One of the most notable instances of dramatic license in Jurassic Park is the venom-spitting Dilophosaurus. As far as we know, neither Dilos nor any other dinosaur had venom, let alone used it as a projectile weapon.
But that’s only as far as we know. As Dino Dad Reviews noted on Twitter, there’s a lot that we don’t even realize we don’t know when it comes to dinosaurs:
This is well worth noting. In the novel, this “unknown unknown” underscores the deadly risk the park’s managers have taken in resurrecting extinct animals and keeping them captive:
I can understand if people are simply annoyed that it’s [i.e., a venomous Dilo] an overused trope in pop culture now, but the idea as originally in JP is entirely reasonable, not too different from the informed speculation of All Yesterdays.
Chrichton includes this to build upon the theme of what All Yesterdays calls “unknown unknowns” in he study of prehistory. Things that we aren’t simply unsure about, but are completely surprised by because we had no particular reason to suspect them.
Knowledge has its limits. Moreover, there are limits to what is knowable at all. It’s a recurring theme in Crichton’s work.
His protagonists tend to be scientists, researchers, academics, experts—people whose business is to know their stuff. They find themselves confronting the subjects of their expertise in visceral and unexpected ways. Paleontologist Alan Grant must traverse an island populated with live dinosaurs in Jurassic Park; primatologist Peter Elliot faces off against a murderous breed of apes in Congo; and medievalist and experimental archaeologist André Marek gets stranded in fourteenth-century France in Timeline.
Readers be warned: spoilers for Crichton’s Micro and Congo in the next paragraph.
Sometimes the characters’ specialized knowledge saves them. In Micro, when a group of young scientists find themselves shrunk to insect size, they survive by weaponizing their own research projects. And in Congo, the expedition members escape the jungle after Elliot is able to decipher the apes’ language.
Time and time again, however, Crichton’s characters confront the limits of their expertise. It’s not that their expertise is defective. In fact, many of his protagonists are exceptional and ambitious researchers with impeccable academic pedigrees. But their academic training and research can’t prepare them for the unknowable unknowns.
That’s especially true of the characters who study the past. The distant past, by its very nature, is something one can’t experience firsthand, at least not in its totality. Both Jurassic Park‘s Grant and Timeline‘s Marek specialize in long-dead subjects. When they encounter these subjects as living, breathing antagonists, the experience takes them across the frontiers of what is knowable in their respective disciplines.
Marek is an avid practitioner of living history. Steeped in medieval languages and customs, he practices jousting and archery in his spare time. When a time traveling accident leaves him and and his colleagues marooned in medieval France, he’s the only one who seems right at home.When he watches his first authentic, fourteenth-century sword match, however, it’s disconcerting:
A fellow time traveler asks, “André, is everything all right?” Marek replies that he has a lot to learn.
In Crichton’s thrillers, the problem of unknowable unknowns is the stuff of life or death. For those of us who study the past here in the real world, a world without time machines and de-extinction, the problem is less immediate. But it’s still one worth considering.
Like Marek, we all have a lot to learn about the times and places we study. If we could travel to the settings of our own work, what unknowns would surprise us? And how should an awareness that these unknowns exist inform our study of what we think we can know?