If one studies the titles in the Series of Unfortunate Events up to the
point at which I am currently stopped, an interesting pattern emerges.
While Lemony Snicket makes full use of his alliterative license in each
of the first four titles, only two of the titles contain an adjective
that could be construed as negative. In spite of the doom and gloom that
prevailed in the second and third volumes – including the demise of two
characters, one of which was particularly beloved – the orphans at
least were in the care of guardians who were benevolent, if a bit too
trusting (Uncle Monty) and a bit too paranoid (Aunt Josephine). One of
the signs that the guardian in The Miserable Mill will be
different is that there is no “uncle” attached to his moniker. We never
even learn his name. Like the mysterious first name of Spock, the
character in possession of it merely brushes it aside as
unpronounceable. What’s more, we do not see his face. The new caretaker
for Violet, Klaus and Sunny Baudelaire has a face that is forever
wreathed in cigar smoke. His contact with the children is minimal, and
they only know him as “Sir.”
All this would perhaps be of
little consequence if only the orphans were in suitable living
conditions. But the perpetually unlucky waifs go from a house teetering
on the edge of a cliff to a small bunk bed in a room full of mill
workers. Moreover, they are forced to work in the lumber mill
themselves, performing tasks far more difficult and dull than are
appropriate for minors. Trapped in this manual labor, they have no
leisure to invent or read or bite things, and the noise of the machinery
renders them unable to talk to one another. All of this is quite
dreadful, but Snicket really takes the agony up a notch with one of the
greatest of possible childhood calamities: a pair of busted glasses. I’m
almost surprised this didn’t happen to Klaus before, since it certainly
takes him out of the picture for a while. And that is perhaps the
scariest thing of all: the prospect of these Three Musketeers being
separated. In fact, this is the most likely tragedy to befall any given
set of contemporary orphans. Few will be hounded by evil men after their
fortune or dragged from one bizarre locale after another in search of a
guardian who will not keel over or kick them out. But many are
separated in the quest to place them in decent homes, and I would be
surprised if at some point in the series the inept executor Mr. Poe does
not try to separate the children from the only thing they have left in
this world: each other.
Happily, though, it has not come to
that yet. Still, I found this by far the darkest of the first four
books. Klaus does find himself separated from his sisters for a time,
with disastrous results. Each orphan must learn to think outside his or
her normal range of expertise in order to save the day when a sibling
more suited to the task is incapacitated. The fact that they have been
unable to exercise their ingenuity since their arrival at the mill can’t
help either. The days at the mill are dull and hopeless, not to mention
exhausting. Even living with Count Olaf was better than this – except,
of course, that Sir does not have any intention of killing them. That
doesn’t make him any more pleasant a character.
It’s up to
more minor folks to help maintain the orphans’ faith in the human race.
Though their guardian is cruel and unreasonable, the orphans find an
ally in his partner, Charles, a gentle man who agrees that it is unfair
to force youngsters to work in a mill. Unfortunately, Charles is a
pushover, completely unable to uphold his end of an argument against his
fierce cohort. Little better is Phil, the first person they meet upon
entering the dormitory at the outset of their stay. Snicket patiently
explains that Phil is an optimist, and as one can surmise, someone with
such an unconditionally cheery disposition really is out of place in the
midst of so much misery. Though he tries to sympathize with the
orphans’ plight, he can’t help but try to look on the bright side.
Sadly, Violet, Klaus and Sunny know all too well that “bright side” is
often still very dim indeed.
Snicket makes the orphans’ latest
home so unpleasant that we almost don’t miss Count Olaf when he fails
to show up early in the book. But he makes sure to remind us that the
devious fellow is always hot on the trail, and eventually he does make
an appearance, this time as a receptionist named Shirley (as in “Surely
you don’t expect anyone to fall for that get-up, Count Olaf!”). His
henchman actually plays a much larger role that is not revealed until
very late in the novel.
I didn’t find The Miserable Mill nearly as funny as The Wide Window.
I rarely caught myself laughing aloud, and none of the metaphors or
definitions struck me as particularly brilliant or witty. I did find it
interesting, however, how often Snicket referred to his own adventures
in this volume. I suspect that if I read his Unauthorized Autobiography
right now, it would make a lot more sense. There are plenty of
references to exceedingly odd things that happened to him, and he
brushes them off so nonchalantly as part of his educational endeavors
that the reader might be inclined to do a double-take, wondering about
the statement’s plausibility. What kind of life does this guy lead? It
becomes clearer and clearer that the narrator is a dynamic character in
and of himself, perhaps even more fully formed than the young
protagonists. Also of interest is the enigmatic Beatrice, the love of
Snicket’s life to whom every book thus far has been dedicated, in spite
of the fact imparted in this book that she dumped him before her death.
Does this woman have a real-life counterpart whose memory drives Daniel
Handler to write these stories, or is she just as artificial as the
Count and the Baudelaires?
I didn’t enjoy The Miserable Mill
quite as much as the others thus far, mainly because I felt grim was
overtaking silly to an uncomfortable level. I’m hoping there is a bit
more levity in the fifth book, which I suspect I will be starting very
soon. Nonetheless, the fourth book is a fine installment, most of which
is certainly deserving of the label “unfortunate.”
Monday, June 6, 2005
Saturday, June 4, 2005
Third Snicket Book Offers Wide Window Into Author's Demented Mind
When I learned that the film A Series of Unfortunate Events
covered not just the first volume in Lemony Snicket’s ingenious series
but the second and third as well, I decided it was high time I got
around to reading the second and third books. I did not want to go to
that movie without having read them. I fulfilled half of my ambition,
but it was only this week that I finally purchased and breezed through The Wide Window.
I couldn’t resist the lure of seeing Count Olaf on the big screen, even
if I had not yet encountered the scheme he would try on the poor
Baudelaire orphans in the third book.
I was worried, as I opened the third book in the series to the first thick page, that knowing the gist of the plot might detract from my enjoyment, but I needn’t have been concerned. In the delectable transition between the second and third paragraph, I was caught with a chortle in my throat, and I never looked back. As I read, I was just all the more aware of the fact that while Snicket is wildly inventive with his landscapes, characters and sticky situations, it is his distinctive narrative style, both demure and deranged, that truly captures my fancy. A part of me thinks I really shouldn’t find such horrible events so fiendishly entertaining. But his tone is so tantalizing I can’t help myself.
The fun begins on the back cover, where the author sees fit to place a warning that includes several items that may well steer the reader of gentle constitution away from his woeful chronicles. Now, I can buy that leeches, a villain, a hurricane and even cold cucumber soup are rather pernicious elements to include in a children’s tale, but what is so alarming about a signaling device and a doll named Pretty Penny? Only the stout of heart dare attempt to find out. From the outset of the book, we know the orphans are in for an especially dreary time. Not only are they in close proximity to such morose landmarks as Lake Lachrymose and Damocles Dock, but they are sent to live in a creaky house teetering at the top of a cliff and occupied by the most paranoid woman on the planet.
While this new guardian is not sinister like Count Olaf, the distant relation whom they know as Aunt Josephine is hardly the ideal companion that Uncle Monty was. I miss the jolly Scotsman with his wide array of snakes. Now we are stuck with an antiseptic old lady who fears doorknobs, phones, welcome mats, ovens and, above all, realtors. Aside from her panphobia, her most notable trait is her passion for the proper use of the English language. On a recent trip to my old elementary school, my esteemed middle school English teacher confided that she’d overheard a student refer to her as a “Grammar Nazi.” While I certainly don’t think that is a phrase fairly applied to my beloved instructor, it might just fit Aunt Josephine, who is so obsessed that she insists on pointing out that every word the infant Sunny says is grammatically incorrect.
As dreary as their lives with their new guardian are, inventive Violet, studious Klaus and teething Sunny are managing fairly well until the inevitable occurs. Count Olaf shows up in yet another disguise. I admit to finding a certain charm in the crusty sea captain – the appropriately named Captain Sham – though knowing right off the bat who he really is holds that attraction at bay. It is easy to see, however, how a miserable old sea widow could be taken in by a flattering old fellow whose leg was apparently eaten by the very leeches that took her husband’s life. Most of the adults in this series are laughably incompetent, particularly Mr. Poe, the executor of the Baudelaire estate. Though he’s kind-hearted enough, he is utterly blind when it comes to detecting the Count’s schemes. It’s a good thing that the orphans are both precocious and industrious. It’s an even better thing that in spite of all the misfortune that comes their way, the three children have one another, which makes even the grimmest situations somewhat bearable.
I’m conflicted as to the time frame of this series. The design of the books, from the hardcover format with uneven pages to the gothic line drawings, seems old-fashioned, as do the children themselves. The girls wear dresses; Klaus wears a suit. They do not speak like contemporary children, and I am curious to see whether other children will show any more signs of modernity when I finally encounter them in the fifth book. The presence of cars places the series firmly in the twentieth century, while the distasteful neon lights at the Anxious Clown restaurant indicate a time even closer to the present. I get the sense the time period is meant to be ambiguous, while allowing for the possibility that such fantastic – a word which here means “fantastically awful” – adventures can indeed occur in modern society.
One of the most distinctive things about Snicket’s books are their overt didacticism. He constantly addresses the audience, issuing warnings, unleashing unlikely metaphors and, most frequently, delivering practical vocabulary lessons. Sometimes he allows one of the characters to do the defining for him, as in this amusing exchange in the first chapter that recalls Airplane:
Mr. Poe: It didn’t seem polite to ask how she became a dowager. Well, let’s put you in a taxi.
Violet: What does that word mean?
Mr. Poe: (raising eyebrows) I’m surprised at you, Violet. A girl of your age should know that a taxi is a car which will drive you someplace for a fee...
Klaus: (whispered to Violet) Dowager is a fancy word for ‘widow.’
Mostly, however, he just sticks the meanings in himself, either providing a general, all-purpose definition or furnishing one specific to the occasion. Occasionally he steps aside to attack an idiom, giving an interesting etymological lesson and a bit of foreshadowing all rolled into one.
In this book, there is even more education than usual, as every other sentence out of Aunt Josephine’s mouth is some sort of grammar lesson. Of course, this is intended not so much to be useful as to demonstrate that even helpful things like grammar can become destructive if they are obsessed over to excess. This is a lesson in itself, however, and a very practical one at that. It is selfish to be more concerned about punctuation than the welfare of orphans, and it is foolish to correct the grammar of one who holds your life in his hands. While reading The Wide Window might be a worthwhile exercise for someone eager to get a head start on studying for the English portion of the SAT, this is not the only subject in which a reader might find himself educated. Violet’s fascination with inventions and Klaus’ love of reading combine to make for many opportunities for scientific epiphanies. The most notable of such discoveries in this tome involves the aforementioned signaling device. Moreover, there are historical facts to be garnered, and Snicket makes mention of such notable figures as Alexander the Great and Archduke Ferdinand.
My favorite examples of Snicket’s attempts to impart knowledge, however, are in his metaphors and explanatory illustrations, which range from ludicrously obvious to patently bizarre. These are the moments that most often cause me to chuckle. I suspect certain passages affect particular readers differently, and each reader must make his or her own search for those gems of sentences that especially stand out. As for me, I cannot resist sharing the two that made me laugh loudest and longest:
If you are allergic to a thing, it is best not to put that thing in your mouth, particularly if the thing is cats. (p. 102)
Stealing is not excusable if, for instance, you are in a museum and you decide that a certain painting would look better in your house, and you simply grab the painting and take it there. But if you were very, very hungry, and you had no way of obtaining money, it might be excusable to grab the painting, take it to your house, and eat it. (p. 136-7)
While The Reptile Room was particularly enjoyable for me thanks to the warmth of kindly Uncle Monty, The Wide Window, whose overall tone was gloomier, did a better job of tickling my funny bone, and that was mostly due to random narratorial comments such as those listed above. The Baudelaire orphans may be unreasonably unfortunate to be subject to so much misery, but we are extremely fortunate to have Lemony Snicket so astutely chronicling their adventures.
I was worried, as I opened the third book in the series to the first thick page, that knowing the gist of the plot might detract from my enjoyment, but I needn’t have been concerned. In the delectable transition between the second and third paragraph, I was caught with a chortle in my throat, and I never looked back. As I read, I was just all the more aware of the fact that while Snicket is wildly inventive with his landscapes, characters and sticky situations, it is his distinctive narrative style, both demure and deranged, that truly captures my fancy. A part of me thinks I really shouldn’t find such horrible events so fiendishly entertaining. But his tone is so tantalizing I can’t help myself.
The fun begins on the back cover, where the author sees fit to place a warning that includes several items that may well steer the reader of gentle constitution away from his woeful chronicles. Now, I can buy that leeches, a villain, a hurricane and even cold cucumber soup are rather pernicious elements to include in a children’s tale, but what is so alarming about a signaling device and a doll named Pretty Penny? Only the stout of heart dare attempt to find out. From the outset of the book, we know the orphans are in for an especially dreary time. Not only are they in close proximity to such morose landmarks as Lake Lachrymose and Damocles Dock, but they are sent to live in a creaky house teetering at the top of a cliff and occupied by the most paranoid woman on the planet.
While this new guardian is not sinister like Count Olaf, the distant relation whom they know as Aunt Josephine is hardly the ideal companion that Uncle Monty was. I miss the jolly Scotsman with his wide array of snakes. Now we are stuck with an antiseptic old lady who fears doorknobs, phones, welcome mats, ovens and, above all, realtors. Aside from her panphobia, her most notable trait is her passion for the proper use of the English language. On a recent trip to my old elementary school, my esteemed middle school English teacher confided that she’d overheard a student refer to her as a “Grammar Nazi.” While I certainly don’t think that is a phrase fairly applied to my beloved instructor, it might just fit Aunt Josephine, who is so obsessed that she insists on pointing out that every word the infant Sunny says is grammatically incorrect.
As dreary as their lives with their new guardian are, inventive Violet, studious Klaus and teething Sunny are managing fairly well until the inevitable occurs. Count Olaf shows up in yet another disguise. I admit to finding a certain charm in the crusty sea captain – the appropriately named Captain Sham – though knowing right off the bat who he really is holds that attraction at bay. It is easy to see, however, how a miserable old sea widow could be taken in by a flattering old fellow whose leg was apparently eaten by the very leeches that took her husband’s life. Most of the adults in this series are laughably incompetent, particularly Mr. Poe, the executor of the Baudelaire estate. Though he’s kind-hearted enough, he is utterly blind when it comes to detecting the Count’s schemes. It’s a good thing that the orphans are both precocious and industrious. It’s an even better thing that in spite of all the misfortune that comes their way, the three children have one another, which makes even the grimmest situations somewhat bearable.
I’m conflicted as to the time frame of this series. The design of the books, from the hardcover format with uneven pages to the gothic line drawings, seems old-fashioned, as do the children themselves. The girls wear dresses; Klaus wears a suit. They do not speak like contemporary children, and I am curious to see whether other children will show any more signs of modernity when I finally encounter them in the fifth book. The presence of cars places the series firmly in the twentieth century, while the distasteful neon lights at the Anxious Clown restaurant indicate a time even closer to the present. I get the sense the time period is meant to be ambiguous, while allowing for the possibility that such fantastic – a word which here means “fantastically awful” – adventures can indeed occur in modern society.
One of the most distinctive things about Snicket’s books are their overt didacticism. He constantly addresses the audience, issuing warnings, unleashing unlikely metaphors and, most frequently, delivering practical vocabulary lessons. Sometimes he allows one of the characters to do the defining for him, as in this amusing exchange in the first chapter that recalls Airplane:
Mr. Poe: It didn’t seem polite to ask how she became a dowager. Well, let’s put you in a taxi.
Violet: What does that word mean?
Mr. Poe: (raising eyebrows) I’m surprised at you, Violet. A girl of your age should know that a taxi is a car which will drive you someplace for a fee...
Klaus: (whispered to Violet) Dowager is a fancy word for ‘widow.’
Mostly, however, he just sticks the meanings in himself, either providing a general, all-purpose definition or furnishing one specific to the occasion. Occasionally he steps aside to attack an idiom, giving an interesting etymological lesson and a bit of foreshadowing all rolled into one.
In this book, there is even more education than usual, as every other sentence out of Aunt Josephine’s mouth is some sort of grammar lesson. Of course, this is intended not so much to be useful as to demonstrate that even helpful things like grammar can become destructive if they are obsessed over to excess. This is a lesson in itself, however, and a very practical one at that. It is selfish to be more concerned about punctuation than the welfare of orphans, and it is foolish to correct the grammar of one who holds your life in his hands. While reading The Wide Window might be a worthwhile exercise for someone eager to get a head start on studying for the English portion of the SAT, this is not the only subject in which a reader might find himself educated. Violet’s fascination with inventions and Klaus’ love of reading combine to make for many opportunities for scientific epiphanies. The most notable of such discoveries in this tome involves the aforementioned signaling device. Moreover, there are historical facts to be garnered, and Snicket makes mention of such notable figures as Alexander the Great and Archduke Ferdinand.
My favorite examples of Snicket’s attempts to impart knowledge, however, are in his metaphors and explanatory illustrations, which range from ludicrously obvious to patently bizarre. These are the moments that most often cause me to chuckle. I suspect certain passages affect particular readers differently, and each reader must make his or her own search for those gems of sentences that especially stand out. As for me, I cannot resist sharing the two that made me laugh loudest and longest:
If you are allergic to a thing, it is best not to put that thing in your mouth, particularly if the thing is cats. (p. 102)
Stealing is not excusable if, for instance, you are in a museum and you decide that a certain painting would look better in your house, and you simply grab the painting and take it there. But if you were very, very hungry, and you had no way of obtaining money, it might be excusable to grab the painting, take it to your house, and eat it. (p. 136-7)
While The Reptile Room was particularly enjoyable for me thanks to the warmth of kindly Uncle Monty, The Wide Window, whose overall tone was gloomier, did a better job of tickling my funny bone, and that was mostly due to random narratorial comments such as those listed above. The Baudelaire orphans may be unreasonably unfortunate to be subject to so much misery, but we are extremely fortunate to have Lemony Snicket so astutely chronicling their adventures.
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