wife Sarah and I amused ourselves (if that's the term) in an eccentric way. We watched all the Star Trek films and I tweeted her reactions.

The premise for this was that I had seen all of them, but Sarah, being (as I put it) less warped, had only seen a handful. And some of her responses were, um, strong.

Since Twitter is now X and also awful, I thought I'd recover the ensuing mega-thread and re-publish it on my own site.

Picture
Star Trek: The Motion Picture

I worried about this one. Sarah has loved several slow-paced sci-fi films, notably Moon and Arrival, but she hated 2001 (“two hours of my life I’m never getting back”) and was variously bored and amused by Alien. I was right to worry.


She does like the overture music. Then she is startled to learn that the theme music for The Next Generation is actually the credits music from this film, repurposed. And then there are Klingons. She blames me for the fact she recognises the ships instantly.

“Great CG,” she says sarcastically, of the Great Big Wibbly Wobbly Swirly Thing in Space. I point out that the film is pre-CG and is all practical effects, and she shifts to grudging respect. This will not last.

We re-meet all the characters as they assemble, and Kirk spends a good few minutes eye-fucking the revamped Enterprise. Eye-fucking, we eventually decided, is a key element in this film.

Plus there are new characters! First: Decker, who was supposed to be the Enterprise captain until Kirk had him subbed out, creating Manly Conflict. Sarah says Decker looked like a Ken doll. Afterwards I found the actor’s career ended *horribly*.


And then there is Ilia, the navigator and Decker’s ex. Ilia is also Deltan, a new species for Star Trek, with a notable feature the film entirely fails to explain. Fortunately I have read the novelisation...

<insert gif of Homer Simpson screaming "NEEEEEEERRRRRRRDDDDDDDDD!">

Deltans have super-intense pheromones, so humans who have sex with them basically become addicted. Sarah says she can relate. This is why Ilia says she has taken an “oath of celibacy”: she’s not allowed to shag anyone in case they lose it. Sarah is bemused.

So I go a bit further and explain that this was the sort of vaguely sex-positive, but also rather male-gaze-y, stuff that Gene Roddenberry was coming up with at the time. He also wanted Troi in TNG to have three breasts. Sarah’s face is quite expressive now.

Ilia, by the way, was played by an Indian actress called Persis Khambatta, in what was meant to be her Hollywood breakthrough. It seems it didn’t pan out, as within a decade she was starring in She-Wolves of the Wasteland.

Anyway the Enterprise finally sets off, but when they try to go to warp it doesn’t work and they go into a wormhole, which distorts time and causes everything to become reeeeaaaalllyyyyyyyyyyy slooooooooooowwww. Sarah will later say this encapsulates the whole film.

To escape they have to fire a photon torpedo, and the slow-motion is now so extreme that Chekov says: “Phooooooootoooooooon toooooooorpeeeeeeeeeedoooooooooo.” Sarah laughs really, really hard. I sense the film is losing her. I am not wrong.

Spock arrives, and they finally get to the Wibbly Wibbly Swirly Thing, and after some mild kerfuffle fly inside. A lot of 2001-style special effects ensue. At this point we pause the film to get drinks etc...

When we get back Sarah asks if this is the finale. I check the DVD player and we’re at 1:06 of a 2-hour film. Sarah: “Are you shitting me?!” The film is paused on a shot of Nichelle Nichols looking fed up, which Sarah says expresses her feelings precisely.

It emerges that Sarah thinks the film is a single episode’s worth of plot stretched out to feature length. I explain this is literally the case (it was supposed to be the pilot for an aborted Star Trek Phase II TV series). “Uh-huh.”

More special effects and model work, and then a glowing beam of light trundles around the bridge and disappears Ilia. Then the Enterprise gets sucked into a Giant Metal Orifice, and a robot version of Ilia comes onboard to study the crew.

This is where the film briefly threatens to be interesting: the alien is a single huge machine, and doesn’t believe the humans are true life forms. This is a neat-ish twist on carbon chauvinism and prefigures films like Blade Runner.

But Sarah will have none of it. If the AI is advanced enough to have crossed the galaxy and made this whizzy machine, it should know biology and/or be able to imagine forms of life different to itself. We eventually agree that the alien robot is “basically racist”.

When we learn that the alien is called V’ger and that it’s transmitting a message in basic radio, Sarah quickly figures out that it’s an old NASA probe, one of the Voyagers, that’s been hugely upgraded by alien robots. The film reveals this 10-15 minutes later.

V’ger has unfulfilled needs and wants to meet its creator, to touch its creator. Sarah says this doesn’t make sense so I say it’s like Michelangelo’s painting of touching God’s finger. “I always think of it as Michelangelo’s pull my finger.” I become briefly hysterical.

Sarah realises that Decker could be the one to join with V’ger. “Oh is he about to become Captain Expendable?” Decker and Robot Ilia continue eye-fucking. “How much more eye-fucking are those two going to do?!”

Spielbergian special effects mark Decker’s fusion with both V’ger and Robot Ilia. There is a final eruption of 2001-style light show and V’ger et al are gone. Sarah: “They’ve spluffed their way into hyperspace.”

The film ends with a title card: “The human adventure is just beginning”. Sarah: “It’s only just beginning?! Fuck off!” She notices Isaac Asimov’s name in the credits and is impressed, then wonders aloud why the film was nevertheless so shit.

Final rating: one-half impulse power I assure her that the next few are better. She glares at me suspiciously. “It was a nice marriage while it lasted.” So this is going well.

Picture
Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan

I wasn’t worried about showing Sarah this film. I was right not to worry. She liked it. Our marriage is back on.

Sarah raises two key problems with WoK. The first is she knows Spock isn’t permanently dead, so his death didn’t really hit home - but she is notably silent and non-sarcastic for the actual scene, and says she can imagine how audiences must have reacted originally.

The second is a plot point. She thinks Khan and his crew shouldn’t have been able to take over a Federation starship, as they’re from the 1990s and wouldn’t even know how to unlock an iPhone. I disagree...

I point out they’re genetically engineered to be hyper-intelligent, plus they have the ship’s captain and first officer mind-controlled to help them. She counters that the previous film showed Kirk, “who’s a fucking admiral”, struggling with the new Enterprise. I give in.

Beyond that, she simply had a lot less to complain about and spent most of the film quite happily engrossed. She does say that Ricardo Montalban clearly went to the William Shatner School of Acting. He is monologuing at the time so I am unable to argue.

But interestingly she has nothing to say against the main crew’s performances, and one of Kirk’s jokes gets a genuine laugh (“Then this’ll be your big chance to get away from it all”). She doesn’t even find “KHAN!!” too silly. It’s very memed but makes sense in context.

She does think Khan’s crew look pretty stupid. In fact, with their ripped clothes and bouffant hair, she thinks they look like a 1980s hair metal band. This is annoyingly accurate. I can’t decide if Poison or The Scorpions are the best match.

Beyond that, Sarah only wishes to add one thing. “Are they fighting back? Does that mean they’re going to fire the phoooooootoooooon toooooorpeeeeeeeeedooooooo?” That one is apparently never getting old.

Picture
Star Trek III: The Search for Spock

It was all going so well. This film started quite promisingly and there was a good 20 minutes where Sarah was broadly happy, but then it went slowly and gradually off the rails before exploding in a fiery mess.


Sarah was pleased that the Enterprise was still visibly wrecked, inside and out, from the battles in the last film. The scars of Star Trek: Voyager run deep. She was less thrilled by Christopher Lloyd as the main Klingon: “I keep expecting him to yell ‘Great Scott’.”

I was expecting her to cry foul at the reveal that Vulcans have eternal souls, which is a godawful cheat, but she lets it slide. At that point she’s more pissed off that Kirstie Alley has been replaced as Saavik: it’s hardly a Terrence Howard / Don Cheadle trade-up.

There is also a phase where she becomes convinced the film is ripping off Star Wars. In fairness, there is in short order: a cantina, complete with backwards-talking alien; a Hoth-like snow environment; and a prison guard in a vaguely Imperial uniform.

But then Kirk et al “go rogue”, break McCoy out of prison and steal the Enterprise. The film has been building to this for a solid half-hour, and it evidently plays well because no complaints are aired.

And then we get “Mr Adventure”. As this junior officer patronises Uhura, telling her that her “career is winding down”, Sarah first demands Uhura punch him, dubs him “Chad”, and tells him to “fuck off”. Then Uhura pulls a phaser on him and locks him in a cupboard. “Love her. *Love* her.”

Sadly this will be the last unmitigated good bit. We find out that Genesis doesn’t really work. I have long hated this reveal because - like so much of this film - it walks back the interesting stuff from the last one. I air this, and Sarah agrees.

Then the reborn Spock goes into pon farr, aka Vulcan extreme horniness. At first Sarah says he could just take care of himself. I explain that it doesn’t work like that, and that he has to shag someone or he’ll die. She says this is more proof Gene Roddenberry was a perv.

Then she realises that Saavik is going to have to deal with this, and that her solution is going to involve “finger wanking”. Sarah, who is a teacher and has strong views about adult-teenage sexual consent, hits the roof. We pause the film to hash this out.

I argue Saavik is saving Spock’s life and doesn’t have any other options. Sarah argues that the sequence is simply unnecessary. The laws of biology are already upended in this situation, so Spock could just skip pon farr and only ardent Trekkies would know.

Our main takeaway is that all major 80s film franchises had questionable sexual content that fucked our generation up for life: Star Wars has Luke and Leia, Back to the Future has mother-son incest, Raiders of the Lost Ark implies Marion was underage, and then there’s this.

Now things spiral. After a rather short battle - very few phooooooootooooooon toooooooorpeeeeeeeeedoooooooooeeeeeees - the Klingons kill David. Sarah shrugs. He and Kirk had no screen time in this film, and not much last time, so who cares? Again, walking things back.

And then Kirk takes out most of the Klingons by blowing up the Enterprise. Sarah complains that the self-destruct codes are so easily cracked, “it’s like having your password be 1234”. I can only mumble that it was the 80s.

The film culminates with Kirk and Kruge having a fist fight as the planet erupts around them. The fight is so badly staged that Sarah is giggling hysterically throughout. I compare it to the fight with the Gorn in the TV series. She says it’s worse: it’s like 1960s Batman.

There is a lengthy epilogue on Vulcan where Spock gets his soul/memories back. Sarah thinks he must be very confused by how different Saavik looks. It’s telling that the film has lost her so much that McCoy’s “Helluva time to ask” doesn’t raise a smile.

Sarah’s takeaway is that the film should not exist. If they really wanted Spock to not die in ST2, they should have had him not die - not do it anyway then spend a film retconning the death, and deleting everything that film did to the status quo. Also, “finger wanking”.

Picture
Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home

This will be uncharacteristically short, because Sarah really likes this film and had almost no major complaints or snark outbreaks. She says it’s the Fast Five of the franchise: it knows it’s a bit silly, and it *commits*.

Sarah does ask how it is that the probe is wrecking Earth. I say it’s because the signal is sending out is so powerful, that it’s effectively shouting. She nods but is then disappointed when Uhura, language genius, “caaan’t speeeeeaaaaak whaaaaaaaaale”.

She also wishes to know precisely why flying very fast around the Sun should lead to time travel. I don’t have a good answer for this, because there isn’t one, but I point out it’s what they did in “Tomorrow is Yesterday”. Apparently this is not a satisfactory response.

However the culture shock humour appeals to her. She particularly enjoys Chekov, in his thick Russian accent, politely and repeatedly asking a 1980s American policeman where he can find the “nuclear wessels”.

Later in the film she is delighted when McCoy bluffs his way into an operating room, past two guards, by claiming to have a patient with “severe post-prandial upper abdominal stitching”. (That’s cramps to you and me)

There is even a slapstick chase down a hospital corridor. I say this was probably a dry run for Three Men and a Baby and she is surprised to realise that Leonard Nimoy directed that. She has happy memories of that film - I worry it might be best left to nostalgia.

She does have concerns about the ending. First, she says it’s a problem that there are only two humpback whales in the world; they’ll get inbred. I say futuristic genetic engineering could probably handle it (given we’re already toying with this for northern white rhinos).

Then she objects that they couldn’t possibly have built a whole new Enterprise so quickly. I suggest their first sight of it might just be the superstructure, with the actual launch months later, but she’s having none of it. I feel I need to retreat.

Nitpicking aside, though, this film was a resounding success. “You won’t have a very long thread,” Sarah says. It’s fine, I say to myself. Star Trek V is coming up like a no-deal Brexit. The problem is going to be remembering everything she says.

Picture
Star Trek V: The Final Frontier

Well that was an absolute, total, unmitigated, comprehensive clusterfuck of a disaster. “It was awful,” says Sarah at the end. She is actually lost for words.

I prompt her to consider whether it’s worse than the first one. “Ooh that’s tough,” she says thoughtfully. “They’re about level.” I suggest that they’re shit in different ways. The first one is slow and boring. STV isn’t that - “No, it’s just bollocks.”

The film opens atmospherically on a desert landscape where a wretched man digging holes is surprised by a horseman arriving through the swirling dust. Sarah thinks it looks like the Nazgul are guest-starring in Mad Max. That’s a better idea than this film.

We meet Kirk, Spock and McCoy on holiday. Kirk is climbing El Capitan in Yosemite. Sarah complains that he isn’t using any futuristic climbing equipment. I say he’s doing it old-school for kicks. She accepts this. It’s the last successful justification I will offer.

Then Kirk falls off, forcing Spock (who is handily wearing rocket boots) to save him. The special effects are not great (this will be a recurring problem) and Sarah giggles throughout. The subsequent campfire bickering does get a laugh though.

We learn that the new Enterprise was built too fast and consequently nothing works. There is suddenly an attempt at sexual chemistry between Scotty and Uhura, which Sarah roundly ignores. She complains of excessive exposition.

All the shots of shuttles in flight raise snorts of laughter, and the Enterprise in front of the Moon actually elicits a groan. “It’s like they’ve taken a step back.” I had thought ILM were on strike and couldn’t do the film, but I was mistaken: they were just too busy.

David Warner is in the film. “He’s bad,” says Sarah instantly , reasoning that the character both has greasy hair and is played by David Warner, two infallible indicators of villainy. I stun her rigid by telling her that Warner’s character isn’t bad at all.

The main villain is a Vulcan cult leader called Sybok, who wants everyone to join his quest. “Is it for the Holy Grail? Only this time they’ve got the budget for horses.” A starship is required. “Yeah because Nimbus III swallows are non-migratory.”

Kirk and co have to rescue Sybok’s hostages. To do this they need to steal some horses, which means distracting the horses’ owners, so Uhura does a burlesque fan dance on top of a sand dune. “You’re not dreaming this,” I say...

Sarah is apoplectic. She has so many issues with this scene that we have to pause the film for her to articulate them all. But in brief, it’s both plainly misogynistic and a sad comedown for a character who’s been badass in the last few films. “Uhura needs to ring HR.”

Sybok turns the tables despite Kirk’s tactical genius and soon takes over the Enterprise. He is Spock’s secret half-brother. This reveal gets no reaction whatsoever. (It occurs to me that Sybok is absent from the flashback scenes in Discovery - probably on purpose.)

Kirk, Spock and McCoy are locked in the brig, but Scotty blows a hole in the wall after using Morse code to say “stand back”, leading to a “stand back?!” moment that causes Sarah to groan that the film is lapsing into self-parody.

Shortly afterwards Scotty says “I know this ship like the back of my hand” and immediately knocks himself out on a low ceiling strut. Sarah is viciously silent. Then Kirk et al use the rocket boots to hurtle up an elevator shaft while yelling. “For god’s sake...”

It’s revealed that Sybok is actually on a quest to meet god, at the centre of the galaxy, so Sarah’s Holy Grail guess was pretty close. The reveal is met with more stony silence. There is an actually OK flashback scene about McCoy’s dad.

Then it’s off to the galactic centre, which is a wibbly-wobbly swirly thing (and not a supermassive black hole). The Enterprise gets through unscathed because of faith, or something, and finds a planet. Kirk, Spock, McCoy and Sybok go down in a shuttle.

I forgot to mention the Klingons! They’ve been stalking the Enterprise but honestly who gives a shit. These Klingons are even less developed than the last lot, except for the dazzling twist that the first officer is a woman. Chekov will later praise her muscles.

The god planet looks remarkably like the Mojave Desert. Some stone pillars shoot out of the ground and then there’s a pillar of blue light with a bearded man in it. “For fuck’s sake.” Of course this isn’t the real god, because he needs the Enterprise to escape.

Realising that he’s fucked up massively, Sybok starts wrestling the god being, and Kirk has the Enterprise fire a photon torpedo, which temporarily incapacitates it. Sarah basically has her head in her hands. There is then a chase, except with minimal special effects.


The crisis is resolved when the Klingon ship arrives, Spock manages to take it over, and uses it to blast the god being. Kirk thought he was going to die, but Spock says that’s impossible because he wasn’t alone, thus paying off a stupid line of dialogue from earlier.

It turns out that god isn’t out there in space, and isn’t even the friends we made along the way, but is “in the human heart”. Sarah demands reassurance that things are going to get better. I promise that ST6 is good.

Her favourite bit of the film is the detail that the gritty little desert town is ironically called Paradise City, thus giving her an excuse to sing Guns n’ Roses throughout an early scene. No other redeeming features present themselves.

Picture
Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country

We were going to watch the new Emma. with Anya Taylor-Joy, but our stupid Sky box was taking forever to download it, so Sarah said “fuck it let’s do the next Star Trek”. She broadly approved of it, but with reservations.

The opening special effects bonanza evidently hasn’t aged well; Sarah notes my input that the film invented the “Praxis wave” effect, but says later versions were better. Then she mocks the scenes of the Excelsior bridge wobbling.

When Kirk et al show up, she is immediately annoyed by expository dialogue. The “let them die” exchange does seem to land though. Then Kim Cattrall shows up as new helmsman Valeris. “I keep expecting her to say something smutty.” I explain that this will not happen.

She is getting a bit restive, but then the Klingons arrive and she immediately begins second-guessing who’s going to be bad. She isn’t sure about their leader, Gorkon: he’s played by David Warner, which (again) implies baddy, but they have fooled us with that before...

However she’s very sure about Christopher Plummer’s General Chang, who she thinks looks like Ming the Merciless and is plainly a wrong ‘un. There is then a little scene with Valeris and two random crew who are racist against Klingons. Sarah feels there is something off.

Kirk’s “we must do this again sometime” gets a proper laugh and things seem to be on an upswing. She is properly intrigued when the Enterprise seemingly fires on the Klingon ship. Unfortunately the “bad” zero-gravity effects and CGI blood ruin the assassination scene.

Sarah ridicules McCoy’s attempt to save Gorkon (“You just said you don’t know his anatomy, why are you hitting him where you’re guessing his heart is?!”). But she is otherwise fairly absorbed - there’s a mystery and she likes those, and Kirk and McCoy are suitably fucked.

The Klingon court prompts a comparison with the Senate in the Star Wars prequels, and an accusation of plagiarism. I have to point out that those films were made several years later, so can’t have been the inspiration. “OK in that case Star Wars copied this.”

She is quite impressed when Kirk and McCoy are sentenced to spend the rest of their lives mining an asteroid. “That doesn’t sound nice.” The film then settles into Spock et al mystery-solving while Kirk and McCoy struggle to survive in prison, and this all seems fine.


Sarah does roll her eyes, hard, when William Shatner snogs Iman. I suggest it’s self-parody. She’s having none of that. Then Iman shapeshifts into a teenage girl (to get out of an ankle shackle), which prompts an “ew”.

The Enterprise comes to rescue them, which necessitates Uhura talking them past a border patrol by speaking Klingon very badly. Sarah is again enraged. “What happened to her speaking all the languages?!” I say that idea only came in with the reboot films and that OG Uhura was presented more as an expert in communications technology. But I nevertheless agree this scene is stupid. She can’t speak *any* Klingon? Allied soldiers in WWII often spoke a bit of German in case they needed it. You learn these things!

Apart from that, we largely roll along quite happily from here on. Sarah approves of the Valeris reveal, as she had been getting suspicious, and she’s delighted to have twigged that the Romulan ambassador would be in on the plan.

The effects in the final battle don’t prompt any laughs, which is a first. She does roar at Kirk’s over-dramatic “Fire!” though. And she is amused that “they basically MacGyvered a phoooootooooon toooorpeeeeeeeeedooooooo to be heat-seeking”. But overall it ends well.

Sarah concludes that it was one of the better ones: “a bit predictable”, as she figured out a lot of the conspirators and their purpose early on, but lots of fun.

I ask if she’d like to attempt a ranking of the first six films, and she obliges:
  • 4
  • 2
  • 6 (close to 2)
  • 3 (significantly further down)
  • 1/5 (way down, and she still can’t decide which is worse)

She does have a caveat though, which is that she saw 2 knowing Spock would return, which robbed the ending of its impact. But she says 2 is clearly a really solid piece of drama, so if she’d gone in blind it might have had more weight, prompting her to put it above 4.

Picture
Star Trek: Generations

As the credits roll on this film, the cat does a large and stinky shit in her litter tray that I have to go and clean up. That about sums it up for Sarah. It makes her so irate she makes a mistake in her knitting and has to unravel.

The opening shots of the champagne bottle drifting through space and then smashing on the hull of the Enterprise-B prompt immediate complaints. Sarah points out that the bottle would have to be huge to be visible, and that it’s very Eurocentric for 300 years in the future.

The Enterprise-B bridge crew is a cast of ringers. It’s the mum from Titanic who reads to her kids about Tír na nÓg! It’s Tuvok! It’s that guy from 24! And it’s Alan Ruck as the Captain. “Is he going to take the day off and piss off with his mate?”

The helmswoman is Sulu’s daughter. Sarah calls bullshit on this as we have never seen any indication of Sulu having any kind of family life. Then she wonders if this is going to be another David situation and she’s going to be killed off for effect.

There is a distress call, and it rapidly transpires that the Enterprise-B is on its maiden voyage without a tractor beam, medical staff or phooootoooooon toooorpeeeedooooooeeeeees. This absolutely infuriates Sarah, who has relatives in the navy and related fields...


“You don’t do that! You float it when it’s just the hull, sure, but then you actually build the damn thing and do sea trials before you do a proper maiden voyage! This is so stupid!”

Then she sees an alarming parallel with current events. “Oh my God, is Starfleet run by BoJo and Matt fucking Hancock and Gavin What’s-his-tits? And they’re applying their pandemic response approach to starship construction? No wonder it’s an omnishambles. Jesus Christ.”

<at this point I retweeted Boris Johnson's tweet from 2 January 2020 that "This is going to be a fantastic year for Britain.">

This is all prompted by a Wibbly-Wobbly Swirly Thing, which destroys two ships - although Scotty manages to beam some of the crew aboard. These include Malcolm McDowell, who Sarah immediately IDs as the villain because, well, obviously. And Guinan, which prompts a cheer.

The Enterprise gets sucked in too, but they escape after Kirk jury-rigs a blue ray of light, and then part of the ship gets ripped open and Kirk is apparently killed. Sarah is nonplussed and concludes that there’s going to be “timey-wimey”.

We cut to the Next Generation crew, who are on the holodeck pretending to be 19th-century (??) sailors. There is a lot of alleged humour. “This is really silly.” Thankfully a distress call intervenes and the plot restarts.

On a trashed space station we’re reintroduced to Malcolm McDowell’s Dr Soran. It seems the Romulans attacked it for reasons unknown.

Meanwhile the crew are dealing with some personal issues in a frankly self-involved way. Picard is sad and withdrawn. And Data, having failed to perform a practical joke, decides that *now*, the aftermath of a Romulan attack, is the right time to have Geordi perform brain surgery on him to implant an emotion chip. (We are also meant to remember from the TV series that the chip exists.)

For about a minute, Data-with-emotions amuses Sarah. The “I hate this” bit gets a proper laugh. But then it rapidly becomes grating. “Is Data going to be a dick all the way through?” I have to confirm that yes he is.

There is a moving scene where Picard explains to Troi that his brother and nephew have died in a house fire, breaks down in tears, and reflects that his long family line is now possibly at an end. Patrick Stewart sells the hell out of it...

Sarah complains afterwards, though, that the scene is *relying* on PS. We don’t know the deceased relatives, unless we remember the one episode they were in, and we don’t see their deaths, so it’s a little forced.

Then the star explodes, and a Klingon Bird of Prey decloaks off the starboard bow. ”Theeeeeere’s Klingons off the starboard bow, starboard bow, starboard bow... Sorry.” Soran captures Geordi and they’re beamed aboard the Klingon ship, which escapes.

We now get another decent scene, when Picard talks to Guinan about her old pal Soran and she explains that the Wibbly-Wobbly Swirly Thing is a doorway to the Nexus, wherein you feel perfect and eternal joy. Soran is obsessed with going back there.

Picard and Data figure out that Soran is destroying stars to change the course of the Nexus Ribbon. This annoys me, because the mass of the star would still be there so the gravitational fields wouldn’t be changed...

Soran wants the Ribbon to fly through a planet so he can be safely taken inside, because flying a ship into it would be too dangerous (even though it worked before and he wouldn’t care about the ship being destroyed). Argh this is contrived.

His aim is to blow up the Veridian star, pushing the Ribbon through the third planet - where Soran will be standing. The Enterprise heads off to stop him. They get into a standoff with the Klingons, who are headed by Lursa and B’Etor. Who?

Yes the film is dragging in two villains from the TV series and entirely under-using them. Sarah complains that their outfits show a ridiculous amount of boob, like so many films with women in armour, and I have no counter-argument because she’s right.

The Klingons bug Geordi’s VISOR so they can see how the Enterprise’s shields work, and proceed to start blasting the hell out of it. Sarah laughs hysterically at the extras flinging themselves around the bridge, especially the slow-motion bit.

The Enterprise pwns the Klingon ship, but the damage is done. The engines are going to explode so they have to separate the saucer section. “Ooh they don’t often do that. Exciting!” In the evacuation a child movingly drops a teddy bear. Sarah is disdainful.

The engine explosion is so big it sends the saucer plummeting towards the planet. Data says “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh shit”. This is the first thing he’s done that she’s liked in about an hour.

The ship crashes. Sarah decides that nobody in their right mind would accept a posting on a starship called Enterprise because they all get blown up or crashed. “Like, nobody ever called another boat ‘Titanic’.”

Meanwhile Picard is confronting Soran at his missile launch site in the Californian desert. We get a little speech from Soran about how the Borg killed his family, then he destroys the star and he and Picard are sucked into the Nexus just as the planet is torn apart.

Sarah is restive. She complains that Soran is under-developed and says we needed to see his family die to properly get him. She also thinks Picard isn’t in the film enough, and she wants to know if the Data/emotions thread is going to pay off. I say it won’t. She growls.

In the Nexus Picard is married with kids and it’s Christmas. The chintz level is off the charts. Sarah objects to the wife being a random when it so plainly ought to be Dr Crusher. There’s no arguing with that. Mind you the film forgot to remind us that Picard loves Crusher.

Guinan is also in the Nexus from before, because time has no meaning there (a concept we’re starting to appreciate). She sends Picard to go recruit Kirk to help him, and *finally* the two captains meet. We both agree the scene is bullshit...

Kirk is reliving an episode from 9 years earlier (in his timeline), when he dumped his girlfriend Antonia and went back to Starfleet. “Who the hell is Antonia?” I reassure Sarah that she’s not confused and Antonia has never been mentioned before. “Just... what?”

I suggest that this really ought to be Carol Marcus, because if the Nexus gives you the path not taken, then for Kirk that is marrying Carol. “YES. Why didn’t they do that?” I have no answer. This scene has annoyed me for over 20 years, and now it annoys Sarah too.

Picard talks Kirk into leaving his ersatz lovenest and they go back to the California desert to fight Soran. Fisticuffs and stunt work ensue, and Sarah is underwhelmed. “I thought it’d be awesome having Kirk and Picard together. It’s not.”

Soran gets blown up and the day is saved, but a metal bridge falls on Kirk and after a brief bit of acting he dies. Sarah is again underwhelmed. I suggest the sailing-off-into-the sunset bit from Star Trek VI is a better ending for him and she agrees immediately.

Data recovers his cat and cries with happiness. Sarah is now so fed up that even this does nothing for her, and when Troi says “another family reunited” she harrumphs. Picard and Riker have a talk about mortality and then the film ends. “Well that was definitely a film.”

I suggest to Sarah that this film is bad in a new way, because while previous stinkers like 5 had fundamentally bad core ideas, this actually has quite a good one - but the execution is awful. Specifically, I think the Nexus is quite a good concept. It forces Picard to really face mortality by tempting him with a kind of heaven, just when he’s most vulnerable - and it highlights how Picard and Kirk are both rather lonely because they’re so career-focused. This is good stuff!

But then that death-anxiety theme gets lost in a hopelessly complicated plot, the villain is underwritten so we don’t feel the weight of his grief and longing, and the Data stuff is just shoehorned. I wonder if Sarah will think this is special pleading, but she agrees.

She is staggered that it was co-written by Ronald D. Moore. “What, Battlestar Galactica?!” I say even he’s written the odd stinker. “Like what?” “Outlander.” “What’s he got to do with Shitlander?” “He’s showrunner.” “Jesus Christ. Mind you, the source material’s crap...”

In conclusion, Star Trek: Generations shows us what it would have been like if, after all the buildup, The Avengers had been a bit crap.

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Star Trek: First Contact

This is by some distance the best-reviewed of the Next Generation films, so it doesn’t bode well that Sarah isn’t terribly impressed by it and has an extensive list of complaints. She doesn’t hate it, but she’s underwhelmed.

It’s better than Generations, she concedes, and there are some effective sequences as the Borg gradually take over the Enterprise. But the planet-side B-plot leaves her cold. Worse, she thinks the entire time-travel premise is fundamentally broken and stupid.

It opens well enough. The dream where the Borg tech springs out of Picard’s cheek makes her jump, and she quite likes the new Enterprise. But she objects vociferously to Crusher going blonde (or “Black Widow” as she calls it). Geordi’s artificial eyes are also not a hit.

There is a full-tilt space battle against a Borg ship, which ends disconcertingly fast when Picard suddenly knows how to blow it up. But a smaller ship escapes and time-travels into the past, with the Enterprise in tow. This all seems OK?

We’re now in the 21st century, not long “after the Third World War”. Sarah enquires if that means 2021. I wince. Now things get complicated. The Borg are here to stop a man called Zefram Cochrane from launching the first faster-than-light spaceship, because when he does so he’ll draw the attention of aliens (actually the Vulcans but nobody says that), who will make first contact with Earth. This is a pivotal moment in human history, and in the history of the galaxy.

Sarah accepts this in grudging silence. Later she will flay the whole concept. We’ll get to that. Anyway some of the crew are on the surface helping Cochrane fix his ship, which the Borg have damaged. But things are not well on the Enterprise.

Geordi mentions that “it’s getting a little warm”, which Sarah identifies as the least subtle bit of foreshadowing ever. In short order we learn that the Borg are aboard. Now we have two plots: Picard, Data, Worf and Crusher on the ship - Riker, Geordi and Troi on Earth.

Troi has found Cochrane but this has necessitated getting drunk with him. Marina Sirtis has a lot of fun as Drunk Troi and Sarah chuckles. But then she says it’s jarring. The Borg plot is meant to be creepy and intense, and this goofiness doesn’t fit.

The film keeps weakening the tension by cutting to “comedy” scenes in the planet. This is doubly annoying because there’s plenty of story-appropriate humour, like the bit where Data starts experiencing anxiety as he walks into the Borg nest.

Sarah is quite impressed with the Borg stuff. There’s a moment where Data snaps a drone’s neck that elicits a “Data’s a badass”, and a scene where half a dozen drones emerge from a dark room so at first you only see their red eye beams is “properly creepy”.

But the tension never properly builds. A sequence where Picard lures some Borg onto the holodeck elicits major grumbles. Sarah also finds Alfre Woodard’s Lily quite annoying at this point, as she’s doing a lot of shrieking and shouting (this at least will improve).

And then there’s the Borg Queen. I’ve always hated the whole idea because it gives the Borg a personality, when the thing that’s scary about the Borg is they’re utterly dehumanised.

Sarah is mostly just taken aback by the sexual undertones: The Queen has human skin grafted onto Data’s arm, then blows on it to give him goosebumps and asks if that was good for him. “Well this is 18-rated!” Then she seduces him. When Data says he hasn’t shagged for 8 years Sarah wants to know who. “Tasha,” I say. “Oh yeah!”

Sarah says she can see the appeal. Given how much sex toys have improved just in the last few decades, it seems likely that Data would have all the mod cons, as it were, and would “know all the tricks”. She decides he will now be known as “Data Unstoppable Sex Machine”.

We get another action sequence in which Picard, Worf and a redshirt have to walk in spacesuits over the ship’s outer hull. This is pretty suspenseful and holds Sarah’s attention, and Worf’s weary “What are you suggesting” gets a proper laugh.

Now the film gets properly good. The Borg take over almost all the ship, and a row breaks out when Worf proposes using the self-destruct while Picard wants to stay and fight. We see that Picard isn’t thinking straight because he’s traumatised by his experience with them.

This leads to the film’s best scene, where Lily chews Picard out for his obsession and compares him to Captain Ahab, so he loses his shit... and realises she’s right. It’s terrific, and Sarah announces that she now likes Lily.

We then pause the film to discuss the excessive referencing of classic literature in Star Trek. Sarah says the Moby Dick use here “absolutely works”, but it’s a crutch the films lean on to seem sophisticated, and the choices are often blandly Eurocentric.

Sarah enjoys the action finale in the simplest way possible: Patrick Stewart is stripped to his vest, becoming “the thinking woman’s John McClane”. Data’s altered face reminds her of Buffalo Bill. And the shots of the Borg Queen’s flesh liquefying get an “urgh”.

But as the film ends she says the story is bad. You get the goofy Cochrane stuff alongside the hard-as-nails Borg plot and they undermine each other. The Borg are the wrong baddies for this story, I suggest; it needs someone anti-progress. Belligerent Klingons?

Sarah also thinks interfering with history isn’t a Borg thing to do: it’s too creative and they’re supposed to be zombie-like. And if they can time-travel, why not just go back and assimilate Earth in 1472 or something? “It’s all very contrived.”

Sarah’s final critique is that the film underuses its cast - especially Troi and Crusher. “Troi basically gets pissed and that’s it,” she says, and neither of us can think of anything Crusher does. Sarah says this is a fail, and I can’t disagree. TL:DR; this went poorly.

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<posted 9 September 2020>

Sarah decided that since today is #StarTrekDay we should crack on with the rewatch, and unfortunately that means:

Star Trek: Insurrection


I thought Sarah might take against this film, and I was right. Elements of it impressed her, but for the most part it collapsed in a heap. There will be ranting.

We open in media res with a bucolic village, which Sarah immediately identifies as about to have some shit go down. Data is there and he goes rogue, exposing a hidden Starfleet base.

Alongside the Starfleet officers there are some new aliens with stretchy, peeling skin. They are called the Son’a, but Sarah diligently refuses to learn that and instead calls them the Bollock People throughout.

The Enterprise arrives to try and capture Data and find out why he’s gone rogue. This involves entering a dodgy region of space with lots of weird gas clouds and stuff. Sarah says the CGI is terrible, which will become a standing complaint throughout.

Picard and Worf chase Data in a shuttle, and try to distract him with a rousing chorus of “A British Tar” from HMS Pinafore, which he was rehearsing before he left. Sarah says this is “ridiculous” and I cannot disagree. I hate this stupid goofy sequence.

However this does get a big laugh: “Mr Worf, do you know Gilbert and Sullivan?” “No sir, I have not had the chance to meet all the new crew members since I have been back.”

The film then goes into mystery-solving mode, as Picard etc try to figure out what happened to Data, while at the same time weird things start happening like Geordi’s eyes growing back (a development that elicits a yawn from Sarah).

However we interrupt this for the Riker-Troi Reconsummation Event. This has the disastrous consequence of Troi shaving off Riker’s beard, which Sarah says makes him look like a 1960s Republican politician called Chad, with a put-upon wife possibly called Betty.

Picard is also getting his motor running: with Anij, who lives in the village. Sarah says she can well understand why Anij would be having “fanny flutters” at the sight of Patrick Stewart, but is annoyed that Crusher-Picard is off the table.

Anyway the crew discovers a cloaked ship with a holodeck of the village inside, and Picard twigs that the planet is a fountain of youth. Anij and the others are centuries old. This is why Geordi’s eyes grew back, and it’s why Picard is dancing the mambo.

It seems the Bollock People are working with Starfleet to move Anij’s people off the fountain-of-youth planet so they can take it for themselves.

Picard has a stand-up row with the local admiral, Dougherty, about this. This is the best scene of the film and holds Sarah’s attention easily. Properly harnessing the planet’s life-giving effects means harvesting special radiation from its rings, but this means setting off a reaction that will leave the planet uninhabitable. So for millions of people to benefit, Anij’s people must be removed from their home. Picard will have none of this. It’s “forced relocation”, he says, and it destroys cultures.

Dougherty offers increasingly weaselly defences. Sarah says he reminds her of a lot of politicians, who say that it’s necessary to break some rules for the greater good and we should trust them. After all, they’re only breaking the Prime Directive in a specific and limited way. #SpecificAndLimited

Sarah also draws parallels with Israel-Palestine, and with Europe’s carving up of Africa. All in all she is fascinated and engaged with the politics and ethics of the scenario, and I begin to hope that despite its goofy bits this film might be a highlight. This won’t last.

For starters Sarah points out a huge plot hole. Why not just harvest the material from the rings (maybe with the ramscoop that we’ll later see the Enterprise use) and do the dangerous reaction somewhere else, so the planet won’t get wrecked?

This has never occurred to me, and it evidently didn’t occur to anyone in-universe either. Sarah says this is because the people in charge are all men. She also suspects the Bollock People of having personal reasons to kill Anij’s people, as their plan is so OTT.

The second half of the film is mostly a series of running battles, as the Bollock People try to beam everyone off the planet while Picard et al try to stop them, and the Enterprise tries to get far enough out to send a message but is pursued by Bollock People ships.

This is interspersed with “humorous” bits as the planet keeps having its effects. Worf is experiencing Klingon puberty, so he has spots and “aggressive tendencies”. Sarah questions the logic of this (“puberty isn’t regrowing anything!”) and also gets impatient with it all.

Then Troi says to Crusher “And have you noticed how your boobs have started to firm up?”


Some brief excerpts from the ensuing rant: “This was written by a fucking man, wasn’t it?” “... sexist, misogynist, patriarchal, body-shaming BULLSHIT...” “You know what they might really want, given their age? Not to be fucking peri-menopausal. Or maybe Crusher might like her pre-baby brain back. Perkier boobs is just something some sexist male writer imagined they’d want because that’s what he fancied.”

This one stupid conversation kills off whatever appeal the film had left. There is some cheesy crap with Picard and Anij, a mildly clever trick involving the holoship, and then a very underwhelming action climax. But basically the film lost Sarah at “boobs”.

In summary Sarah says there’s some good political allegory stuff in Insurrection, but the endless goofy humour is awful. She also says the stunt work is particularly bad in this film, and I can confirm that once you notice it you can’t unsee it.

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It was inevitable. We all knew it was coming. Sooner or later, I was going to have to show Sarah:

Star Trek: Nemesis

She hates it, obviously. But precisely *why* does she hate it?

The opening scene, wherein the Romulan Senate is assassinated en masse by means of a cloud of green glowing dust, has no especial merit other than that one of the Senators is played by “Alan from Neighbours”. Then we cut to Riker and Troi’s wedding. “Finally!”

Sarah laughs delightedly at Guinan’s reason for not remarrying (“23 was my limit”). Then a hungover Worf says Romulan ale should be illegal, Sarah pipes up “it is” before Geordi does. Next she swears at me for the fact she knows that. “What have you done?!”

Data’s performance of “Blue Skies” elicits only a weary “why?” And, when Worf groans, a sympathetic “I feel you, Worf”. Soon some plot happens and they divert to a desert planet to drive around in a dune buggy and pick up an android who looks *just like* Data.

There is a wholly gratuitous car chase in which the Prime Directive is comprehensively violated by firing phasers at a primitive society then flying off into space right in front of them. Sarah sits in stony silence.

The android is called B-4, which elicits another groan, and he’s a prototype of Data. He’s simple-minded (“Why do you have a shiny head?”) and Sarah says he’s sweet. She semi-randomly wonders how Data’s genitals work and if they’re attachments like Kryten in Red Dwarf.

Now the plot starts in earnest, as the Enterprise is sent to Romulus to meet the new leader, Shinzon. He’s from Remus, a twin planet never before mentioned, which is home to an enslaved species. Shinzon has a massive ship with shedloads of weapons and a cloaking device.

<In fact the original series episode "Balance of Terror" briefly mentions Remus, but I'd forgotten that>

Shinzon is a clone of Picard. He is played by a young Tom Hardy, whose performance is... unique. Sarah says the voice he’s doing combines Laurence Olivier’s Henry V, Dr Evil and Eddie Izzard. She is also reminded of Eddie Redmayne in Jupiter Ascending - a nuclear insult.

Shinzon is accompanied by a bunch of Remans, who are meant to be creepy, but Sarah can’t take them seriously because they look so much like Nosferatu, and this reminds her irresistibly of the “monster monster monster” sketches from The Fast Show.

Shinzon is supposedly trying to liberate the Remans from slavery, but his ship has a special weapon that can shoot the green dust from the opening. It could wipe out all life on a planet. Sarah treats this threat with precisely no gravity.

We now get a bit where Riker and Troi are having sex. Sarah is just querying why this needs to exist when the scene turns very nasty indeed, as Shinzon uses his Reman friend’s telepathic abilities to attempt to telepathically rape Troi. Sarah is decidedly taken aback.

But her reaction turns to fury when Troi asks to be relieved of duty and Picard says no, and says that if she “can tolerate more of these assaults” he needs her help. “What?!” Later she will argue that this bit is gratuitous anyway: we know Shinzon is bad at this point!

Picard gets zapped away to Shinzon’s ship, but Data gets aboard and rescues him. There is a ray gun fight that Sarah says could come straight out of Star Wars, and then a flying vehicle bit that is frankly Fast and Furious.

The Enterprise now legs it. They deduce that Shinzon is going to destroy Earth, which makes little sense as his grudge really ought to be against the Romulans, but I guess we need Stakes. He catches up with them near a green space cloud, and battle is joined.

Sarah announces at this point that Nemesis feels like a parody of a Star Trek film, not the real thing. The comedy aliens are a factor, as is the way Shinzon has been written as basically a Bond villain rather than given the nuance a character like this really needs.

The battle is unusually brutal, culminating with the Enterprise ramming Shinzon’s ship. I remember finding this fairly effective when I saw it in a cinema in 2002, but since then we’ve had Battlestar Galactica, and Sarah says that in comparison this is still lame.

Shinzon decides to use his green dust weapon to kill everyone on the Enterprise. Sarah is trying to work out why she’s bored. I suggest that it’s unoriginal, as it’s ripping off ST2 and ST6, except the weapon isn’t interesting like in 2. She agrees with that...

She also thinks the film really isn’t Star Trek. It’s far too dark and nasty, like Battlestar. “Star Trek’s like a nice comfy pair of slippers,” she says. Even DS9, the darkest of Treks, has a broadly happy ending (unless you’re Cardassian...). And there’s no humour.

Picard beans aboard Shinzon’s ship to stop the weapon. Then the transporters fail, so Data jumps across the gap between the ships. Sarah thinks this is stupid in a Fast and Furious 8 way. I actually disagree - although it’d surely be easier with a fire extinguisher.

Picard and Shinzon fight, and Shinzon impales himself on a spike like Ming the Merciless. Then Data beams Picard back using a gizmo we saw earlier, and blows up Shinzon’s ship. “Wait is Data dead? I unlike this!” I remind her he was dead in Star Trek: Picard. “Oh yeah...”

Sarah’s final view is that Nemesis isn’t a proper Star Trek film. “It could be any outer space film,” she says. Once again the ensemble cast is neglected, and dumb 90s-style action is prioritised over the thoughtfulness and character work of the TV show. “It was awful.”

I ask for her ranking of the Next Generation films, and she obliges:

  • First Contact
  • Insurrection (considerably worse)
  • Generations/Nemesis (abyssal - she can’t decide which she likes less)

We agree that Insurrection is frustrating because there’s the germ of an idea there.

She attempts an overall ranking:

  • 4
  • 2/6/First Contact
  • 3/Insurrection
  • 1/5/Generations/Nemesis

Sarah says she preferred the original series films, “which I never thought I’d say, because I love Next Generation and Patrick Stewart”.

I suggest that the TNG films were hamstrung by the demands of 90s blockbusters, and lost the show’s thoughtfulness. A *real* TNG movie would play more like Arrival. Sarah agrees. Sadly, she says, Nemesis merely shows us what will happen if Fast 9 really does go to space.

<The following year, Fast 9 went to space and it was terrible>

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It’s been a while since Sarah and I watched a Star Trek film: the experience of Nemesis will do that But time heals all wounds (unless they’re infected or you have haemophilia) So we have now rewatched:

Star Trek (2009)

This was the first ST film we saw together at a cinema. At the time Sarah loved it. She has revised that opinion. She still enjoyed it a fair bit, but says it doesn’t make sense, and is disappointingly non-progressive. “Also I now know there are better Star Trek films.”

It starts with Sarah mostly just recognising actors: the baddy from Iron Man, Thor from Thor, and Emma Swann from Once Upon a Time. She complains that Kirk’s dad being killed is “a bit of a trope”. And then we cut to Iowa and oh boy.

The phone call from Kirk’s stepdad prompts Sarah to complain that “they still have toxic masculinity in the 23rd century”. We then pause the film to have a mutual rant about this film’s failure as a piece of sociological imagination. Its attitudes look regressive *now*.

The bar scene makes it worse, with Starfleet cadets acting like football hooligans. “I see society hasn’t moved forward in 300 years.” Sarah says modern British society would be unrecognisable even to Victorians so 23rd-century society will be even more different, so why does this film imagine attitudes being fossilised in this way? I point out that the original show was daring just by having a black woman in a professional role at all. These films do nothing so forward-thinking. Why are there no trans or disabled characters?

Anyway, we cut to Vulcan and Sarah says she rather likes “baby Spock” because the bully he beat up had it coming. She also appreciates that Vulcan children bully in such a restrained, logical way.

Spock’s dad Sarek does some parenting and Sarah explodes in rage. Why is Sarek insisting that Spock choose between being Vulcan and human, she wants to know. He’s both! He needs to embrace his full identity, or he’ll need years of therapy.

I say it’s long-established that Sarek is a shit dad, but Sarah points out we’re 300 years in the future, in a culture that’s keen on logic and evidence. Sarek should know basic parenting skills (and anyway his original disagreement with Spock was about Starfleet).

McCoy turns up and Sarah says Karl Urban is perfectly cast. I agree - the casting throughout is great. Rachel Nichols pops up for a scene so as an aside: she was the star of Continuum, an under-rated show that did wild interweaving time travel plots long before Dark did.

Sarah has thoughts about Nero and his gang of Romulan baddies. First, like Shinzon in the last film, their motivations are nonsense. Why does blowing up Vulcan protect Romulus from a supernova 150 years in the future? Anything could happen!

Sarah also wonders why all baddy ships have such poor lighting, and so many cables and tubes dangling everywhere. “Do they not have cable tidies?” I suggest that refusal to use cable tidies is the first step on the slippery slope to genocidal megalomania. “Bastards.”

Nero’s plan is to destroy Vulcan by using red matter, which is evidently super-unstable and will collapse into a black hole as soon as it’s out of its protective container.

For some reason this necessitates drilling to the planet’s core with a weaponised space elevator. I wonder why they can’t just drop the red matter on the surface. Sarah says it’s because the Romulans are all men and must flaunt their virility with their huge phallic drill. I suggest instead the screenwriters failed to think their plot device through. “That too.”

Spock loses his shit with Kirk and maroons him on a random planet called Delta Vega. I object to this because Delta Vega is in the pilot of the original series (“Where No Man Has Gone Before”) and it’s established as being on the edge of the galaxy, so it shouldn’t be anywhere near Vulcan. Sarah says only hard-core Trekkies would know that, which I concede, but I point out that there is a wiki of Star Trek facts called Memory Alpha that the writers could have consulted. “It worries me that you know that.”

Sarah asserts that there are multiple Acacia Avenues in London, differentiated by postcodes, and it could be the same for planets. “Maybe this is Delta Vega NW1.” I grumble that in any case Delta Vega is a star name, not a planet name, and am told to shut up.

A huge red monster chases Kirk. “What is it with JJ Abrams and the colour red?!” The thing crashes down a steep slope, which given its bulk ought to have shattered its bones, but no - it takes Old Spock with a flaming torch to make it leave.

Obviously Leonard Nimoy is a joy here, his gentle yet gravelly tones giving the film a gravity it has so far largely failed to earn. Some more stuff happens, Kirk gets back to the Enterprise and takes command, and we’re off to the action-packed finale.

After some sustained weapons fire, the red matter gets set off and suddenly Nero’s ship is being torn apart by a new black hole. Kirk chooses this moment to take the Enterprise close to it and open fire. “Why?!” I yell.

Kirk becomes captain and all’s well, apart from Vulcans now being, as Spock says, “an endangered species”. The later films will ignore this because of course they do. Sarah says this is hardly the worst Trek film, but it doesn’t stand up to scrutiny the way, say, 2 does.

What gets us most is the failure to imagine a better future society. All the parents (except Amanda) are awful or absent - in contrast to TNG or DS9 where great parenting is constantly showcased. And instead of a society without money, we get a Nokia ringtone.

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It’s been a busy few weeks but this evening Sarah decided she was game for another Star Trek, so it’s time for:

Star Trek Into Darkness

This is going to be interesting. When this film came out I was one of the many who took against it. Whereas Sarah thought it was fine, albeit not up to the previous one. Will she come round to my way of thinking?

We open on a planet of Stone Age-y people. It seems a volcano is about to erupt and this will somehow kill everyone on the planet. So Kirk and McCoy are luring the people away while Spock is lowered into the volcano with a device that will stop it going off.

Not sure why they did the luring if Spock could stop the eruption, and if his failure would doom the planet anyhow.

+ the Enterprise is underwater. Sarah asks why. I suggest it might be because someone said it’d look cool when it came out of the water. “Sounds right”

Sarah demands to know how this all fits with the Prime Directive, a rule she is fairly firmly behind. I say they make exceptions if the alternative is a planetwide extinction event - although even then they’re supposed to be subtle about it. The issue is that a volcano just isn’t going to be cataclysmic enough to count - except the script says it is. “Is it me,” says Sarah, “or is this all a bit contrived?” “It’s bollocks,” I say. “Just so we’re clear.”

They go back to Earth and Kirk is stripped of command for about five minutes. Then Mickey from Doctor Who is sad that his daughter is ill, until Benedict Cumberbatch shows up and says he can cure her - for a price. Sarah adores BC, who resembles “a sexy otter”.

BC's price is blowing up a Starfleet building. Then when a bunch of admirals gather to plan the response in an exposed room in a skyscraper (and not in a bunker, or heavily armoured starship), BC flies a ship at them and shoots the room up, killing Pike.

BC is “John Harrison”, a rogue Starfleet officer - except he’s not, he’s Khan, but we won’t learn that until halfway through the film, thus eliminating any possibility of doing anything meaningful with the character. Instead BC just enunciates a lot.

The Enterprise heads off to catch Khan, armed with 72 special phoooooootoooooooon toooooorpeeeeeeedooooooooooes.

Also on board: Alice Eve’s Carol Marcus. Under-developed would be putting it kindly. I object to Carol suddenly being a “weapons specialist”, but I object more, and Sarah agrees, to her relationship with Kirk being reduced to him ogling her tits. This is the love of Kirk’s life and the mother of his child. I’m sure he *does* like her breasts but there’s no sense of them bonding as people.

So it turns out that Carol’s dad, Admiral Marcus, is the real villain. He wants to start a war with the Klingons, on the grounds that war is inevitable anyway so they might as well take the initiative. Sarah thinks that’s pretty stupid.

But also, his strategy is to have Khan bomb a building in London, then flee to the Klingon homeworld, so that the Enterprise can go after him and either shoot at the Klingon planet, or be sabotaged in Klingon space (who by??), and thus provoke a war. Sarah complains that this doesn’t make a lick of sense.

Also, Marcus has a gigantic warship that he’s secretly built near Jupiter. “Right, no,” says Sarah. She has family involved with the armed forces and knows a little about defence procurement, and you can’t secretly build a warship. There’s bureaucracy and people have to sign off, precisely to stop this sort of shit.

“Unless Marcus is like Dominic Cummings and does what he wants, at least until he disses the President’s girlfriend?” Sarah suggests, before enquiring whether Marcus drove his warship to Jupiter to test his eyesight.

Sarah also compares his plan to faking the Moon landings: too many people would have to be in on it. This film, she concludes, is stupid.

A lot more plot ensues, Khan kills Marcus, and the Enterprise is crippled and is free falling towards Earth. This is never explained: they were off by the Moon in the previous scene so I’m unclear how they got so close to Earth. But we’re beyond caring now.

Kirk saves the ship by going into the warp core and fixing it, but gets a lethal dose of radiation and dies. Enraged, Spock yells “KHAAAAAAAAAAN!” I’m unclear why, as this is all Marcus’s doing and Khan was just a pawn.

We pause the film to discuss the way this bit mirrors the end of Wrath of Khan. “It’s sort of clever,” says Sarah unenthusiastically. I ask if it has any emotional impact. “Oh God no. None at all. Star Trek II packs a wallop, remember we had to pause the film?”

I suggest they’ve done this story too early so the Kirk-Spock relationship hasn’t acquired its full weight - they’ve only known each other about six months at this point. Sarah agrees but she says there’s a deeper problem, which is that the relationship isn’t subtle enough. This Kirk is a jock, and this Spock veers between ice-cold and rage-beast - whereas OG Kirk is thoughtful, and OG Spock lets you see all the emotions under the surface with tiny facial gestures, without losing control.

“It makes you appreciate,” says Sarah, “just how good an actor Leonard Nimoy was.” There’s a depth to his Spock, and thus the Kirk-Spock dynamic, that means the end of ST2 is a gut-punch. This is just a half-witted imitation.

Anyway then McCoy saves Kirk by injecting him with Khan’s blood, which never worked that way before but what the hell. Sarah suggests he got the covid and it gave him superpowers, and sure, fuck it, let’s go with that. Sarah has come round to my thinking on this film.

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Star Trek Beyond

We’re finally here: the capstone of the series, released to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the franchise (not that you’d have known that from the marketing) It’s all right, we guess, but we can’t muster much enthusiasm.

There are definite pluses here Sarah likes that Kirk is more mature this time, and Spock “has slightly less of a stick up his bum”. But she has decided that Zoe Saldana’s Uhura is subjected to too much regressive behaviour by the men in her life.

She is surprised that this film isn’t particularly funny, given it was co-written by Simon Pegg. Although she does appreciate that the opening scene rips Kirk’s shirt off, and we then get a carefully-framed topless shot showing his nipples. “Someone put thought into that.”

The plot starts when the Enterprise visits Yorktown, a ginormous space station that McCoy says looks like a snowglobe. Sarah feels the whole thing is an excuse to show off CGI, which, it is, but I suggest that it’s more imaginative than anything in the last two films.

Anyway they have to go through this “nebula” that is actually a dense asteroid field (unless it’s meant to be a solar nebula, but then why is there a mature planet in it?) to rescue a supposedly stranded ship. Except surprise it’s a trap.

This swarm of tiny spaceships totally kicks the Enterprise’s arse: cutting off the nacelles, then cutting the central spine, leading the saucer to crash on the planet. Sarah says Reboot Kirk has fucked the ship in three films out of three and ought to get fired.

Everyone is stranded on the planet. Kirk and Chekov go to the saucer to scan for everyone but there’s baddies and a fight ensues. Sarah complains the action is incomprehensible: the camera’s so mobile and the spatial relationships unclear. It’s not Justin Lin’s finest hour.

<Insert gif of the car chase with the safe from Fast Five>

Scotty meets Jaylah, who has been stranded there for years and combines violence with fractured English. Sarah says she reminds her of Neytiri in Avatar. I can see that, but the Jaylah’s tangled syntax reminds me more of the Starfire. She’s good fun anyway.

So, the baddies. Their leader is called Krall, and Sarah cannot take him seriously because he reminds her of How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, where Matthew McConaughey demands that Kate Hudson call his penis Krall the Warrior, so she gets a chihuahua and calls it Krall.

Krall is after an ancient weapon from the planet that had ended up on the Enterprise, and it’s mighty convenient that was the case because otherwise the plot couldn’t happen. This is the first of two gaping holes in this film’s logic.

The other concerns Jaylah’s “house”, which is an old crashed Starfleet ship. She has hidden it using a holographic field thing. Except we learn later that Krall is ex-Starfleet and it’s his ship, so how the hell does he not know where it is? “You’d remember, right?” Sarah says. “It’s not like you’re in a car park trying to remember which Corsa’s yours. Wouldn’t he just go beep-beep with his keys?” I agree and say my phone has Find My iPhone. “Right? His communicator would have Find My Starship.”

Anyway Jaylah helps Kirk and the other main characters rescue the crew, partly because she has a random motorbike that Kirk drives around Krall’s base causing havoc. But Krall has the weapon and is off to trash Yorktown, so they have to make the old ship fly and chase him.

This leads to the best bit of the film, where they decide to bring down Krall’s swarm of little ships by disrupting the signals controlling them - so they blast the Beastie Boys’ “Sabotage” at full volume on the relevant frequency. They beat the arseholes with *art*!

<I'm pretty sure Charlie Jane Anders first made this point but I can't find the piece>

Sarah concurs but questions whether the Beastie Boys will still be listened to in 300 years. “Like, are they Beethoven? Really?” I suggest they were influential in their use of sampling and fusion of genres, so maybe. It’s more plausible than anyone remembering Oasis.

Anyway there’s some more action and Krall dies, and the film ends with a new Enterprise. “I feel like I’ve seen it before,” Sarah says. She argues this has the same premise as Into Darkness: old Earth person gets enhanced abilities and has a grudge against the Federation

I ask for her ranking of the reboot films:

  • Star Trek
  • Into Darkness/Beyond

She can’t choose which is worse. I suggest Beyond makes a bit more sense (“marginally”) and has a better handle on Kirk and Spock, but she’s unconvinced.

Overall the reboots sit in the middle of her rankings: well below 4 and 2, but not in the abyssal reaches of 1, 5, Generations or Nemesis. Sarah finds them oddly regressive and angry films, and rather unimaginative (apart from visually).

Sarah had assumed there wasn’t now going to be a fourth reboot film, especially after Anton Yelchin died, and I say that seems likely. We both feel it’d be better to just move on and do new things rather than reboot again.

Anyway that’s the last of the mainline Star Trek films, so I guess that ought to be the end of this mega-thread right?

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Come on, we couldn’t do a rewatch of all the Star Trek films without tackling arguably the best of them all:

Galaxy Quest

I honestly find myself at a bit of a loss for what to say about this, because it’s Just. So. Perfect. So much of it is in the little details: the quick reference to “Klaatu” in an early scene, the ludicrousness of having a child piloting the spaceship...

Maybe some Sarah reactions?

“Christ, he’s more Shatner than Shatner.” (This is repeated several times)

“Oh my God it’s Veronica Mars’s dad!” (He’s the leader of the aliens - incidentally also the crime boss in Person of Interest - the guy has Range)

Sarah falls about when the “crew” gets their first look at their real ship: “oh god it’s just like in every Star Trek film where they stare at the ship!” She also cheers when we first see the baddies’ ship, and it’s both green and has poor interior lighting.

Probably the film’s biggest laugh comes when they have to pilot the ship out of space dock, steer too far left, and slowly, agonisingly, scrape their way along the left wall for the longest possible time, every squeal of wounded metal somehow more cringey than the last.

But Sarah is also particularly amused by the main characters’ escalating states of undress as the film goes on, with Tim Allen frequently shirtless or at least in a ripped top, and Sigourney Weaver’s top also artfully damaged to show maximum cleavage.

There’s not a weak link in the cast, but come on: Alan Rickman steals this film. It’s just line after reaction shot after reaction shot after line after line after line after line.

Sarah and I wind up having a brief debate over whether this is in fact Rickman’s greatest performance. She thinks it might be, with Snape as a close contender - I have a sneaking admiration for his Colonel Brandon in Sense and Sensibility. The man was a god.

It’s particularly the bit where he tries to guide Tim Allen through his fight with the rock monster and goes full actor: “You’re just going to have to figure out what it wants. What is its motivation?” “You were never serious about the craft!”

Sarah notes only one implausibility: the fact the spaceship lands on Earth at the end, in a city: “You can tell this was pre-9/11, these days it’d be shot down.” She also notes the late 90s CGI - which I think kind of adds to the parodic effect by looking vaguely shit.

Anyway this film is glorious and we have no regrets whatsoever about dedicating our evening to it. Sarah says it’s the best Trek film, or rather (on close questioning) that it’s on a par with 4: she can’t choose between them.

Galaxy Quest reminds me of the importance of notionally silly pop culture like Star Trek. Yes, of course you shouldn’t take it too seriously, but there’s life lessons and wisdom to be taken from these things, despite their silliness.

Looking back, I think that a huge chunk of my outlook on life and even my political stances are basically shaped by the pop culture I devoured as a kid - which includes a lot of Star Trek and (much later) the Culture novels.

This is why it rings so true in the final act of Galaxy Quest when Dane again says his hated catchphrase, only this time he finds he really, really means it. It’s acquired deep significance despite its superficial stupidity.

What I got out of Trek was a deep-seated belief that people are people the world over, and that despite all our differences and cultural peculiarities, communication and cooperation are (almost) always possible.

This of course is why so many of the *films* are disappointing: they degenerate into bog-standard shoot-em-ups. And it’s why films like 4 - an adventure to save the world in which not a single weapon is fired - stand up despite their quirks.

I’m not sure Sarah agrees that all this Star Trek was a good use of 28 hours of our lives, but I did enjoy seeing it through her (mildly jaundiced) eyes
.

Where to find me on social media

7/8/2023

 
What with all the brouhaha around X (formerly Twitter) and the launch of competing sites like Mastodon and Threads, I thought it might be useful to quickly spell out where you can find me on social media and what I'm doing there.

For now at least, I'm keeping my profile on Twitter. I'm less active and chatty on there than I used to be, but I'm present. I've thought about deleting my account, but for now I'm keeping it, for two reasons. One, I have a lot of followers there (and the number has held up despite Elon Musk's activities). And second, if I delete my account it just opens up the space for potential impersonators. But if you've left, that's fine: I'm on plenty of other sites.

For a full listing of where to find me, have a look on the About page. If you scroll down a bit, you'll see a grid of logos: these are all the websites where I have a public profile.

With a few exceptions, I post the same things to every social media site I'm on. If you follow me on Instagram, you're pretty much getting the same stuff you'd get on Facebook or LinkedIn. I'm on these sites to raise my own profile and to draw people's attention to my work, so my aim is for them to be pretty consistent in the messages they present. Or to put it another way, I want to meet and engage with readers wherever you are. If you prefer Threads to Mastodon, that's fine: I'm on both. I tweak the posts according to the rules and conventions of each site, but fundamentally I'm posting because I want you to read a story I've written about a gigantic extinct shark, or I really liked a book and want to tell the world about it, or whatever.

Because I have so many accounts, I use a piece of software to manage them. It's called Loomly and it allows me to quickly post the same (or basically the same) thing to multiple sites. It's great, I love it.

The problem I currently have is that Loomly doesn't connect to the newer social media platforms. Mastodon, Threads and Newsmast are not supported, and if I were on BlueSky or Post they wouldn't be either. This means the time I saved by adopting Loomly is now being sucked up by copying posts to these other sites.

All of which is another way of saying: I really want Loomly to roll out integration for these newer sites ASAP. Otherwise I'll either need to find a different social media manager, or ditch some of the accounts.

I don't want to do either of those things. In particular I don't want to abandon my accounts on nascent networks like Mastodon, because the audiences on these sites may well grow. In an ideal world I'd also make some short videos for TikTok and YouTube. But right now managing my existing social media is a time-consuming slog.

And yes I do blame Elon Musk for this.

I wrote a special issue called "The Civilisation Myth" for New Scientist

30/6/2023

 
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After over 15 years as a journalist, I still get a thrill whenever one of my stories is the cover feature. This one for New Scientist is particularly special because it's a special issue: one big main feature and two shorter tie-ins, plus an editorial.

The main feature is called "The civilisation myth: How new discoveries are rewriting human history". It's about the great transformation that began around 10,000 years ago, when societies that were based around hunting and gathering instead took up farming, city living, writing and the other accoutrements of modern life. In particular, it's about why our ancestors did this - and whether the reasons were the same for every society.

The first tie-in story is called "The societies proving that inequality and patriarchy aren't inevitable". It explores the enormous diversity of past societies, many of which can't be neatly fitted into simple categories like "monarchy" or "authoritarian". For example, the degree to which men have dominated society varies considerably.

That leads into the other tie-in story: "Utopia: The ancient discoveries that point to the ideal human society". For this, I asked the anthropologists what they would change about our society. They had quite a lot to say about this, ranging from ending systemic racism to reducing wealth inequality in order to reduce the risk of violent unrest.

Finally, I wrote an editorial called "History reveals vital new lessons in how to make our societies better". Whereas the main features are focused on synthesising what the various experts say, this is more my interpretation. My main argument is that we all have a lot more power to influence the course of history than we think.

The stories are all in issue 3445 of New Scientist, which is in shops now.

Even after all that, I still had some material left over. In the interests of sustainability and reducing waste, I'm going to use it for this month's Our Human Story email newsletter for New Scientist.

Star Trek Picard season 3: A very late review

19/5/2023

 
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I finally finished watching season 3 of Star Trek Picard. I realise everyone was done talking about it weeks ago, but I have a bunch of thoughts percolating in my head and they won't go away, so I'm writing them down.

Opinions on the series seem pretty divided, with some saying it's the best bit of Star Trek since [insert date in the long-ago times] and others that it's little more than nostalgia bait.

I think it's a bit of both. There were a lot of incidents and developments that got a proper emotional reaction out of me. But some did so more cheaply than others. To use a culinary metaphor, some of the storytelling choices are satisfying home-cooked meals while others are unprocessed junk food.

In case this wasn't obvious, this review contains FULL SPOILERS.

First, the positives. Here's a short list of things I thought were properly good:


  • Jack Crusher as a character
  • The Borg's plan to sneakily assimilate everyone by spreading Picard's Borgified DNA
  • Ro Laren
  • The crew of the Titan
  • Seven becoming the captain at the end

I also can't deny that seeing the Enterprise-D again was a bit of a moment. Obviously it's nostalgia bait, but I thought it made enough sense in context that I went with it.

However I also kept running into issues with the story. In a vague attempt to be systematic, we'll call them the four Cs: contraception, Changelings, consequences and conclusions.

Contraception

It's clear from context that Jack wasn't planned, so Crusher got pregnant accidentally. But this doesn't make sense. Contraception in the 21st century is advanced enough that we can prevent the majority of unplanned pregnancies. Futuristic contraception ought to be way better. Combine that with the fact Picard and Crusher are both educated professionals, and an accidental pregnancy looks unlikely. Even if it did happen, Crusher could have had an abortion.

For such a central plot point, it's clumsy. Two characters who previously handled their relationship with maturity are suddenly stupid teenagers.

This isn't the first time the show has pretended the future is weirdly primitive in order to create a story. In season two, it's revealed that Picard's mother was mentally ill, so her husband locked her in a room to stop her hurting herself. Even today we know that's cruel and counterproductive, which is why it's illegal.

I understand the impulse to have actual conflict, rather than everyone just calmly getting along and solving problems. But stuff like this feels forced.

Changelings

Great to see these folks again. Just two questions:

  • Why are they helping the Borg? It seems to be out of sheer malevolence, but like most such motivations it makes no sense. The Changelings hate non-shapeshifters, derisively calling them solids. Wouldn't the Borg be the ultimate solids? Also, surely the Borg's new genetic assimilation technique could also be applied to the Changelings? You'd think they'd be at least a bit worried about that. All of which could be sorted out if there were, for instance, multiple Changeling factions so we could see them hashing these issues out. Instead the Changelings are reduced to moustache-twirling villains.
  • What did we learn about the Changelings that we didn't know before? For all the screen time they get, nothing new emerged. We don't understand their culture or history any more than we already did. They're just being used as a plot point, and as a smokescreen to delay the obvious reveal that the Borg are the main villains.

Here I think the show's desire to spring surprises on the audience has worked against it. By holding back the reveals of the Changelings and the Borg, the show ends up spinning its wheels when it could be fleshing out its antagonists.

Consequences

Over its three seasons, Star Trek Picard has made a lot of big choices, and hardly any of them matter.


  • At the end of season one, Picard died - except he was reborn in a synthetic body and went on just like before.
  • Data also died, again, except now he's back.
  • At the end of season two, Agnes became the new Borg Queen, with the promise that this would in some way transform the Borg. But in season three there's no sign of her and we're back to the original Borg Queen.
  • At the end of season two, Picard was in a relationship with Laris, but she gets shoved to one side at the start of season three and never seen again.
  • Q died in season two, except it turns out he can still pop up whenever he likes.
  • In season three, Ro Laren died - except I've seen an interview with showrunner Terry Matalas in SFX where he says he left her an out. Same for Shelby, who got shot by a Borg, but who Matalas says may or may not be dead.

What we have here is something like the Star Wars sequel trilogy, the story of which lurched around from movie to movie. It's a series that's been pulled in twenty different directions, because its creators never agreed on what it was. Consequently, all sorts of interesting ideas have been brought up but then discarded, and the whole thing is wildly inconsistent despite heavy serialisation.

And that brings us to:

Conclusions

The only reason Star Trek Picard exists is that The Next Generation doesn't have a proper ending. Well, technically it ended twice, but neither was definitive.

The TV show ends beautifully with "All Good Things..." but that was written in the full knowledge that movies were coming. Hence it offers a potential future for the characters but then undoes it all, and ends with them all still together on the Enterprise-D. It's a deliberately open ending. I love it.

And then there's Nemesis. This offers endings for Data (dead, with a potential out) and Riker and Troi (married, off to another ship). In the process it undoes Worf's ending from Deep Space Nine, and does absolutely nothing for Picard, La Forge or Crusher. Also it's rubbish, but my point here is that it's not a conclusion.

A lot of the chatter around season three of Star Trek Picard has been that it finally gave the characters a fitting send-off. I disagree. It gave them a reunion and an adventure that I enjoyed. However, for the most part it doesn't end the story.

The one TNG character that genuinely does get an ending is Data, who finally achieves his goal of being human. That's satisfying in theory, but it comes far too easily given that Data is dead at the start of the story. Besides, I would argue that dying is part of being human, so Data already achieved his goal. The new ending feels like a reversion to the obvious.

Crusher becomes an admiral and Picard embraces fatherhood. Whether the two of them are in a relationship now, or if Picard's still with Laris, or what, I have no idea.

The other characters are largely unchanged by the story. Riker and Troi already had their ending, and all the show does is repeat it. La Forge and Worf's endings have happened off-screen, in that one has got married and had kids (implying he's stopped being a creep with women) and the other has chilled out a bit and got into yoga.

This is all exemplified by the final scene. Star Trek Picard concludes exactly the same way The Next Generation does: with the crew playing poker together before heading off to their next adventures. It's so telling that, for all the sturm und drang of the four movies and the three seasons of this show, we end up in the exact same place we finished in 1994. This must be deliberate; they use the same swirling overhead shot. It was a beautiful ending the first time, but doing it again feels like a cop-out to me.

Why I still think covid-19 probably originated in the wild, not in a lab

3/3/2023

 
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Credit: CDC / Alissa Eckert, MS; Dan Higgins, MAM
Where did covid-19 come from?
 
TL:DR I thought back in early 2020 it probably had a natural origin, and despite all the attention given to the possibility of a lab leak, I still think the natural origin is most likely.
 
If you want to know why, read on.

There are four stages to this argument:


  1. Why the evidence for a lab leak is weak
  2. Why the evidence for a natural origin is strong
  3. How to think about situations where a government might be lying to you, and conspiracy theories in general
  4. What the origin of covid-19 means for our plans to prevent future pandemics
 
In the long-ago times of March 2020, I wrote a short story for New Scientist arguing that SARS-CoV-2 probably wasn’t engineered as a bioweapon and was more likely to have evolved in the wild.

Let me start by acknowledging the elephant in the room. Because I wrote a story early in the pandemic arguing that covid-19 probably had a natural origin, I'm conscious I might be engaging in motivated reasoning to back up that conclusion. After all, it's embarrassing to be publicly wrong and it can be emotionally easier to double down. I don't know that I can do anything to convince you, or indeed myself, that I'm not biased. All I can say is that I have asked myself this question and take the possibility of motivated reasoning seriously. Furthermore, I've read a lot of the material that purports to support the idea of a lab leak. I tried to do so with an open mind, and there have been several instances where new facts emerged that did make me question my original conclusion. I can only present the facts as I understand them and the reasoning I've applied, and you can judge for yourself whether it hangs together.

With that in mind, off we go.

The New Scientist story has since been updated by another writer, Graham Lawton, and I think it’s better for it. In particular, it does a better job of distinguishing two questions, which should be considered separately:
 
  • Was the virus engineered by humans?
  • Did it get into the human population via a lab leak?
 
Let’s tackle them one by one.
 
First, most virologists will tell you that SARS-CoV-2 is not the product of bioengineering. That’s because its genome doesn’t contain any obvious signs of having been engineered.
 
You might argue that the engineering could have been done in a clever way that doesn’t leave any traces. Obviously, I can’t disprove that. But in that case I would want some form of evidence that this happened.
 
It’s been reported that the Wuhan Institute of Virology (WIV) applied to do gain-of-function experiments. These are studies that would produce a new and dangerous virus, in order to study it and be prepared. They’re very controversial because they could potentially cause an outbreak.
 
However, the WIV applications were rejected. Of course, it’s possible that the experiments were done anyway, in secret. But again, where is the evidence of that?
 
Now let’s consider whether the virus got into the human population via a leak from the lab. In this scenario, the WIV collected SARS-CoV-2 from the wild but did a bad job of storing it. Again, there is no hard evidence that the WIV had SARS-CoV-2 in its collection until the virus started spreading.
 
At this point, many readers will baulk, and not unreasonably. “You keep saying there’s no evidence, but the Chinese government is secretive and covers things up!” is the retort.
 
This shouldn’t need saying, but clearly the Chinese government is not to be trusted. It’s authoritarian, secretive, and guilty of genocide against the Uyghurs.
 
However, it’s wrong to take that as evidence for the lab leak hypothesis. That’s because, whichever covid origin story turns out to be true, the Chinese government is at fault.
 
If the virus escaped from a government-run Chinese lab, that’s the government’s fault, e.g. for not being strict enough about biosecurity. Equally, if it originated in the wild animal trade, that’s also the Chinese government’s fault: they have been warned about the risk of disease outbreaks from the animal trade for years.
 
Set against this is the fact that diseases spill from animals to humans with depressing regularity, and the strong evidence that the Huanan Seafood Wholesale Market in Wuhan was the epicentre of the pandemic.
 
A study published in July 2022 found that the first clusters of cases occurred in and around the market, plus environmental traces of the virus in sections of the market where live covid-susceptible mammals were sold. This suggests there were animals in the market that had the virus, and that it passed to humans from them.
 
It’s possible to poke a few holes in that scenario: we don’t know what those animals were; maybe it was actually the vendor that was infected; maybe someone from the WIV had SARS-CoV-2 and went to the market.
 
But can you see how we’re having to fiddle around the edges of a body of evidence if we want to get away from an origin in the wildlife trade? Whereas the lab leak evidence is much more conjecture?
 
I find it useful to step back and think about conspiracy theories in general. How can we decide whether a conspiracy theory is likely to be true, or is just silly?
 
After all, conspiracies do happen. Watergate, COINTELPRO, Iran-Contra and the Rawalpindi conspiracy all really happened, but if they weren’t documented they could easily sound ludicrous and unbelievable.
 
Fortunately, there are some useful metrics we can use.
 
One is how many people have to be in on the secret. The more people are involved in the conspiracy, the more likely it is that the secret will get out. This is one of the (many) reasons not to believe the Moon landings were faked: thousands of people would have to be in on it. (I can't resist linking to the Mitchell and Webb moon landing conspiracy sketch) If SARS-CoV-2 was made in a lab, or leaked from a lab, quite a lot of people would know and I think we’d have heard from some of them by now.
 
However, in this case I think the crucial question is whether the evidence is direct or indirect.
 
When I say direct evidence, I mean something like the Watergate tapes in which you can hear Nixon and his allies conspiring to commit crimes. Or, to give a more contemporary example, Matt Hancock’s WhatsApp history.
 
In contrast, indirect evidence means facts that can be interpreted as suspicious, but could also just be random or innocuous.
 
The problem with indirect evidence is that if you look hard enough you’ll always find it, because the historical record is always messy. Plenty of people have pointed out over the years that truth is stranger than fiction, because fiction has to make sense.
 
For instance, it’s been reported that some staff from the WIV went to hospital with respiratory infections in late 2019. That looks suspicious, right? Maybe they had covid-19!
 
Think about it for a minute. Autumn and winter are the times when respiratory viruses like influenza and RSV infect us all. Given how many people work at the WIV, it would be surprising if a few didn’t go to hospital with respiratory bugs at that time every year.
 
If you could show that the number of WIV staff with respiratory illnesses was unusually high in late 2019, compared to previous years, that might be circumstantial evidence. But the fact that a handful of them were ill means nothing. It shouldn’t sway us at all, because it’s what would happen in a normal year.
 
This is the tricky thing about the lab leak hypothesis, and many other conspiracy theories. It’s possible to pile up lots of semi-suspicious details, like the people with the respiratory illness – and the accumulation of detail looks damning. But each piece of evidence is negligible, so all it is is a whole lot of nothing.
 
This does not mean I am dead set against a lab leak. It's completely possible and we should try to find out. A whistle-blower from the WIV could sway me, as could physical evidence from within the lab, or verifiable records of experiments. These would all constitute direct evidence that SARS-CoV-2 was there before the virus started spreading.

Similarly, some of the reports supporting the lab leak hypothesis come from government organisations like the FBI. They might have access to classified material that the rest of us don't know about. Maybe some of that material is compelling direct evidence of the sort I'm talking about. But it's notable that the intelligence organisations say that they have low confidence in their assessments, which suggests to me that they don't have a smoking gun. Until and unless they share their evidence, we don't know how much weight to put on it.
 
In the absence of such direct evidence, I’ll continue to be swayed by the considerable evidence that the virus evolved naturally and started spreading among humans at the Huanan Market.
 
Finally, how important is this debate for deciding what to do to prevent future pandemics? I'd suggest, hardly at all.
 
We ought to review biosecurity protocols, but that's because those things ought to be reviewed on a regular basis anyway! It would also be good if labs like the WIV were more transparent, but again that would be true either way.
 
Meanwhile there's been thousands of disease outbreaks over the last 40 years and many of them came from animals. In the World Disasters Report 2022 that I produced for the Red Cross (IFRC), I wrote:
 
“A 2014 study compiled 33 years of disease data from 1980 to 2013. This encompassed 12,102 outbreaks of 215 human infectious diseases. The researchers controlled for confounders such as improvements in disease surveillance. They found significant increases in the total number of outbreaks and in the diversity of diseases. In the early 1980s, there were fewer than 1,000 disease outbreaks per year, but by the late 2000s this had tripled to over 3,000. Bacteria and viruses caused 88% of the outbreaks. Similarly, zoonoses – diseases entering the human population from animals – were responsible for 56% of outbreaks (Smith et al, 2014).”
 
Even if covid-19 is one of the estimated 44% of outbreaks that don’t originate in animals, that shouldn't sway us much. Zoonoses are still a major threat and we still need to take action to make them less likely. That needs a One Health approach, in which human and animal healthcare are integrated, e.g. doing joint surveillance for a disease in both humans and animals.
 
It would be slightly weird if we had hundreds of zoonoses that never quite turned into pandemics, and then the one lab leak incident did become a pandemic. But hey: sometimes history is weird. Nobody would believe the story of the Titanic if it weren’t demonstrably true.
 
The fact is, diseases that come from animals, and from other “obvious” sources like dirty water, are some of the biggest threats to our health. They’re also low-hanging fruit: we largely know how to prevent them, and the money spent would be paid back many times over in lives, productivity and happiness.
 
All of this was true before anybody had heard of covid-19, and it is still true now. The pandemic didn’t actually change our understanding of disease risks very much. What it ought to be is a call to arms, because I never want to have to go through anything like it again.

The World Disasters Report 2022, of which I'm lead author, is out now

30/1/2023

 
I spent much of 2022 working on the World Disasters Report for the International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies. We looked at what went right and wrong during the covid-19 pandemic and how to do better next time. And now the report is out, so here's a summary.

The impact of covid-19 has been staggering. About 1 person in every 1000 has died, all our lives have been changed, and the economy has taken a huge hit.

This happened because the vast majority of countries weren't prepared.

Some of this is obvious: limited stockpiles of masks, hospitals being run at capacity in "normal" times so there was no headroom when cases spiked, etc.

But it goes deeper. We weren't prepared because our governments neglected three crucial things.

Trust: if people trust each other and their governments, they will comply with public health measures, but governments often failed to build trust - especially with marginalised communities.

Equity: the poor and marginalised are the most vulnerable, so diseases both exploit inequities and make them worse. Being prepared means having a plan to handle inequities.

Local action: outbreaks begin in communities, so there has to be preparation at the local level. This allows responses to be tailored to community needs.

If we get those three things right, we'll be in a much better place when the next big bad disease turns up.

Read the World Disasters Report 2022.


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World Disasters Report 2022: Trust, Equity and Local Action: Lessons from the COVID-19 pandemic to avert the next global crisis (IFRC)

BBC Earth: What is the point of saving endangered species?

8/3/2022

 
This story was originally published on the BBC Earth website on 14 July 2015. Sadly the BBC Earth website has been deleted, so the original version of this story is now only available via the Wayback Machine.

I have reproduced it here, with notes highlighting passages in need of updating.

Many of the photos were licensed and are not included.


How much is all life on Earth worth? (Credit: NASA)
How much is all life on Earth worth? (Credit: NASA)

In 1981, mountain gorillas were at rock-bottom. Confined to a small mountain range in central Africa, with humans encroaching on their habitat bringing poaching and civil war, their population was estimated at just 254. They would all have fitted into a single Boeing 747.

Today things look a little better. A survey in 2012 reported that the population was up to 880. That is a big improvement, but it's still only two Boeing 747s of mountain gorillas. They remain critically endangered.


[In 2018, the conservation status of mountain gorillas was upgraded to "Endangered", reflecting the growth in the population.]

We hear similar tales of woe all the time, from all around the world. Whether it's tigers, pandas, California condors or coral reefs, much of the world's wildlife is under threat. It's initially upsetting, and eventually just numbing.

Is it worth worrying about it all? Sure, it will be sad if there aren't any more cute pandas on the planet, but it's not like we depend on them. Besides, surely it's more important to take care of humans – who, let's face it, have their own problems to worry about – than to spend millions of dollars preserving animals. What, in short, is the point of conservation?

On the face of it, there are plenty of reasons why we shouldn't bother to save endangered species. The most obvious is the staggering cost involved.

One study in 2012 estimated that it would cost $76 billion (£49 billion) a year to preserve threatened land animals. Saving all the endangered marine species might well cost far more. Why should we spend all that money on wildlife when we could spend it to stop people dying of starvation or disease?

It can be particularly hard to understand why anyone would want to preserve animals like wolves, which pose a threat both to people and livestock. Surely there are some species we would be better off without.

Species go extinct all the time anyway. As well as individual species dying out, there have been five mass extinctions that obliterated swathes of species. The most recent one, 65 million years ago, took out the dinosaurs.


If extinction is a natural process that goes on even in the absence of humans, why should we stop it?

One answer is that species are now going extinct far faster than they used to. A recent study estimated that the extinction rate has increased a hundredfold over the last century, and we seem to be to blame.

But beyond that, there's a simple reason to save species: because we want to.

Many of us love the natural world. We think animals are cute, majestic, or just plain fascinating. We love walking in the dappled sunlight of an old forest, or scuba-diving over a coral reef. Who doesn't think mountain gorillas are awesome?


Nature is beautiful, and that aesthetic value is a reason to keep it, just as we preserve artistic masterpieces like the Mona Lisa or Angkor Wat.

The first problem with this argument is that it spells doom for all those animals and plants that people are less fond of: the ugly,  the smelly and the just plain obscure. If we don't find them appealing, they're out.

More fundamentally, it comes from a position of luxury and privilege. It's all very well for a moneyed person in the western world to want to preserve tigers because they're nice to look at, but that doesn't cut much ice with a villager in rural India whose family is in danger from one.

So the fact that some of us find nature beautiful, by itself, won't do. There needs to be a more practical reason to keep species around.

You often hear it said that we should keep ecosystems like rainforests because they probably contain useful things, in particular medicines. The classic challenge is "what if a plant goes extinct that could be the cure for cancer?"


The practice of exploring nature to find commercially useful products is called bioprospecting. It does sometimes lead to useful new things, but it comes with a host of problems.

The first is that we have plenty of ways to find new medicines, which don't involve trekking through thousands of miles of dangerous jungle in the faint hope of finding a miracle plant.

There is also the matter of who controls the knowledge. Often, local people are already aware of the medicinal uses of plants, and object to outsiders trying to co-opt them. Legal battles have been fought over this.

And again, what happens to all the species that don't make useful things like medicines? The blood of mountain gorillas is unlikely to contain a cure for cancer. So this argument, while it has some force, doesn't get us very far.

The big leap forward came in the 1990s, when biologists started outlining all the ways animals and plants benefit us just by being there. These benefits, which most of us take for granted, are called "ecosystem services".


Some of these services are obvious. For instance, there are plants and animals that we eat. Meanwhile, photosynthetic plankton in the sea, and green plants, provide us with the oxygen we breathe.

These are quite direct, but sometimes the services provided can be more subtle. Pollinating insects like bumblebees are an obvious example.

Many of our crop plants rely on these insects to produce seeds, and would not survive – let alone provide us with food – without them. This is why the decline in pollinating insects has provoked so much concern.

To understand how much we rely on ecosystem services, imagine a world where humans are the only species – perhaps in a spaceship far from Earth.


There are no plants releasing oxygen, so you have to engineer a way to make it yourself. So straight away you need a chemical processing plant on board your ship. That same plant will have to make water too.

There is also nothing to eat, so you must artificially make food. You could synthesise chemicals like sugars and fats, but making it appetising would be extremely hard. As of 2015, we can't even make an artificial burger that everyone finds convincing.

Let's not even get started on the microorganisms living in your gut, many of which are beneficial. The point is that, while we could in theory do all these things artificially, it would be very difficult. It is far easier to let the existing wildlife do them for us.

The scale of these ecosystem services, when you add them up, turns out to be extraordinarily large.

In 1997, ecologist Robert Costanza and his colleagues estimated that the biosphere provides services worth around $33 trillion a year. For comparison, they noted that the entire global economy at the time produced around $18 trillion a year.


Five years later, the team took the argument a step further by asking how much we would gain by conserving biodiversity. They concluded that the benefits would outweigh the costs by a factor of 100. In other words, conserving nature is a staggeringly good investment.

By contrast, letting species decline and go extinct looks like a bad move. A 2010 study concluded that unchecked species loss would wipe 18% off global economic output by 2050.

You may perhaps be feeling that all this talk of economics and growth is strange. It's all rather cold and heartless, without any of the love for the natural world that we were talking about earlier. Well, many environmentalists feel the same way.

The environmentalist journalist George Monbiot has been a particularly vocal critic.

Monbiot argues that the valuations are unreliable, which allows those in power to rig the accounting however they see fit. If someone wants to build a road through an important habitat, they can simply overestimate the benefits of the road and downplay those from the wildlife.

"Forests, fish stocks, biodiversity, hydrological cycles become owned, in effect, by the very interests – corporations, landlords, banks – whose excessive power is most threatening to them," Monbiot wrote in 2013.

He may well be right that any such system would be open to abuse. The counter-argument is that without such a system, the abuse happens anyway – which is why many conservation groups now support putting a value on ecosystems.

In fact, one of the good things about the idea of ecosystem services is that it is all-encompassing. As a result, the weaker arguments we mentioned before now start to make some sense.

Take the idea that nature is beautiful and we should preserve it for its aesthetics and wonder. Our pleasure at the beauty of nature can now be thought of as an ecosystem service. Nature provides us with beauty.


You may well ask how we can put a price on that. How do you objectively measure beauty?

Well, you can't, but that doesn't stop us deciding what it's worth. We do it all the time with paintings, music and other forms of art. If we value something and are prepared to pay to have it, then it has value.

To do the same thing with nature, we just need a system that allows us to pay to experience it.

One simple example is safari holidays that take tourists to see mountain gorillas. This is called ecotourism.


The people running those holidays have a clear incentive to keep the animals safe. The gorillas are their livelihood, and running these tours may well pay better than other occupations like farming.

Of course, this idea has its difficulties. Tourists bring unfamiliar diseases with them, which can pose a threat to the gorillas – although facemasks can help. Too many visitors can also disrupt gorilla societies.

But in principle, ecotourism offers a way to make the beauty of nature pay for itself.

This sort of thinking turns our ideas about conservation on their heads, according to the conservation biologist Georgina Mace of University College London in the UK.

[Georgina Mace died on 19 September 2020]


Go back to the 1960s, and we were being told to preserve wildlife simply for its own sake. Mace calls this line of thinking "nature for itself".

Fast forward to the 2000s and we are now talking about "nature for people", thanks to the idea of ecosystem services. Even if you don't buy the moral argument that "wild things and places have incalculable intrinsic value", there are hard-nosed practical reasons to save them. You don't have to care about mountain gorillas to appreciate the value of a strong ecotourism industry.

Still, at first glance it does seem like the idea of ecosystem services should push us towards a rather selective approach to conservation. "Let's keep the things the tourists will go and see, and the things that pollinate our crops or otherwise make themselves useful, and the rest can go hang."

But there is another way of looking at it.

Let's consider the mountain gorillas. They live in a mountain range where the trees are covered with thick forests. If we want to preserve the gorillas, we also have to preserve the ecosystem they live in.

Some of this is obvious. The gorillas need plants to eat, so we must ensure those are there.

But we also can't let the area be overrun by inedible weeds. That in turn means keeping most of the other animals, as they will shape the plant community.

The mountain gorillas are part of a wider network of species, and it's difficult to separate them from it. Wiping out one of these species might not make much difference, or then again it might cause a chain reaction that alters the entire ecosystem. It's hard to predict the effect of killing off a species unless you go ahead and kill it – and then it's too late to reverse it.

So if we decide to save the mountain gorillas, by extension we are also choosing to preserve the particular habitat they live in and the majority of the species that live alongside them.

At this point many people balk. It's one thing to pay to save awesome mountain gorillas, they say, but now we have to pay out to save a bunch of trees, shrubs and insects too? Maybe those gorillas aren't such a good investment after all.

However, there are good reasons to keep the forests, and not just because they support the mountain gorillas.

Forests on hillsides provide a number of useful services that we don't always appreciate. In particular, they help ensure a regular water supply.


Everyone knows that the weather is changeable. Sometimes you get too much rain, which means floods. At other times there isn't enough, which means drought. Both are dangerous.

Trees on the hills help smooth this out, ensuring a more reliable supply of fresh water. This is good news for people living on the lowlands.

For this to really work, the forest needs to be reasonably stable. It's no use if it sometimes dies back suddenly just when really heavy rains come. It needs to be resilient.

Ecologists have amassed evidence that ecosystems with a wider range of species are more stable and resilient, and less prone to sudden die-backs. This has a startling implication. A tiny, obscure worm may not be doing anything that's obviously useful to humans, but it is probably supporting the ecosystem it lives in – and that ecosystem will be providing services.

Whether you put it in economic terms or not, science is telling us that ecosystems provide us with a host of things we can't do without, and that the more diverse each ecosystem is, the better.


So for our own good – both in terms of practical things like food and water, and less physical needs like beauty – we should protect them.

Of course, human society is part of the ecosystem too, and you won't find many people willing to get rid of us. As a result, many conservationists now say that we can't preserve nature without first figuring out how doing so will be good for humans, because any conservation scheme needs popular support.

Equally, we can't take care of ourselves without also preserving nature, because we need it for so many things. In specific situations we might choose to favour one or the other, but overall we have to do both.

This is a new way of thinking about conservation. It's not "nature for itself", because it's explicitly about helping people. It's also not quite "nature for people", because it's not just a matter of the direct goods that ecosystems offer us.


Instead it's about seeing human society and wild ecosystems as one inseparable whole. Mace has called this perspective "nature and people".

This doesn't mean preserving every last species, which we couldn't do even if we tried. It's also not about keeping things exactly the same, because that's impossible too.

But it does mean ensuring that ecosystems are as rich and diverse as possible. That will be good for them, and good for us.

BBC Earth: The secret of how life on Earth began

6/11/2021

 
Illustration of a simple protocell (Credit: Equinox Graphics Ltd)
(Credit: Equinox Graphics Ltd)
This story was originally published on the BBC Earth website on 31 October 2016. Sadly the BBC Earth website has been deleted, so the original version of this story is now only available via the Wayback Machine.

I have reproduced it here - with notes highlighting passages I would now write differently.

Many of the photos were licensed and are not included. However, I have included the videos and stills produced by Equinox Graphics, with the permission of the company's founder Jon Heras.


Illustration of a simple living cell (Credit: Equinox Graphics Ltd)
A complete living cell (Credit: Equinox Graphics Ltd)
How did life begin? There can hardly be a bigger question. For much of human history, almost everyone believed some version of "the gods did it". Any other explanation was inconceivable.

That is no longer true. Over the last century, a few scientists have tried to figure out how the first life might have sprung up. They have even tried to recreate this Genesis moment in their labs: to create brand-new life from scratch.

So far nobody has managed it, but we have come a long way. Today, many of the scientists studying the origin of life are confident that they are on the right track – and they have the experiments to back up their confidence.

This is the story of our quest to discover our ultimate origin. It is a story of obsession, struggle and brilliant creativity, which encompasses some of the greatest discoveries of modern science. The endeavour to understand life's beginnings has sent men and women to the furthest corners of our planet. Some of the scientists involved have been bedevilled as monsters, while others had to do their work under the heel of brutal totalitarian governments.

This is the story of the birth of life on Earth.

Life is old. The dinosaurs are perhaps the most famous extinct creatures, and they had their beginnings 250 million years ago. But life dates back much further.

The oldest known fossils are around 3.5 billion years old, 14 times the age of the oldest dinosaurs. But the fossil record may stretch back still further. For instance, in August 2016 researchers found what appear to be fossilised microbes dating back 3.7 billion years.

The Earth itself is not much older, having formed 4.5 billion years ago.

If we assume that life formed on Earth – which seems reasonable, given that we have not yet found it anywhere else – then it must have done so in the billion years between Earth coming into being and the preservation of the oldest known fossils.

As well as narrowing down when life began, we can make an educated guess at what it was.

Since the 19th Century, biologists have known that all living things are made of "cells": tiny bags of living matter that come in different shapes and sizes. Cells were first discovered in the 17th Century, when the first modern microscopes were invented, but it took well over a century for anyone to realise that they were the basis of all life.

You might not think you look much like a catfish or a Tyrannosaurus rex, but a microscope will reveal that you are all made of pretty similar kinds of cells. So are plants and fungi.

But by far the most numerous forms of life are microorganisms, each of which is made up of just one cell. Bacteria are the most famous group, and they are found everywhere on Earth.

In April 2016, scientists presented an updated version of the "tree of life": a kind of family tree for every living species. Almost all of the branches are bacteria. What's more, the shape of the tree suggests that a bacterium was the common ancestor of all life. In other words, every living thing – including you – is ultimately descended from a bacterium.

This means we can define the problem of the origin of life more precisely. Using only the materials and conditions found on the Earth over 3.5 billion years ago, we have to make a cell.

Well, how hard can it be?


Illustration of part of a DNA molecule (Credit: Equinox Graphics Ltd)
DNA is one of the core molecules of life (Credit: Equinox Graphics Ltd)
Chapter 1. The first experiments

For most of history, it was not really considered necessary to ask how life began, because the answer seemed obvious.

Before the 1800s, most people believed in "vitalism". This is the intuitive idea that living things were endowed with a special, magical property that made them different from inanimate objects.

Vitalism was often bound up with cherished religious beliefs. The Bible says that God used "the breath of life" to animate the first humans, and the immortal soul is a form of vitalism.

There is just one problem. Vitalism is plain wrong.

By the early 1800s, scientists had discovered several substances that seemed to be unique to life. One such chemical was urea, which is found in urine and was isolated in 1799.

This was still, just, compatible with vitalism. Only living things seemed to be able to make these chemicals, so perhaps they were infused with life energy and that was what made them special.

But in 1828, the German chemist Friedrich Wöhler found a way to make urea from a common chemical called ammonium cyanate, which had no obvious connection with living things. Others followed in his footsteps, and it was soon clear that the chemicals of life can all be made from simpler chemicals that have nothing to do with life.

This was the end of vitalism as a scientific concept. But people found it profoundly hard to let go of the idea. For many, saying that there is nothing "special" about the chemicals of life seemed to rob life of its magic, to reduce us to mere machines. It also, of course, contradicted the Bible.

[If I was to write this piece again today, I would handle this section differently. The idea that Wöhler "disproved" vitalism is sometimes known as the Wöhler myth and is historically dubious. But I didn't know that at the time. The account in The Genesis Quest is rather more nuanced.]

Even scientists have struggled to shed vitalism. As late as 1913, the English biochemist Benjamin Moore was fervently pushing a theory of "biotic energy", which was essentially vitalism under a different name. The idea had a strong emotional hold.

Today the idea clings on in unexpected places. For example, there are plenty of science-fiction stories in which a person's "life energy" can be boosted or drained away. Think of the "regeneration energy" used by the Time Lords in Doctor Who, which can even be topped up if it runs low. This feels futuristic, but it is a deeply old-fashioned idea.

Still, after 1828 scientists had legitimate reasons to look for a deity-free explanation for how the first life formed. But they did not. It seems like an obvious subject to explore, but in fact the mystery of life's origin was ignored for decades. Perhaps everyone was still too emotionally attached to vitalism to take the next step.

Instead, the big biological breakthrough of the 19th Century was the theory of evolution, as developed by Charles Darwin and others.

Darwin's theory, set out in On the Origin of Species in 1859, explained how the vast diversity of life could all have arisen from a single common ancestor. Instead of each of the different species being created individually by God, they were all descended from a primordial organism that lived millions of years ago: the last universal common ancestor.

This idea proved immensely controversial, again because it contradicted the Bible. Darwin and his ideas came under ferocious attack, particularly from outraged Christians.

The theory of evolution said nothing about how that first organism came into being.

Darwin knew that it was a profound question, but – perhaps wary of starting yet another fight with the Church – he only seems to have discussed the issue in a letter written in 1871. His excitable language reveals that he knew the deep significance of the question:

"But if (& oh what a big if) we could conceive in some warm little pond with all sorts of ammonia & phosphoric salts,—light, heat, electricity &c present, that a protein compound was chemically formed, ready to undergo still more complex changes..."

In other words, what if there was once a small body of water, filled with simple organic compounds and bathed in sunlight. Some of those compounds might combine to form a life-like substance such as a protein, which could then start evolving and becoming more complex.

It was a sketchy idea. But it would become the basis of the first hypothesis for how life began.

This idea emerged from an unexpected place. You might think that this daring piece of free thinking would have been developed in a democratic country with a tradition of free speech: perhaps the United States. But in fact the first hypothesis for the origin of life was invented in a savagely totalitarian country, where free thinking was stamped out: the USSR.

In Stalin's Russia, everything was under the control of the state. That included people's ideas, even on subjects – like biology – that seem unrelated to Communist politics.

Most famously, Stalin effectively banned scientists from studying conventional genetics. Instead he imposed the ideas of a farm worker named Trofim Lysenko, which he thought were more in line with Communist ideology. Scientists working on genetics were forced to publicly support Lysenko's ideas, or risk ending up in a labour camp.

It was in this repressive environment that Alexander Oparin carried out his research into biochemistry. He was able to keep working because he was a loyal Communist: he supported Lysenko's ideas and even received the Order of Lenin, the highest decoration that could be bestowed on someone living in the USSR.

In 1924, Oparin published his book The Origin of Life. In it he set out a vision for the birth of life that was startlingly similar to Darwin's warm little pond.

Oparin imagined what Earth was like when it was newly formed. The surface was searingly hot, as rocks from space plunged down onto it and impacted. It was a mess of semi-molten rocks, containing a huge range of chemicals – including many based on carbon.

Eventually the Earth cooled enough for water vapour to condense into liquid water, and the first rain fell. Before long Earth had oceans, which were hot and rich in carbon-based chemicals. Now two things could happen.

First, the various chemicals could react with each other to form lots of new compounds, some of which would be more complex. Oparin supposed that the molecules central to life, like sugars and amino acids, could all have formed in Earth's waters.

Second, some of the chemicals began to form microscopic structures. Many organic chemicals do not dissolve in water: for example, oil forms a layer on top of water. But when some of these chemicals contact water they form spherical globules called "coacervates", which can be up to 0.01cm (0.004 inches) across.

If you watch coacervates under a microscope, they behave unnervingly like living cells. They grow and change shape, and sometimes divide into two. They can also take in chemicals from the surrounding water, so life-like chemicals can become concentrated inside them. Oparin proposed that coacervates were the ancestors of modern cells.

Five years later in 1929, the English biologist J. B. S. Haldane independently proposed some very similar ideas in a short article published in the Rationalist Annual.

Haldane had already made enormous contributions to evolutionary theory, helping to integrate Darwin's ideas with the emerging science of genetics.

He was also a larger-than-life character. On one occasion, he suffered a perforated eardrum thanks to some experiments with decompression chambers, but later wrote that: "the drum generally heals up; and if a hole remains in it, although one is somewhat deaf, one can blow tobacco smoke out of the ear in question, which is a social accomplishment."

Just like Oparin, Haldane outlined how organic chemicals could build up in water, "[until] the primitive oceans reached the consistency of hot dilute soup". This set the stage for "the first living or half-living things" to form, and for each one to become enclosed in "an oily film".

It is telling that of all the biologists in the world, it was Oparin and Haldane who proposed this. The idea that living organisms formed by purely chemical means, without a god or even a "life force", was radical. Like Darwin's theory of evolution before it, it flew in the face of Christianity.

That suited the USSR just fine. The Soviet regime was officially atheist, and its leaders were eager to support materialistic explanations for profound phenomena like life. Haldane was also an atheist, and a devoted communist to boot.

"At that time, to accept or not accept this idea depended essentially on personalities: whether they were religious or whether they supported left or communist ideas," says origin-of-life expert Armen Mulkidjanian of the University of Osnabrück in Germany. "In the Soviet Union they were accepted happily because they didn't need God. In the western world, if you look for people who were thinking in this direction, they all were lefties, communists and so on."

The idea that life formed in a primordial soup of organic chemicals became known as the Oparin-Haldane hypothesis. It was neat and compelling, but there was one problem. There was no experimental evidence to back it up. This would not arrive for almost a quarter of a century.

By the time Harold Urey became interested in the origin of life, he had already won the 1934 Nobel Prize in Chemistry and helped to build the atomic bomb. During World War Two Urey worked on the Manhattan Project, collecting the unstable uranium-235 needed for the bomb's core. After the war he fought to keep nuclear technology in civilian control.

He also became interested in the chemistry of outer space, particularly what went on when the Solar System was first forming. One day he gave a lecture and pointed out that there was probably no oxygen in Earth's atmosphere when it first formed. This would have offered the ideal conditions for Oparin and Haldane's primordial soup to form: the fragile chemicals would have been destroyed by contact with oxygen.

A doctoral student named Stanley Miller was in the audience, and later approached Urey with a proposal: could they test this idea? Urey was sceptical, but Miller talked him into it.

So in 1952, Miller began the most famous experiment on the origin of life ever attempted.

The set-up was simple. Miller connected a series of glass flasks and circulated four chemicals that he suspected were present on the early Earth: boiling water, hydrogen gas, ammonia and methane. He subjected the gases to repeated electric shocks, to simulate the lightning strikes that would have been a common occurrence on Earth so long ago.

Miller found that "the water in the flask became noticeably pink after the first day, and by the end of the week the solution was deep red and turbid". Clearly, a mix of chemicals had formed.

When Miller analysed the mixture he found that it contained two amino acids: glycine and alanine. Amino acids are often described as the building blocks of life. They are used to form the proteins that control most biochemical processes in our bodies. Miller had made two of life's most important components, from scratch.

The results were published in the prestigious journal Science in 1953. Urey, in a selfless act unusual among senior scientists, had his name taken off the paper, giving Miller sole credit. Despite this, the study is often known as the "Miller-Urey experiment".

"The strength of Miller-Urey is to show that you can go from a simple atmosphere and produce lots of biological molecules," says John Sutherland of the Laboratory of Molecular Biology in Cambridge, UK.

The details turned out to be wrong, since later studies showed that the early Earth's atmosphere had a different mix of gases. But that is almost beside the point.

"It was massively iconic, stimulated the public's imagination and continues to be cited extensively," says Sutherland.

In the wake of Miller's experiment, other scientists began finding ways to make simple biological molecules from scratch. A solution to the mystery of the origin of life seemed close.

But then it became clear that life was more complicated than anyone had thought. Living cells, it turned out, were not just bags of chemicals: they were intricate little machines. Suddenly, making one from scratch began to look like a much bigger challenge than scientists had anticipated.


Illustration of the intricate machinery of a cell membrane (Credit: Equinox Graphics Ltd)
The machinery inside cells is unbelievably intricate (Credit: Equinox Graphics Ltd)
Chapter 2. The great polarisation

By the early 1950s, scientists had moved away from the long-standing assumption that life was a gift from the gods. They had instead begun to explore the possibility that life formed spontaneously and naturally on the early Earth – and thanks to Stanley Miller's iconic experiment, they even had some practical support for the idea.

While Miller was trying to make the stuff of life from scratch, other scientists were figuring out what genes were made of.

By this time, many biological molecules were known. These included sugars, fats, proteins – and nucleic acids such as "deoxyribonucleic acid", or DNA for short.

Today we take it for granted that DNA carries our genes, but this actually came as a shock to 1950s biologists. Proteins are more complex, so scientists thought they were the genes.

That idea was disproved in 1952 by Alfred Hershey and Martha Chase of the Carnegie Institution of Washington. They studied simple viruses that only contain DNA and protein, and which have to infect bacteria in order to reproduce. They found that it was the viral DNA that entered the bacteria: the proteins stayed outside. Clearly, DNA was the genetic material. [Oof. The Hershey-Chase experiment wasn't as definitive as this, and earlier experiments by Oswald Avery were arguably better controlled.]

Hershey and Chase's findings triggered a frantic race to figure out the structure of DNA, and thus how it worked. The following year, the problem was cracked by Francis Crick and James Watson of the University of Cambridge, UK – with a lot of under-acknowledged help from their colleague Rosalind Franklin.

Theirs was one of the greatest scientific discoveries of the 20th Century. It also reshaped the search for the origin of life, by revealing the incredible intricacy that is hidden inside living cells.


Illustration of a DNA molecule, showing the double helix structure (Credit: Equinox Graphics Ltd)
DNA is at the heart of almost every living thing (Credit: Equinox Graphics Ltd)

Crick and Watson realised that DNA is a double helix, like a ladder that has been twisted into a spiral. The two "poles" of the ladder are each built from molecules called nucleotides.

This structure explained how cells copy their DNA. In other words, it revealed how parents make copies of their genes and pass them on to their children.

The key point is that the double helix can be "unzipped". This exposes the genetic code – made up of sequences of the genetic bases A, T, C and G – that is normally locked away inside the DNA ladder’s "rungs". Each strand is then used as a template to recreate a copy of the other.

Using this mechanism, genes have been passed down from parent to child since the beginning of life. Your genes ultimately come from an ancestral bacterium – and at every step they were copied using the mechanism Crick and Watson discovered.



Crick and Watson set out their findings in a 1953 paper in Nature. Over the next few years, biochemists raced to figure out exactly what information DNA carries, and how that information is used in living cells. The innermost secrets of life were being exposed for the first time.

It turned out that DNA only has one job. Your DNA tells your cells how to make proteins: molecules that perform a host of essential tasks. Without proteins you could not digest your food, your heart would stop and you could not breathe.

But the process of using DNA to make proteins proved to be staggeringly intricate. That was a big problem for anyone trying to explain the origin of life, because it is hard to imagine how something so complex could ever have got started.

Each protein is essentially a long chain of amino acids, strung together in a specific order. The sequence of the amino acids determines the three-dimensional shape of the protein, and thus what it does.

That information is encoded in the sequence of the DNA's bases. So when a cell needs to make a particular protein, it reads the relevant gene in the DNA to get the sequence of amino acids.

But there is a twist. DNA is precious, so cells prefer to keep it bundled away safely. For this reason, they copy the information from DNA onto short molecules of another substance called RNA (ribonucleic acid). If DNA is a library book, RNA is a scrap of paper with a key passage scribbled onto it. RNA is similar to DNA, except that it only has one strand.

Finally, the process of converting the information in that RNA strand into a protein takes place in an enormously elaborate molecule called a "ribosome".

This process is going on in every living cell, even the simplest bacteria. It is as essential to life as eating and breathing. Any explanation for the origin of life must show how this complex trinity – DNA, RNA and ribosome protein – came into existence and started working.

Suddenly, Oparin and Haldane's ideas looked naively simple, while Miller's experiment, which only produced a few of the amino acids used to build proteins, looked amateurish. Far from taking us most of the way to creating life, his seminal study was clearly just the first step on a long road."DNA makes RNA makes protein, all in this lipid-encapsulated bag of chemicals," says John Sutherland. "You look at that and it's just 'wow, that's too complicated'. How are we going to find organic chemistry that will make all that in one go?"

The first person to really tackle this head-on was a British chemist named Leslie Orgel. He was one of the first to see Crick and Watson's model of DNA, and would later help Nasa with their Viking programme, which sent robotic landers to Mars.

Orgel set out to simplify the problem. Writing in 1968, and supported by Crick, he suggested that the first life did not have proteins or DNA. Instead, it was made almost entirely of RNA. For this to work, these primordial RNA molecules must have been particularly versatile. For one thing, they must have been able to build copies of themselves, presumably using the same base-pairing mechanism as DNA.

The idea that life began with RNA would prove enormously influential. But it also triggered a scientific turf war that has lasted until the present day.

By suggesting that life began with RNA and little else, Orgel was proposing that one crucial aspect of life – its ability to reproduce itself – appeared before all the others. In a sense, he was not just suggesting how life was first assembled: he was saying something about what life is.

Many biologists would agree with Orgel's "replication first" idea. In Darwin's theory of evolution, the ability to create offspring is absolutely central: the only way an organism can "win" is to leave behind lots of children.

But there are other features of life that seem equally essential. The most obvious is metabolism: the ability to extract energy from your surroundings and use it to keep yourself alive. For many biologists, metabolism must have been the original defining feature of life, with replication emerging later.

So from the 1960s onwards, scientists studying the origin of life split into camps.

"The basic polarisation was metabolism-first versus genetics-first," says Sutherland.

Meanwhile, a third group maintained that the first thing to appear was a container for the key molecules, to keep them from floating off. "Compartmentalisation must have come first, because there's no point doing metabolism unless you're compartmentalised," says Sutherland. In other words, there needed to be a cell – as Oparin and Haldane had emphasised a few decades earlier – perhaps enclosed by a membrane of simple fats and lipids.

All three ideas acquired adherents and have survived to the present day. Scientists have become passionately committed to their pet ideas, sometimes blindly so.

As a result, scientific meetings on the origin of life have often been fractious affairs, and journalists covering the subject are regularly told by a scientist in one camp that the ideas emerging from the other camps are stupid or worse.

Thanks to Orgel, the idea that life began with RNA and genetics got off to an early head start. Then came the 1980s, and a startling discovery that seemed to pretty much confirm it.


Illustration of molecules of RNA (ribonucleic acid) (Credit: Equinox Graphics Ltd)
RNA could be the key to life's beginning (Credit: Equinox Graphics Ltd)
Chapter 3. Search for the first replicator

After the 1960s, the scientists on the quest to understand life's origins split into three groups. Some were convinced that life began with the formation of primitive versions of biological cells. Others thought the key first step was a metabolic system, and yet others focused on the importance of genetics and replication. This last group began trying to figure out what that first replicator might have looked like – with a focus on the idea that it was made of RNA.

As early as the 1960s, scientists had reason to think RNA was the source of all life.
Specifically, RNA can do something that DNA cannot. It is a single-stranded molecule, so unlike stiff, double-stranded DNA it can fold itself into a range of different shapes.

RNA's origami-like folding looked rather similar to the way proteins behave. Proteins are also basically long strands – made of amino acids rather than nucleotides – and this allows them to construct elaborate structures.

This is the key to proteins' most amazing ability. Some of them can speed up, or "catalyse", chemical reactions. These proteins are known as enzymes.

Many enzymes are found in your guts, where they break up the complex molecules from your food into simple ones like sugars that your cells can use. You could not live without enzymes.

Leslie Orgel and Francis Crick had a suspicion. If RNA could fold like a protein, maybe it could form enzymes. If that were true, RNA could have been the original – and highly versatile – living molecule, storing information as DNA does now and catalysing reactions as some proteins do.

It was a neat idea, but there would be no proof for over a decade.

Thomas Cech was born and raised in Iowa. As a child he was fascinated by rocks and minerals. By the time he was in junior high school he was visiting the local university and knocking on geologists' doors, asking to see models of mineral structures.

But he eventually wound up becoming a biochemist, focusing on RNA.

In the early 1980s, Cech and his colleagues at the University of Colorado Boulder were studying a single-celled organism called Tetrahymena thermophila. Part of its cellular machinery includes strands of RNA. Cech found that one particular section of the RNA sometimes detached from the rest, as if something had cut it out with scissors.

When the team removed all the enzymes and other molecules that might be acting as molecular scissors, the RNA kept doing it. They had discovered the first RNA enzyme: a short piece of RNA that was able to cut itself out of the larger strand it was part of.

Cech published the results in 1982. The following year, another group found a second RNA enzyme – or "ribozyme", as it was dubbed.

Finding two RNA enzymes in quick succession suggested that there were plenty more out there. Now the notion that life began with RNA was looking promising.



It would be Walter Gilbert of Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts who gave the idea a name. A physicist who had become fascinated by molecular biology, Gilbert would also be one of the early advocates of sequencing the human genome.

Writing in Nature in 1986, Gilbert proposed that life began in the "RNA World".

The first stage of evolution, Gilbert argued, consisted of "RNA molecules performing the catalytic activities necessary to assemble themselves from a nucleotide soup". By cutting and pasting different bits of RNA together, the RNA molecules could create ever more useful sequences. Eventually they found a way to make proteins and protein enzymes, which proved so useful that they largely supplanted the RNA versions and gave rise to life as we recognise it today.

The RNA World is an elegant way to make complex life from scratch. Instead of having to rely on the simultaneous formation of dozens of biological molecules from the primordial soup, one Jack-of-all-trades molecule could do the work of all of them.

In 2000, the RNA World hypothesis was gifted a dramatic piece of supporting evidence.

Thomas Steitz had spent 30 years studying the structures of the molecules in living cells. In the 1990s he took on his biggest challenge: figuring out the structure of the ribosome.

Every living cell has a ribosome. This huge molecule reads instructions from RNA and strings together amino acids to make proteins. The ribosomes in your cells built most of your body.

The ribosome was known to contain RNA. But in 2000 Steitz's team produced a detailed image of the ribosome's structure, which showed that the RNA was the catalytic core of the ribosome.

This was critical, because the ribosome is so fundamental to life, and so ancient. The fact that this essential machine was based on RNA made the RNA World even more plausible.

RNA World supporters were ecstatic at the discovery, and in 2009 Steitz would receive a share of a Nobel Prize. But since then, doubts have crept back in.

Right from the start, there were two problems with the RNA World idea. Could RNA really perform all the functions of life by itself? And could it have formed on the early Earth?

It is 30 years since Gilbert set out the stall for the RNA World, and we still do not have hard evidence that RNA can do all the things the theory demands of it. It is a handy little molecule, but it may not be handy enough.

One task stood out. If life began with an RNA molecule, that RNA must have been able to make copies of itself: it should have been self-replicating.

But no known RNA can self-replicate. Nor can DNA. It takes a battalion of enzymes and other molecules to build a replica copy of a piece of RNA or DNA.

So in the late 1980s, a few biologists started a rather quixotic quest. They set out to make a self-replicating RNA for themselves.

Jack Szostak of the Harvard Medical School was one of the first to get involved. As a child he was so fascinated with chemistry that he had a lab in his basement. With a splendid disregard for his own safety, he once set off an explosion that embedded a glass tube into the ceiling.

In the early 1980s, Szostak helped to show how our genes protect themselves against the ageing process. This early research would eventually net him a share of a Nobel Prize.

But he soon became fascinated by Cech's RNA enzymes. "I thought that work was just really cool," he says. "In principle, there might be a possibility for RNA to catalyse its own replication."

In 1988, Cech found an RNA enzyme that could build a short RNA molecule about 10 nucleotides long. Szostak set out to improve on the discovery by evolving new RNA enzymes in the lab. His team created a pool of random sequences and tested them to see which ones showed catalytic activity. They then took those sequences, tweaked them, and tested again.

After 10 rounds of this, Szostak had produced an RNA enzyme that made a reaction go seven million times faster than it naturally would. They had showed that RNA enzymes could be truly powerful. But their enzyme could not copy itself, not even close. Szostak had hit a wall.

The next big advance came in 2001 from Szostak's former student David Bartel, of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Cambridge. Bartel made an RNA enzyme called R18 that could add new nucleotides to a strand of RNA, based on an existing template. In other words, it was not just adding random nucleotides: it was correctly copying a sequence.

This was still not a self-replicator, but it was edging towards it. R18 consisted of a string of 189 nucleotides, and it could reliably add 11 nucleotides to a strand: 6% of its own length. The hope was that a few tweaks would allow it to make a strand 189 nucleotides long – as long as itself.

The best attempt came in 2011 from Philipp Holliger of the Laboratory of Molecular Biology in Cambridge, UK. His team created a modified R18 called tC19Z, which copies sequences up to 95 nucleotides long. That is 48% of its own length: more than R18, but not the necessary 100%.

An alternative approach has been put forward by Gerald Joyce and Tracey Lincoln of the Scripps Research Institute in La Jolla, California. In 2009 they created an RNA enzyme that replicates itself indirectly.

Their enzyme joins together two short pieces of RNA to create a second enzyme. This then joins together another two RNA pieces to recreate the original enzyme.

This simple cycle could be continued indefinitely, given the raw materials. But the enzymes only worked if they were given the correct RNA strands, which Joyce and Lincoln had to make.

For the many scientists who are sceptical about the RNA World, the lack of a self-replicating RNA is a fatal problem with the idea. RNA does not seem to be up to the job of kick-starting life.

The case has also been weakened by chemists' failure to make RNA from scratch. It looks like a simple molecule compared to DNA, but RNA has proved to be enormously difficult to make.

The problem is the sugar and the base that make up each nucleotide. It is possible to make each of them individually, but the two stubbornly refuse to link together.

This problem was already clear by the early 1990s. It left many biologists with a nagging suspicion that the RNA World hypothesis, while neat, could not be quite right.

Instead, maybe there was some other type of molecule on the early Earth: something simpler than RNA, which really could assemble itself out of the primordial soup and start self-replicating. This might have come first, and then led to RNA, DNA and the rest.

In 1991, Peter Nielsen of the University of Copenhagen in Denmark came up with a candidate for the primordial replicator.

It was essentially a heavily-modified version of DNA. Nielsen kept the bases the same – sticking with the A, T, C and G found in DNA – but made the backbone out of molecules called polyamides instead of the sugars found in DNA. He called the new molecule polyamide nucleic acid, or PNA. Confusingly, it has since become known as peptide nucleic acid.

PNA has never been found in nature. But it behaves a lot like DNA. A strand of PNA can even take the place of one of the strands in a DNA molecule, with the complementary bases pairing up as normal. What's more, PNA can coil up into a double helix, just like DNA.

Stanley Miller was intrigued. Deeply sceptical about the RNA World, he suspected that PNA was a more plausible candidate for the first genetic material.

In 2000 he produced some hard evidence. By then he was 70 years old, and had just suffered the first in a series of debilitating strokes that would ultimately leave him confined to a nursing home, but he was not quite done. He repeated his classic experiment, which we discussed in Chapter One, this time using methane, nitrogen, ammonia and water – and obtained the polyamide backbone of PNA.

This suggested that PNA, unlike RNA, might have formed readily on the early Earth.

Other chemists have come up with their own alternative nucleic acids.

In 2000, Albert Eschenmoser made threose nucleic acid (TNA). This is basically DNA, but with a different sugar in its backbone. Strands of TNA can pair up to form a double helix, and information can be copied back and forth between RNA and TNA.

What's more, TNA can fold up into complex shapes, and even bind to a protein. This hints that TNA could act as an enzyme, just like RNA.

Similarly, in 2005 Eric Meggers made glycol nucleic acid, which can form helical structures.

Each of these alternative nucleic acids has its supporters: usually, the person who made it. But there is no trace of them in nature, so if the first life did use them, at some point it must have utterly abandoned them in favour of RNA and DNA. This might be true, but there is no evidence.

All this meant that, by the mid-2000s, supporters of the RNA World were in a quandary.

On the one hand, RNA enzymes existed and they included one of the most important pieces of biological machinery, the ribosome. That was good.

But no self-replicating RNA had been found, and nobody could figure out how RNA formed in the primordial soup. The alternative nucleic acids might solve the latter problem, but there was no evidence they ever existed in nature. That was less good.

The obvious conclusion was that the RNA World, neat as it was, could not be the whole truth.

Meanwhile, a rival theory had been steadily gathering steam since the 1980s. Its supporters argue that life did not begin with RNA, or DNA, or any other genetic substance. Instead it began as a mechanism for harnessing energy.


Illustration of an ATPase enzyme embedded in a cell membrane (Credit: Equinox Graphics Ltd)
Life needs energy to stay alive (Credit: Equinox Graphics Ltd)
Chapter 4. Power from protons

We saw in Chapter Two how scientists divided into three schools of thought about how life began. One group was convinced that life began with a molecule of RNA, but they struggled to work out how RNA or similar molecules could have formed spontaneously on the early Earth and then made copies of themselves. Their efforts were exciting at first, but ultimately frustrating. However, even while this research was progressing, there were other origin-of-life researchers who felt sure that life began in a completely different way.

The RNA World theory relies on a simple idea: the most important thing a living organism can do is reproduce itself. Many biologists would agree with this. From bacteria to blue whales, all living things strive to have offspring.

However, many origin-of-life researchers do not believe reproduction is truly fundamental. Before an organism can reproduce, they say, it has to be self-sustaining. It must keep itself alive. After all, you cannot have kids if you die first.

We keep ourselves alive by eating food, while green plants do it by extracting energy from sunlight. You might not think that a person wolfing down a juicy steak looks much like a leafy oak tree, but when you get right down to it, both are taking in energy.

This process is called metabolism. First, you must obtain energy; say, from energy-rich chemicals like sugars. Then you must use that energy to build useful things like cells.
This process of harnessing energy is so utterly essential, many researchers believe it must have been the first thing life ever did.

What might these metabolism-only organisms have looked like? One of the most influential suggestions was put forward in the late 1980s by Günter Wächtershäuser. He was not a full-time scientist, but rather a patent lawyer with a background in chemistry.

Wächtershäuser proposed that the first organisms were "drastically different from anything we know". They were not made of cells. They did not have enzymes, DNA or RNA.

Instead, Wächtershäuser imagined a flow of hot water streaming out of a volcano. The water was rich in volcanic gases like ammonia, and held traces of minerals from the volcano's heart.

Where the water flowed over the rocks, chemical reactions began to take place. In particular, metals from the water helped simple organic compounds to fuse into larger ones.

The turning point was the creation of the first metabolic cycle. This is a process in which one chemical is converted into a series of other chemicals, until eventually the original chemical is recreated. In the process, the entire system takes in energy, which can be used to restart the cycle – and to start doing other things.

All the other things that make up modern organisms – like DNA, cells and brains – came later, built on the back of these chemical cycles.

These metabolic cycles do not sound much like life. Wächtershäuser called his inventions "precursor organisms" and wrote that they "can barely be called living".

But metabolic cycles like the ones Wächtershäuser described are at the core of every living thing. Your cells are essentially microscopic chemical processing plants, constantly turning one chemical into another. Metabolic cycles may not seem life-like, but they are fundamental to life.

Over the 1980s and 1990s, Wächtershäuser worked out his theory in considerable detail. He outlined which minerals made for the best surfaces and which chemical cycles might take place. His ideas began to attract supporters.

But it was all still theoretical. Wächtershäuser needed a real-world discovery that backed up his ideas. Fortunately, it had already been made – a decade earlier.

In 1977, a team led by Jack Corliss of Oregon State University took a submersible 1.5 miles (2.5km) down into the eastern Pacific Ocean. They were surveying the Galápagos hotspot, where tall ridges of rock rise from the sea floor. The ridges, they knew, were volcanically active.

Corliss found that the ridges were pockmarked with, essentially, hot springs. Hot, chemical-rich water was welling up from below the sea floor and pumping out through holes in the rocks.

Astonishingly, these "hydrothermal vents" were densely populated by strange animals. There were huge clams, limpets, mussels, and tubeworms. The water was also thick with bacteria. All these organisms lived on the energy from the hydrothermal vents.

The discovery of hydrothermal vents made Corliss's name. It also got him thinking. In 1981 he proposed that similar vents existed on Earth four billion years ago, and that they were the site of the origin of life. He would spend much of the rest of his career working on this idea.

Corliss proposed that hydrothermal vents could create cocktails of chemicals. Each vent, he said, was a kind of primordial soup dispenser.

As hot water flowed up through the rocks, the heat and pressure caused simple organic compounds to fuse into more complex ones like amino acids, nucleotides and sugars. Closer to the boundary with the ocean, where the water was not quite as hot, they began linking into chains – forming carbohydrates, proteins, and nucleotides like DNA. Then, as the water approached the ocean and cooled still further, these molecules assembled into simple cells.

It was neat, and caught people's attention. But Stanley Miller, whose seminal origin-of-life experiment we discussed in Chapter One, was not convinced. Writing in 1988, he argued the vents were too hot.

While extreme heat would trigger the formation of chemicals like amino acids, Miller's experiments suggested that it would also destroy them. Key compounds like sugars "would survive… for seconds at most". What's more, these simple molecules would be unlikely to link up into chains, because the surrounding water would break the chains almost immediately.

At this point the geologist Mike Russell stepped into the fray. He thought that the vent theory could be made to work after all. What's more, it seemed to him that the vents were the ideal home for Wächtershäuser's precursor organisms. This inspiration would lead him to create one of the most widely-accepted theories of the origin of life.

Russell had spent his early life variously making aspirin, scouting for valuable minerals and – in one remarkable incident in the 1960s – coordinating the response to a possible volcanic eruption, despite having no training. But his real interest was in how Earth's surface has changed over the eons. This geological perspective has shaped his ideas on the origin of life.

In the 1980s he found fossil evidence of a less extreme kind of hydrothermal vent, where the temperatures were below 150C. These milder temperatures, he argued, would allow the molecules of life to survive far longer than Miller had assumed they would.

What's more, the fossil remains of these cooler vents held something strange. A mineral called pyrite, which is made of iron and sulphur, had formed into tubes about 1mm across.

In his lab, Russell found that the pyrite could also form spherical blobs. He suggested that the first complex organic molecules formed inside these simple pyrite structures.

Around this time, Wächtershäuser had begun publishing his ideas, which relied on a stream of hot chemical-rich water flowing over a mineral. He had even proposed that pyrite was involved.

So Russell put two and two together. He suggested that hydrothermal vents in the deep sea, tepid enough for the pyrite structures to form, hosted Wächtershäuser's precursor organisms. If Russell was correct, life began at the bottom of the sea – and metabolism appeared first.

Russell set all this out in a paper published in 1993, 40 years after Miller's classic experiment. It did not get the same excited media coverage, but it was arguably more important. Russell had combined two seemingly separate ideas – Wächtershäuser's metabolic cycles and Corliss's hydrothermal vents – into something truly convincing.

Just to make it even more impressive, Russell also offered an explanation for how the first organisms obtained their energy. In other words, he figured out how their metabolism could have worked. His idea relied on the work of one of modern science's forgotten geniuses.

In the 1960s, the biochemist Peter Mitchell fell ill and was forced to resign from the University of Edinburgh. Instead, he set up a private lab in a remote manor house in Cornwall. Isolated from the scientific community, his work was partly funded by a herd of dairy cows. Many biochemists, including, initially, Leslie Orgel, whose work on RNA we discussed in Chapter Two, thought that his ideas were utterly ridiculous.

Less than two decades later, Mitchell achieved the ultimate victory: the 1978 Nobel Prize in Chemistry. He has never been a household name, but his ideas are in every biology textbook.

Mitchell spent his career figuring out what organisms do with the energy they get from food. In effect, he was asking how we all stay alive from moment to moment.

He knew that all cells store their energy in the same molecule: adenosine triphosphate (ATP). The crucial bit is a chain of three phosphates, anchored to the adenosine. Adding the third phosphate takes a lot of energy, which is then locked up in the ATP.

When a cell needs energy – say, if a muscle needs to contract – it breaks the third phosphate off an ATP. This turns it into adenosine diphosphate (ADP) and releases the stored energy.

Mitchell wanted to know how the cells made the ATP in the first place. How did they concentrate enough energy onto an ADP, so that the third phosphate would attach?

Mitchell knew that the enzyme that makes ATP sits on a membrane. So he suggested that the cell was pumping charged particles called protons across the membrane, so that there were lots of protons on one side and hardly any on the other.

The protons would then try to flow back across the membrane to balance out the number of protons on each side – but the only place they could get through was the enzyme. The stream of protons passing through gave the enzyme the energy it needed to make ATP.



Mitchell first set out this idea in 1961. He spent the next 15 years defending it from all comers, until the evidence became irrefutable. We now know that the process Mitchell identified is used by every living thing on Earth. It is happening inside your cells right now. Like DNA, it is fundamental to life as we know it.

The key point that Russell picked up on is Mitchell's proton gradient: having lots of protons on one side of a membrane, and few on the other. All cells need a proton gradient to store energy.

Modern cells create the gradients by pumping protons across a membrane, but this involves complex molecular machinery that cannot have just popped into existence. So Russell made one more logical leap: life must have formed somewhere with a natural proton gradient.

Somewhere like a hydrothermal vent. But it would have to be a specific type of vent. When Earth was young the seas were acidic, and acidic water has a lot of protons floating around inside it. To create a proton gradient, the water from the vent must have been low in protons: it must have been alkaline.

Corliss's vents would not do. Not only were they too hot, they were acidic. But in 2000, Deborah Kelley of the University of Washington discovered the first alkaline vents.

Kelley had to battle just to become a scientist in the first place. Her father died as she was finishing high school, and she was forced to work long hours to support herself through college.

But she succeeded, and became fascinated both by undersea volcanoes and the searing hot hydrothermal vents. Those twin loves eventually led her to the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. There, Earth's crust is being pulled apart and a ridge of mountains rises from the sea floor.

On this ridge, Kelley found a field of hydrothermal vents that she called "Lost City". They are not like the ones Corliss found. The water flowing from them is only 40-75C, and mildly alkaline. Carbonate minerals from this water have clumped into steep, white "chimneys" that rise from the sea bed like organ pipes. Their appearance is eerie and ghost-like, but this is misleading: they are home to dense communities of microorganisms that thrive on the vent water.

These alkaline vents were the perfect fit for Russell's ideas. He became convinced that vents like those of Lost City were where life began.

But he had a problem. Being a geologist, he did not know enough about biological cells to make his theory truly convincing.

So Russell teamed up with biologist William Martin, a pugnacious American who has spent most of his career in Germany. In 2003 the pair set out an improved version of Russell's earlier ideas. It is arguably the most fleshed-out story of how life began.

Thanks to Kelley, they now knew that the rocks of alkaline vents were porous: they were pocked with tiny holes filled with water. These little pockets, they suggested, acted as "cells". Each pocket contained essential chemicals, including minerals like pyrite. Combined with the natural proton gradient from the vent, they were the ideal place for metabolism to begin.

Once life had harnessed the chemical energy of the vent water, Russell and Martin say, it started making molecules like RNA. Eventually it created its own membrane and became a true cell, and escaped from the porous rock into the open water.

This story is now regarded as one of the leading hypotheses for the origin of life.

It found powerful support in July 2016, when Martin published a study reconstructing some of the features of the "last universal common ancestor" (LUCA). This is the organism that lived billions of years ago and from which all existing life is descended.

We will probably never find direct fossil evidence of LUCA, but we can still make an educated guess as to how it might have looked and behaved by looking at microorganisms that do survive today. This is what Martin did.

He examined the DNA of 1,930 modern microorganisms, and identified 355 genes that almost all of them had. This is arguably evidence that these 355 genes have been passed down, from generation to generation, ever since those 1,930 microbes shared a common ancestor – roughly at the time that LUCA was alive.

The 355 genes included some for harnessing a proton gradient, but not genes for generating one – exactly as Russell and Martin's theories would predict. What's more, LUCA seems to have been adapted to the presence of chemicals like methane, which suggests it inhabited a volcanically-active environment – like a vent.

Despite this, RNA World supporters say the vent theory has two problems. One could potentially be fixed: the other might be fatal.

The first problem is that there is no experimental evidence for the processes Russell and Martin describe. They have a step-by-step story, but none of the steps have been seen in a lab.

"The people who think replication was first, they continuously provide new experimental data," says origin-of-life expert Armen Mulkidjanian. "The people who favour metabolism-first do not."

That could change, thanks to Martin's colleague Nick Lane of University College London. He has built an "origin of life reactor", which will simulate the conditions inside an alkaline vent. He hopes to observe metabolic cycles, and perhaps even molecules like RNA. But it is early days.

The second problem is the vents' location in the deep sea. As Miller pointed out in 1988, long-chain molecules like RNA and proteins cannot form in water without enzymes to help them.

For many researchers, this is a knock-down argument. "If you have a background in chemistry, you cannot buy the idea of deep-sea vents, because you know the chemistry of all these molecules is incompatible with water," says Mulkidjanian.

Regardless, Russell and his allies remain bullish.

But in the last decade, a third approach has come to the fore, bolstered by a series of extraordinary experiments. This promises something that neither the RNA World nor the hydrothermal vents have so far managed: a way to make an entire cell from scratch.


Illustration of a protocell (Credit: Equinox Graphics Ltd)
Arguably there can be no life without cells (Credit: Equinox Graphics Ltd)
Chapter 5. How to make a cell

By the early 2000s, there were two leading ideas about how life could have begun. Supporters of the "RNA World" were convinced that life began with a self-replicating molecule. Meanwhile, scientists in the "metabolism-first" camp had developed a detailed narrative about how life could have begun in hydrothermal vents in the deep sea. However, a third idea was about to come to the fore.

Every living thing on Earth is made of cells. Each cell is basically a squishy ball, with a tough outer wall or "membrane".

The point of a cell is to keep all the essentials of life together. If the outer wall gets torn open, the guts spill out and the cell dies – just as a person who has been disembowelled generally does not have long to live.

The outer wall of the cell is so essential, some origin-of-life researchers argue that it must have been the first thing that emerged. They think that the "genetics first" efforts discussed in Chapter Three and the "metabolism first" ideas discussed in Chapter Four are misguided. Their alternative – "compartmentalisation-first" – has its champion in Pier Luigi Luisi of Roma Tre University in Rome, Italy.

Luisi's reasoning is simple and hard to argue with. How could you possibly set up a working metabolism or a self-replicating RNA, each of which relies on having a lot of chemicals in one place, unless you first have a container to keep all the molecules in?

If you accept this, there is only one way life could have begun. Somehow, in the heat and tempest of the early Earth, a few raw materials must have assembled into crude cells, or "protocells". The challenge is to make this happen in a lab: to create a simple living cell.

Luisi can trace his ideas all the way back to Alexander Oparin and the dawn of origin-of-life science in the USSR – discussed in Chapter One. Oparin highlighted the fact that certain chemicals form into blobs called coacervates, which can hold other substances in their cores. He suggested that these coacervates were the first protocells.

Any fatty or oily substance will form blobs or films in water. These chemicals are collectively known as lipids, and the idea that they formed the first life has been called the "Lipid World".

But just forming blobs is not enough. The blobs need to be stable, they need to be able to divide to form "daughter" blobs, and they need at least some control over what travels in and out of them – all without the elaborate proteins that modern cells use to achieve these things.

The challenge was to make the protocells out of just the right stuff. Despite trying many substances over the decades, Luisi has never made anything lifelike enough to be convincing.

Then in 1994, Luisi made a daring suggestion. He proposed that the first protocells must have contained RNA. What's more, this RNA must have been able to replicate inside the protocell.

It was a big ask, and it meant abandoning the pure compartmentalisation-first approach. But Luisi had good reasons.

A cell with an outer wall, but no genes inside it, could not do anything much. It might be able to divide into daughter cells, but it could not pass on any information about itself to its offspring. It could only start evolving and becoming more complex if it contained some genes.

This idea would soon gain a crucial supporter in Jack Szostak, whose work on the RNA World hypothesis we explored in Chapter Three. While Luisi was a member of the compartmentalisation-first camp, Szostak supported genetics-first, so for many years they had not seen eye-to-eye.

"We would meet at origins meetings and get into these long arguments about which was more important and which came first," recalls Szostak. "Eventually, we realised that cells have both. We came to a consensus that for the origin of life, it was critical to have both compartmentalisation and a genetic system."

In 2001, Szostak and Luisi set out their case for this more unified approach. Writing in Nature, they argued that it should be possible to make simple living cells from scratch, by hosting replicating RNAs in a simple, fatty blob.

It was a dramatic idea, and Szostak soon decided to put his money where his mouth was. Reasoning that "we can't put out that theory without anything backing it up", he decided to start experimenting with protocells.

Two years later, Szostak and two colleagues announced a major success.
They had been experimenting with vesicles: spherical blobs, with two layers of fatty acids on the outside and a central core of liquid.

Trying to find a way to speed up the creation of the vesicles, they added small particles of a kind of clay called montmorillonite.

This made the vesicles form 100 times faster. The surface of the clay acted as a catalyst, just like an enzyme would.

What's more, the vesicles could absorb both montmorillonite particles and RNA strands from the clay surface. These protocells now contained genes and a catalyst, all from one simple setup.

The decision to add montmorillonite was not done on a whim. Several decades of work had suggested that montmorillonite, and clays like it, could be important in the origin of life.

Montmorillonite is a common clay. Nowadays it is used for all sorts of things, including making cat litter. It forms when volcanic ash is broken down by the weather. Since the early Earth had lots of volcanoes, it seems likely that montmorillonite was abundant.

Back in 1986, chemist James Ferris had shown that montmorillonite is a catalyst that helps organic molecules form. He later found that it also accelerates the formation of small RNAs.

This had led Ferris to speculate that this ordinary-looking clay was the site of the origin of life. Szostak took that idea and ran with it, using montmorillonite to help build his protocells.

One year later, Szostak's team found that their protocells could grow of their own accord.

As ever more RNA molecules were packed into a protocell, the outer wall came under increasing tension. It was as if the protocell had a full stomach and might go pop.

To compensate, the protocell picked up more fatty acids and incorporated them into its wall, allowing it to swell to a larger size and releasing the tension.

Crucially, it took the fatty acids from other protocells that contained less RNA, causing them to shrink. This meant the protocells were competing, and the ones with more RNA were winning.

This suggested something even more impressive. If the protocells could grow, maybe they could also divide. Could Szostak's protocells reproduce themselves?

Szostak's first experiments had shown a way to make protocells divide. Squeezing them through small holes stretched them out into tubes, which then broke into "daughter" protocells.

This was neat, because no cellular machinery was involved: just the application of pressure. But it was not a great solution, because the protocells lost some of their contents in the process. It also implied that the first cells could only divide if they were pushed through tiny holes.

There are lots of ways to make vesicles divide: for example, adding a strong water current that creates a shearing force. The trick was to make the protocells divide without spilling their guts.

In 2009, Szostak and his student Ting Zhu found a solution. They made slightly more complex protocells, with several concentric outer walls a bit like the layers of an onion. Despite their intricacy, these protocells were still easy to make.

As Zhu fed them with ever more fatty acids, the protocells grew and changed shape, elongating into long, rope-like strands. Once a protocell was long enough, a gentle shearing force was enough to make it shatter into dozens of small daughter protocells.

Each daughter protocell contained RNAs from the parent protocell, and hardly any of the RNA was lost. What's more, the protocells could perform the cycle repeatedly, with daughter protocells growing and then dividing themselves.

In later experiments, Zhu and Szostak have found even more ways to persuade the protocells to divide. This aspect of the problem, at least, seems to be solved.

However, the protocells were still not doing enough. Luisi had wanted the protocells to host replicating RNA, but so far the RNA was simply sitting in them doing nothing.

To really show that his protocells could have been the first life on Earth, Szostak needed to persuade the RNA inside them to replicate itself.

That was not going to be easy, because despite decades of trying – outlined in Chapter Three – nobody had managed to make an RNA that could self-replicate. That was the very problem that had stymied Szostak in his early work on the RNA World, and which nobody else had managed to solve.

So he went back and re-read the work of Leslie Orgel, who had spent so long working on the RNA World hypothesis. There were valuable clues buried in those dusty papers.

Orgel had spent much of the 1970s and 1980s studying how RNA strands get copied.

In essence it is simple. Take a single strand of RNA and a pool of loose nucleotides. Then, use those nucleotides to assemble a second strand of RNA that is complementary to the first one.

For example, a strand of RNA that reads "CGC" will produce a complementary strand that reads "GCG". If you do this twice, you will get a copy of the original "CGC", just in a roundabout way.

Orgel found that, under certain circumstances, RNA strands could copy in this way without any help from enzymes. This could have been how the first life made copies of its genes.

By 1987, Orgel could take an RNA strand 14 nucleotides long and create complementary strands that were also 14 nucleotides long. He did not manage anything longer, but that was enough to intrigue Szostak. His student Katarzyna Adamala tried to get this reaction going in the protocells.

They found that the reaction needed magnesium to work, which was a problem because the magnesium destroyed the protocells. But there was a simple solution: citrate, which is almost identical to the citric acid in lemons and oranges, and which is found in all living cells anyway.

In a study published in 2013, they added citrate and found that it latched onto the magnesium, protecting the protocells while allowing the template copying to continue.
In other words, they had achieved what Luisi had proposed in 1994. "We started to do RNA replication chemistry inside these fatty acid vesicles," says Szostak.

In just over a decade of research, Szostak's team has accomplished something remarkable.

They have built protocells that hold onto their genes while taking in useful molecules from outside. The protocells can grow and divide, and even compete with each other. RNA can replicate inside them. By any measure, they are startlingly life-like.

They are also resilient. In 2008, Szostak's team found that the protocells could survive being heated to 100C, a temperature that would obliterate most modern cells. This boosted the case that the protocells were similar to the first life, which must have endured scalding heat from constant meteor impacts.

"Szostak is doing great work," says Armen Mulkidjanian.

Yet on the face of it, Szostak's approach went against 40 years of work on the origin of life. Instead of focusing on "replication-first" or "compartmentalisation-first", he found ways to get both to happen pretty much simultaneously.

That would inspire a new unified approach to the origin of life, which attempts to jumpstart all the functions of life at once. This "everything-first" idea has already accumulated a wealth of evidence, and could potentially solve all the problems with the existing ideas.


Illustration of a ribosome making a protein using messenger RNA as a template (Credit: Equinox Graphics Ltd)
The molecules of life behave in incredibly complex ways (Credit: Equinox Graphics Ltd)
Chapter 6. The great unification

Throughout the second half of the 20th Century, origin-of-life researchers have worked in tribes. Each group favoured their own narrative and, for the most part, rubbished competing hypotheses. This approach has certainly been successful, as evidenced by the previous chapters, but every promising idea for the origin of life has ultimately come up against a major problem. So a few researchers are now trying a more unified approach.

This idea got its first big boost a few years ago from a result that, on the face of it, seemed to support the traditional, replication-first RNA World.

By 2009, supporters of the RNA World had a big problem. They could not make nucleotides, the building blocks of RNA, in a way that could plausibly have happened on the early Earth. This, as we learned in Chapter Three, led people to suspect that the first life was not based on RNA at all.

John Sutherland had been thinking about this problem since the 1980s. "I thought, if you could demonstrate that RNA could self-assemble that would be a cool thing to do," he says.

Fortunately for Sutherland, he had secured a job at the Laboratory of Molecular Biology (LMB) in Cambridge, UK. Most research institutions force their staff to constantly churn out new findings, but the LMB does not. So Sutherland could think about why it was so hard to make an RNA nucleotide, and to spend years developing an alternative approach.

His solution would lead him to propose a radical new idea about the origin of life, namely that all the key components of life could be formed at once.

"There were certain key aspects of RNA chemistry that didn't work," says Sutherland. Each RNA nucleotide is made of a sugar, a base and a phosphate. But it had proved impossible to persuade the sugar and base to join up. The molecules were simply the wrong shape.

So Sutherland started trying totally different substances. Eventually his team homed in on five simple molecules, including a different sugar and cyanamide, which as the name suggests is related to cyanide. The team put these chemicals through a series of reactions that ultimately produced two of the four RNA nucleotides, without ever making standalone sugars or bases.

It was a slam-dunk success, and it made Sutherland's name.

Many observers interpreted the findings as further evidence for the RNA World. But Sutherland himself does not see it like that at all.

The "classic" RNA World hypothesis says that, in the first organisms, RNA was responsible for all the functions of life. But Sutherland says that is "hopelessly optimistic". He believes RNA was heavily involved, but it was not the be-all-and-end-all.

Instead, he takes inspiration from the recent work of Jack Szostak, which – as discussed in Chapter Five – combines the "replication-first" RNA World with Pier Luigi Luisi's "compartmentalisation-first" ideas.

But Sutherland goes further. His approach is "everything-first". He aims to make an entire cell assemble itself, from scratch.

His first clue was an odd detail about his nucleotide synthesis, which at first seemed incidental.

The last step in Sutherland's process was to bolt a phosphate onto the nucleotide. But he found that it was best to include the phosphate in the mix right from the start, because it accelerated the earlier reactions.

On the face of it, including the phosphate before it was strictly needed was a messy thing to do, but Sutherland found that this messiness was a good thing.

This led him to think about how messy his mixtures should be. On the early Earth, there must have been dozens or hundreds of chemicals all floating around together. That sounds like a recipe for a sludge, but maybe there was an optimum level of mess.

The mixtures Stanley Miller made back in the 1950s, which we looked at in Chapter One, were far messier than Sutherland's. They did contain biological molecules, but Sutherland says they "were in trace amounts and they were accompanied by a vast number of other compounds, which are not biological".

For Sutherland, this meant that Miller's setup was not good enough. It was too messy, so the good chemicals got lost in the mixture.

So Sutherland has set out to find a "Goldilocks chemistry": one that is not so messy that it becomes useless, but also not so simple that it is limited in what it can do. Get the mixture just complicated enough and all the components of life might form at once, then come together.

In other words, four billion years ago there was a pond on the Earth. It sat there for years until the mix of chemicals was just right. Then, perhaps within minutes, the first cell came into existence.

This may sound implausible, like the claims of medieval alchemists. But Sutherland's evidence is mounting. Since 2009, he has shown that the same chemistry that made his two RNA nucleotides can also make many of the other molecules of life.

The obvious next step was to make more RNA nucleotides. He has not yet managed this, but in 2010 he made closely-related molecules that could potentially transform into the nucleotides.

Similarly, in 2013 he made the precursors of amino acids. This time he needed to add copper cyanide to make the reactions go.

Cyanide-related chemicals were proving to be a common theme, and in 2015 Sutherland took them even further. He showed that the same pot of chemicals could also produce the precursors of lipids, the molecules that make up cell walls. The reactions were all driven by ultraviolet light, involved sulphur, and relied on copper to speed them up.

"All the building blocks [emerge] from a common core of chemical reactions," says Szostak.

If Sutherland is right, then our entire approach to the origin of life for the last 40 years has been wrong. Ever since the sheer complexity of the cell became clear, scientists have been working on the assumption that the first cells must have been constructed gradually, one piece at a time.

Following Leslie Orgel's proposal that RNA came first, researchers have been "trying to get one thing before another thing, and then have that invent the other", says Sutherland. But he thinks the best way is to make everything at once.

"What we've done is to challenge the idea that it's too complicated to make everything in one go," says Sutherland. "You certainly could make the building blocks for all the systems at once."

Szostak now suspects that most attempts to make the molecules of life, and to assemble them into living cells, have failed for the same reason: the experiments were too clean.

The scientists used the handful of chemicals they were interested in, and left out all the other ones that were probably present on the early Earth. But Sutherland's work shows that, by adding a few more chemicals to the mix, more complex phenomena can be created.

Szostak experienced this for himself in 2005, when he was trying to get his protocells to host an RNA enzyme. The enzyme needed magnesium, which destroyed the protocells' membranes.

The solution was a surprising one. Instead of making the vesicles out of one pure fatty acid, they made them from a mixture of two. These new, impure vesicles could cope with the magnesium – and that meant they could play host to working RNA enzymes.
What's more, Szostak says the first genes might also have embraced messiness.

Modern organisms use pure DNA to carry their genes, but pure DNA probably did not exist at first. There would have been a mixture of RNA nucleotides and DNA nucleotides.

In 2012 Szostak showed that such a mixture could assemble into "mosaic" molecules that looked and behaved pretty much like pure RNA. These jumbled RNA/DNA chains could even fold up neatly.

This suggested that it did not matter if the first organisms could not make pure RNA, or pure DNA. "I've really come back to the idea that the first polymer was something pretty close to RNA, a messier version of RNA," says Szostak.

There might even be room for the alternatives to RNA that have been cooked up in labs, like the TNA and PNA we met in Chapter Three. We do not know if any of them ever existed on Earth, but if they did the first organisms may well have used them alongside RNA.

This was not an RNA World: it was a "Hodge-Podge World".

The lesson from these studies is that making the first cell might not have been as hard as it once seemed. Yes, cells are intricate machines. But it turns out that they still work, albeit not quite as well, when they are flung together slapdash from whatever is to hand.

Such clumsy cells might seem unlikely to survive on the early Earth. But they would not have had much competition, and there were no threatening predators, so in many respects life may have been easier then than it is now.

There is one problem that neither Sutherland nor Szostak have found a solution for, and it is a big one. The first organism must have had some form of metabolism. Right from the start, life had to obtain energy or it would have died.

On that point, if on nothing else, Sutherland agrees with Mike Russell, Bill Martin and the other supporters of Chapter Four's metabolism-first theories. "While the RNA guys were fighting with the metabolism guys, both sides had a point," says Sutherland.

"The origins of metabolism have to be in there somehow," says Szostak. "The source of chemical energy is going to be the big question."

Even if Martin and Russell are wrong about life beginning in deep-sea vents, many elements of their theory are almost certainly correct. One is the importance of metals for the birth of life.

In nature, many enzymes have a metal atom at their core. This is often the "active" part of the enzyme, with the rest of the molecule essentially a support structure. The first life cannot have had these complex enzymes, so instead it probably used "naked" metals as catalysts.

Günter Wächtershäuser made this point when he suggested that life formed on iron pyrite. Similarly, Russell emphasises that the waters of hydrothermal vents are rich in metals, which could act as catalysts – and Martin's study of LUCA found a lot of iron-based enzymes.

In light of this, it is telling that many of Sutherland's chemical reactions rely on copper (and, incidentally, on the sulphur that Wächtershäuser also emphasised), and that the RNA in Szostak's protocells needs magnesium.

It may yet be that hydrothermal vents will turn out to be crucial. "If you look at modern metabolism, there's all these really suggestive things like iron-sulphur clusters," says Szostak. That fits the idea that life began in or around a vent, where the water is rich in iron and sulphur.

That said, if Sutherland and Szostak are on the right track, one aspect of the vent theory is definitely wrong: life cannot have begun in the deep sea.

"The chemistry we've uncovered is so dependent on UV [ultraviolet light]," says Sutherland. The only source of ultraviolet radiation is the Sun, so his reactions can only take place in sunny places. "It rules out a deep-sea vent scenario."

Szostak agrees that the deep sea was not life's nursery. "The worst thing is that it's isolated from atmospheric chemistry, which is the source of high-energy starting materials like cyanide."

But these problems do not rule out hydrothermal vents altogether. Perhaps the vents were simply in shallow water, where sunlight and cyanide could reach them.

Armen Mulkidjanian has suggested an alternative. Maybe life began on land, in a volcanic pond.

Mulkidjanian looked at the chemical makeup of cells: specifically, which chemicals they allow in and which they keep out. It turns out that all cells, regardless of what organism they belong to, contain a lot of phosphate, potassium and other metals – but hardly any sodium.

Nowadays, cells achieve this by pumping things in and out, but the first cells cannot have done so because they would not have had the necessary machinery. So Mulkidjanian suggested that the first cells formed somewhere that had roughly the same mix of chemicals as modern cells.

That immediately eliminates the ocean. Cells contain far higher levels of potassium and phosphate than the ocean ever has, and far less sodium.

Instead, it points to the geothermal ponds found near active volcanoes. These ponds have exactly the cocktail of metals found in cells.

Szostak is a fan. "I think my favourite scenario at the moment would be some kind of shallow lakes or ponds on the surface, in a geothermally-active area," he says. "You have hydrothermal vents but not like the deep-sea vents, more like the kind of vents we have in volcanic areas like Yellowstone."

Sutherland's chemistry might well work in such a place. The springs have the right chemicals, the water level fluctuates so some places will dry out at times, and there is plenty of ultraviolet radiation from the Sun.

What's more, Szostak says the ponds would be suitable for his protocells.

"The protocells could be relatively cool most of the time, which is good for RNA copying and other kinds of simple metabolism," says Szostak. "But every now and then they get heated up briefly, and that helps the strands of RNA come apart ready for the next round of replication." There would also be currents, driven by the streams of hot water, which could help the protocells divide.

Drawing on many of the same lines of argument, Sutherland has put forward a third option: a meteorite impact zone.

Earth was pounded by meteorites throughout its first half-billion years of existence – and has been occasionally struck ever since. A decent-sized impact would create a setup rather similar to Mulkidjanian's ponds.

First, meteorites are mostly made of metal. The impact zones tend to be rich in useful metals like iron, as well as sulphur. And crucially, meteorite impacts melt the Earth's crust, leading to geothermal activity and hot water.

Sutherland imagines small rivers and streams trickling down the slopes of an impact crater, leaching cyanide-based chemicals from the rocks while ultraviolet radiation pours down from above. Each stream would have a slightly different mix of chemicals, so different reactions would happen and a whole host of organic chemicals would be produced.

Finally the streams would flow into a volcanic pond at the bottom of the crater. It could have been in a pond like this that all the pieces came together and the first protocells formed.

"That's a very specific scenario," says Sutherland. But he chose it on the basis of the chemical reactions he has found. "It's the only one we can think of that's compatible with the chemistry."

Szostak is not sure either way, but he agrees that Sutherland's idea deserves careful attention. "I think the impact scenario is nice. I think the idea of volcanic systems might also work. There's some arguments in favour of each."

For now that debate looks set to rumble on. But it will not be decided on a whim. The decision will be driven by the chemistry and the protocells. If it turns out that one of the scenarios is missing a key chemical, or contains something that destroys protocells, it will be ruled out.

This means that, for the first time in history, we have the beginnings of a comprehensive explanation for how life began.

"Things are looking a lot more achievable," says Sutherland.

So far, the "everything-at-once" approach of Szostak and Sutherland offers only a sketchy narrative. But those steps that have been worked out are supported by decades of experiments.

The idea also draws on every approach to the origin of life. It attempts to harness all their good points, while at the same time solving all their problems. For instance, it does not so much try to disprove Russell's ideas about hydrothermal vents, but rather to incorporate their best elements.

We cannot know for sure what happened four billion years ago. "Even if you made a reactor and out pops E. coli on the other side… you still can't prove that we arose that way," says Martin.

The best we can ever do is to draw up a story that is consistent with all the evidence: with experiments in chemistry, with what we know about the early Earth, and with what biology reveals about the oldest forms of life. Finally, after a century of fractious effort, that story is coming into view.

That means we are approaching one of the great divides in human history: the divide between those who know the story of life's beginning, and those who never could.

Every single person who died before Darwin published Origin of Species in 1859 was ignorant of humanity's origins, because they knew nothing of evolution. But everyone alive now, barring isolated groups, can know the truth about our kinship with other animals.

Similarly, everyone born after Yuri Gagarin orbited the Earth in 1961 has lived in a society that can travel to other worlds. Even if we never go ourselves, space travel is a reality.

These facts change our worldview in subtle ways. Arguably, they make us wiser. Evolution teaches us to treasure every other living thing, for they are our cousins. Space travel allows us to see our world from a distance, revealing how unique and fragile it is.
Some of the people alive today will become the first in history who can honestly say they know where they came from. They will know what their ultimate ancestor was like and where it lived.

This knowledge will change us. On a purely scientific level, it will tell us about how likely life is to form in the Universe, and where to look for it. And it will tell us something about life's essential nature. But beyond that, we cannot yet know the wisdom the origin of life will reveal.

The Genesis Quest reviewed by Adam Roberts

7/10/2021

 
Picture
The Genesis Quest has been reviewed by science-fiction author Adam Roberts, on his blog Sibilant Fricative. You can read the full review here, but here's the opening paragraph:

"Usually I read books quickly, but this one took me a time, because each chapter is so full of toothsome detail: an expert's guided tour through the many and various scientists who have tried to answer the fundamental question, how did life arise on Earth? It's a question that entails a deeper one, ‘what is life, exactly?’ which Marshall does not shirk. The whole is written with wonderful clarity, occasional moments (especially in the footnotes) of nimble wit, and above all without cutting corners or skimming past any of its rich and fascinating narrative. I know a great deal more about crystals, cells, membranes, RNA, DNA and many other things now than I did before I read this."

I was particular excited about this one because I've been reading Roberts' books for many years. I read his early novels Salt, On and The Snow soon after they were published, and more recently I enjoyed The Thing Itself and have plans to read Purgatory Mount. I can't quite express how joyful it is when someone you've read reads you back, but it's peculiarly satisfying.

Towards the end of his review Roberts writes about consciousness, focusing on how it's seemingly a very recent phenomenon compared to the vast expanse of time for which life has existed on Earth. It so happens that a couple of days ago I gave a talk to Lichfield Science and Engineering Society about the origin of life, and afterwards an audience member asked me about consciousness. Specifically, they wanted to know what came first: life or consciousness?

The obvious answer is that life came first, that the simplest forms of life are wholly unconscious, and that consciousness is something that gradually emerged with the evolution of nervous systems and brains. Perhaps jellyfish have some sparse form of consciousness, but it's far more limited than ours.

This of course doesn't answer the famous "hard problem" of how consciousness can arise from non-conscious components. So some people instead argue for something called panpsychism: the idea that everything in the universe possesses a rudimentary form of consciousness and that in fact consciousness underpins everything. How, they ask, does a proton "know" that it's electromagnetically attracted to an electron, unless it's somehow conscious of it? A version of this idea is explored in Neal Stephenson's Baroque Cycle novels, beginning with Quicksilver. It's also there in Doctor Strange when the Ancient One says: "At the root of existence, mind and matter meet. Thoughts shape reality."

Intriguing as I find panpsychism, I'm dubious about it. I suspect the hard problem of consciousness is one of those things we just have to accept we can't solve. Most of the explanations I've seen for it seem to me to be (well-intentioned) tricks of language rather than true elucidations. There may be limitations to what we can know, and I think this might be one of them.

A video of me unboxing paperbacks of The Genesis Quest

19/8/2021

 
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