Edwardless Bella Turns Evel Knievel in Stephenie Meyer's New Moon

I’ve been hearing a lot about Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight series over the past few years, so I figured it was about time for me to read the books and see what all the fuss was about. I recently finished New Moon, the second book in the series, and found it better than the first in some ways and worse in others.

Once again, the book is narrated by Bella Swan, a fairly ordinary 18-year-old living with her father, a police chief, in the gloomy town of Forks, Washington. As the book begins, life is good for Bella. She and her father get along well, and she’s in a stable, albeit strange, relationship with Edward Cullen, the man of her dreams. What’s more, she gets to hang out with his family, who she loves, particularly his effusive sister Alice and tender mother Esme. But Bella is not happy, since turning 18 means being older than Edward, who, as a vampire, is permanently stuck at the age of 17, when he was bitten. It’s a painful reminder to her that no matter how deeply she and Edward care for one another, their time together is limited by her mortality.

I expected that Bella would spend most of the book in a tug-of-war with Edward, trying to convince him to transform her into a vampire like him, an act that he unselfishly refuses to take because he believes that it would destroy her soul. To my surprise, however, Edward vanished after the first few chapters and remained absent for the majority of the book. I can’t imagine that this was a popular decision among readers who had so eagerly anticipated another 600 pages of the exquisite Edward. It was aggravating for me too, especially toward the beginning, when Bella is so bogged down in the enormity of her loss that it becomes painful to read. Then again, there’s the sweetness of anticipation, as you just know that Edward is going to show up again before the book is over.

Edward leaves Bella amid claims he no longer loves her, but after watching seasons of such behavior from Clark Kent on Smallville, it was pretty obvious to me that this was just a line he gave her in order to make their parting for her own protection more permanent. His departure follows a minor accident that demonstrates how dangerous Bella’s position is, even among vampires as benevolent as Edward and his “family”. I was disturbed to find myself siding with Bella, wishing Edward would just bite Bella already and end the complications.

But New Moon removes Bella from Edward long enough for her to form an attachment to someone else, building a relationship that feels much more authentic and healthy, a love forged in friendship without all the obsessive underpinnings. She eases the incessantly referenced hole in her heart by palling around with Jacob Black, who is a couple of years younger than her. Cheerful and easy to talk to, he helps her to come out of a four-month-long stupor – until he suddenly becomes distant. It turns out that Jacob has a secret too. He is a werewolf, and werewolves and vampires are natural enemies.

On the whole, I found Jacob a more interesting companion for Bella than Edward. They seem to be more on equal footing, as opposed to Edward’s obvious superiority, which Bella describes for us ad nauseam. In this book, the pain is so raw that Bella rarely allows herself to think about Edward, which means we’re spared a lot of tedious praise of his various perfections. However, she spends far too much time complaining about the gaping hole Edward left in her chest. The book invites comparisons with Romeo and Juliet, particularly since Bella draws such comparisons herself. As someone who never found that story romantic, I can’t say that was encouraging, though I did appreciate Bella’s sudden empathy for Paris as she assigned that part in the tale to Jacob.

I always thought that Romeo and Juliet were a couple of stupid teenagers who were all too willing to destroy their lives and tear their families apart for the sake of a powerful infatuation. Though Bella and Edward are generally more considerate of how their actions affect others, each finds the thought of living while the other is dead unendurable. There’s a religious fervor to their devotion; Bella decides that she can survive Edward’s abandonment, just as long as she knows that somewhere out there, he exists. He later confesses to similar feelings, and when he is led to believe that Bella has committed suicide, he immediately tries to follow suit.

Bella, at least, does not attempt suicide in this book, but she does indulge in several horribly dangerous stunts, partly out of a spiteful desire to break her promise to Edward not to do anything reckless and partly because, when the adrenaline really starts pumping, she starts hearing his voice in her head, as clearly as if he was standing next to her. This destructive behavior is one of the most problematic elements of the book, and a reflection of the dangerously obsessive nature of this particular romance. The sequence in which Edward finally comes back into the picture is the most vivid in the series thus far, all set into motion by a stupid misunderstanding that makes the comparison to Romeo and Juliet even more appropriate. It concludes with a scene that, despite leaving almost everything to the imagination, has given me several nightmares, making me question whether I want to continue with the series.

I probably will, though, if only out of interest in some of the supporting characters, especially Alice, who I have found to be the most intriguing and likable character in the series. This book drops more hints about her back story that I’m hoping are explored more deeply in Eclipse and Breaking Dawn. I’m also curious as to whether Bella’s father Charlie will eventually be let in on the secret. I like the fact that New Moon allowed readers to focus a little bit more on other characters instead of all Edward, all the time, and Meyers’ more overt broaching of religious subjects encourages some deep discussion. But the book never really offers a clear condemnation of Bella’s reckless behavior, so parents should definitely be on the lookout for that. Neither Edward nor Bella wants the other hurt, but they ought to treat themselves with the same sort of care.

Edward Cullen Sets Hearts Aflutter in Twilight

I first heard of Twilight two or three years ago when a couple of my friends began gushing about how much they loved the series. Gradually, I noticed that more and more of my friends had read it, and with the release of the movie last year, anything connected with Twilight flew off the shelves of the kiosk where I was working. I heard comparisons to Harry Potter and followed along with discussions about its literary and spiritual merits. Finally, I decided that I needed to check it out for myself.

Twilight is the first book in the series. It’s narrated by Bella Swan, the nondescript daughter of divorced parents who has just left her emotionally immature mother in Arizona for her preoccupied father in dreary Forks, Washington. Bella is a bit of an oddball who doesn’t mingle naturally with others. She manages to make a few friends at her new school but is fairly bored by their interactions. The only thing that makes her new life bearable is her fascination with one particular group of students, a cluster of gorgeous, aloof siblings, one of whom sits next to her in science class. His name is Edward, and it doesn’t take long for him to turn into an all-encompassing obsession.

Bella has a few distinct traits. She’s described as having brown hair and pale features. She’s absurdly klutzy, constantly inflicting injury on herself. On the other hand, she’s industrious, a good student and a capable housekeeper who cheerfully takes care of all the household tasks, especially cooking. She’s also kind-hearted, despite being rather wrapped up in herself. On the whole, however, she’s not an especially well-defined character, and I get the impression that author Stephenie Meyer mostly intended for her readers to insert themselves into Bella’s shoes, to become her for the duration of the series. Because nobody, it seems, reads the books for Bella. They read it for Edward.

Edward Cullen is a 17-year-old with hard, alabaster skin, bronze hair and angelic features. He’s seductive, chivalrous and wholly devoted to the frail, plain Bella, who can’t understand why anyone as perfect as him would single out someone as average as her. To some extent, one could say that it was love at first sniff. No one in the world smells as beautiful to Edward as Bella does. Unfortunately, that makes their relationship Bella’s most dangerous circumstance yet, because Edward is a vampire. A vampire who has no intention whatsoever of giving into his thirst for Bella, but who suspects the best way to avoid that possibility is to stay away from her altogether. But Edward is just as deeply in love as Bella is, so abandonment isn’t that easy.

It’s easy to see the attraction of Edward, as well as the objections. On the plus side, here is a man who is never going to age physically. He’ll always be young and gorgeous. What’s more, he’s incredibly romantic and protective. And, at least at this point, his courtship with Bella is quite chaste. On the other hand, he’s about a century old, which makes his dalliance with Bella a tad creepy, especially when one considers the fact that he sneaks into her house at night, sometimes when even she isn’t aware of it. He’s also very condescending, and he doesn’t really offer Bella the chance to make decisions for herself.  Additionally, though he is always worried about Bella hurting herself, he drives like a maniac while she is in the car with him, laughing as he lets the spedometer creep up to twice the speed limit. 

Though the Harry Potter comparisons are what I most often hear, the similarities there are limited. Of course, Robert Pattinson plays Cedric in one film series and Edward in the other. Both series have stirred up considerable controversy. Both concern a supernatural population kept hidden from the greater public. Moreover, Bella’s attraction to Edward’s “family,” who in fact are not related to one another at all, feels similar to the delight Harry takes in the Weasley family. But Bella has parents of her own, and though they are separated, each clearly cares about her a great deal, so she’s hardly an orphan. Additionally, while J. K. Rowling’s world is full of color and inventive elements, Meyer’s is drab and shadowy, and melodramatic Twilight could sorely use a dose of Rowling’s humor. One might argue that both series are ultimately about one thing: love. But Harry Potter delves most deeply into the idea of sacrificial love, while Twilight is all about romance. A romance for which Bella may indeed sacrifice her life as she knows it, but the benefit, it seems, would be to her and Edward alone. This is a lot less like Harry Potter than it is like Romeo and Juliet. Bella and Edward are all wrong for each other, but they’re determined to have a go at it anyway.

While I understand why Edward is so appealing, Meyer lays the adulation on a little thick. Scarcely a page goes by in which Bella fails to mention some element of his perfection, and she quickly runs out of new ways to say it, so the novel starts to sound pretty repetitive. To be honest, I found myself much more interested in some of the side characters, particularly Edward’s bubbly, compassionate “sister” Alice, who is able to catch glimpses of the possible future, and warm, heroic Cullen patriarch Carlisle, who is the oldest of the bunch and has become so disciplined after centuries of practice that he is able to work as a surgeon without being tempted by the smell of human blood. He and the others in his family feast only on animal blood, making them less of a threat than just about any other vampires in the world. Nonetheless, not all members of the family have Carlisle’s self-control, so they still aren’t exactly safe, at least as long as Bella is human.

Going back to Harry Potter, that series is quite preoccupied with death, and so is Twilight. All of super-villain Voldemort’s actions are motivated by his desire to conquer death, and we see other characters toy with that prospect. Ultimately, the series seems to confirm headmaster Albus Dumbledore’s comment that there are things far worse than death, and at the moment, this is how Edward feels. But Bella desperately wants to bypass the natural order of things in order to become an equal to Edward, no longer a liability, no longer doomed to grow old while her true love remains young and vital. Bella is determined to be transformed into a vampire, despite Edward’s fear that becoming a vampire destroys one’s soul. This conflict finds no resolution in the first book, but the two points of view could create some interesting fodder for discussion.

I’m only halfway through the series myself. I’ll probably finish it, but I’m not committed to doing so. These are not characters who have seeped into my soul, and after two more books, I doubt they will be any more real to me than Lemony Snicket’s Baudelaire orphans - and at least those books were hilarious. Nonetheless, as I was reading, I couldn’t stop turning the pages. I was engrossed enough that I had to know what would happen next and impressed with the many positive qualities various members of the Cullen clan display. I wouldn’t recommend the series to children younger than high school, and I do think that parents would do well to read the books themselves so they can talk about some of their more unsettling elements; some worthwhile conversations could result. As for me, I’ll still take Cedric Diggory over Edward Cullen – and Neville Longbottom over Cedric Diggory – but I see no need to toss Edward on the bonfire.

Number 2400: Remembering Mary Travers With Peter, Paul & Mary's Carry It On

Three years ago, my parents and I saw Peter, Paul and Mary in concert in Chautauqua, NY, a lovely community about an hour away from my house where, as is it happens, Peter Yarrow spent some time as a child. I'd been a fan of the trio for more than 15 years at that point, and they'd long been among the top bands I hoped to see in concert. Watching their Christmas special on PBS most years was a nice teaser, but I'm so glad that I was able to actually be there once and feel the energy emanating between the stage and the audience.

At that concert, I purchased a boxed set called Carry It On, which contains four discs and more than 80 of the trio's songs. Naturally, whoever was selling the souvenirs gave me the impression that this set was exclusively available through them, so I felt a little foolish when I got online the next day and found out I could have bought it from Amazon and saved about thirty dollars. But I was caught up in the moment, and these four discs get a lot of play in our minivan. Now, as I ruminate on the life and impact of Mary Travers, who died yesterday at the age of 72, it seems the perfect time to share my thoughts on this boxed set.

Carry It On reminds me of Old Friends, the Simon and Garfunkel collection I've just about played into the ground since we ordered it from Columbia House more than a decade ago. Through the songs and the detailed accompanying booklet, it takes fans through the band's history. Of course, while the Simon and Garfunkel set is fairly exhaustive, as they were really only a duo for half a dozen years, Peter, Paul and Mary's song catalog stretches across more than four decades. Nonetheless, chances are that you'll find your favorite Peter, Paul and Mary song here, especially if you're a casual fan.

Disc One

My introduction to Peter, Paul and Mary came the summer I stayed with my aunt Nancy. Every morning of my visit, I awoke to the dulcet tones of Peter, Paul and Mary in their folkiest phase, singing well-worn classics like the morose, yearning 500 Miles and If I Had a Hammer, one of the most jubilant songs of the civil rights movement. Both of those songs are found here, along with 20 others. Other standouts include the chipper Lemon Tree, so ironically referenced in Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried; the childlike It's Raining, whose snoring old man I sang about on many a dreary day as a youngster; the forlorn anti-war anthem Where Have All the Flowers Gone, which my extended family sang at my great-grandpa's funeral dinner; and Puff, The Magic Dragon, perhaps the ultimate PPM song, which has been depressing me since I first heard it as a toddler and which, I still assert, has nothing to do with drugs.

This Land Is Your Land is another exuberant folk song, and of every song we sang at that 2006 concert, this tribute to the beauty and ideals of America had us singing the loudest. A'Soalin' harmoniously combines social justice with Christmas cheer and includes two of the band members' names in the process. Blowin' in the Wind forcefully demonstrates the fact that Bob Dylan's brilliant songwriting skills are best appreciated when his songs are interpreted by artists with less abrasive voices; I always think of this as the quintessential Dylan song and their version as the most iconic. Stewball is a cheerful, oddball song about an eccentric racehorse that gives Paul Stookey a chance to shine, while Paultalk is a pure stand-up comedy routine that reminds me a bit of something Bill Cosby might do.

Other songs on this disc include Early in the Morning / Buddy, Can You Spare a Dime?; If I Had My Way; Autumn to May; Gone the Rainbow; Flora; Old Coat; Polly Von; All My Trials; Don't Think Twice, It's All Right and Freight Train.

Disc Two

Most of these songs come from quite early in the trio's repertoire as well. Bob Dylan is twice represented. When Simon and Garfunkel covered The Times They Are a Changin' on their first album, it sounded rushed and a bit shrill, but Peter, Paul and Mary's version rings with sincerity, and Mary's gentle delivery of the rebuke of the parents softens the song a great deal. When the Ship Comes In is a jubilant tune filled with biblical imagery, foreseeing a better day in the not-so-distant future. I don't know how big an impact PPM had on Dylan's career, but they brought many artists more recognition with their carefully crafted covers, among them Gordon Lightfoot, whose mournful Early Mornin' Rain and mocking For Lovin' Me are on this disc, and Tom Paxton, whose gently remorseful The Last Thing On My Mind is here. There's little question they helped launch John Denver's career with their rendition of Leaving on a Jet Plane, which appears on the third disc; they covered several of his other songs as well, with Mary often taking the lead, as she does on this disc's gentle For Baby (For Bobbie), the tender love song she reinterprets as a lullaby.

The first few songs on this disc are live tracks, which gives a good feel for how interactive their concerts could be. Blue is a hilarious number in which the trio, particularly Paul, spoof rock and roll by applying it to a traditional children's song. The audience eats it right up, prompting Paul to jovially point out that it's a satire. Oh, Rock My Soul and Come and Go With Me are both gospel songs in which the audience gets very involved. Both are songs I remember singing in church and grade school; their simple lyrics and catchy melodies make them ideal for large groups of people.

Another traditional favorite that turns up on this disc is Gilgarra Mountain, otherwise known as Whiskey in the Jar. Usually it's a rowdy drinking song, with Metallica's version particularly raucous, but Peter delivers it gently, with a soft Irish lilt and acoustic backing, making it by far the mellowest version I've heard, and my favorite. The Cruel War has Mary taking the lead as a woebegone young maiden desperate to join her love as he goes off to war. The ending seems happy, though I can't help but wonder what happens to the couple after they go forth into battle together. Mary also is prominent in And When I Die, a reflection on death that manages to be bleak and optimistic at the same time. This is the song that's been running through my head most since I heard the news of her death.

Other songs on this disc include Three Ravens; Jimmy Whalen; Wasn't That a Time; Monday Morning; San Francisco Bay Blues; First Time Ever I Saw Your Face; Il Faut Qu'Il Vienne le Temps (If I Were Free); Kisses Sweeter Than Wine; Hurry Sundown; Mon Vrai Destin and Well, Well, Well.

Disc Three

This disc tends to get the least play of the four, but it's still full of great tracks. The aforementioned Leaving on a Jet Plane, which wound up being Peter, Paul and Mary's only number one hit, is a definite standout. The Great Mandella and Conscientious Objector (I Shall Die) are songs that powerfully demonstrate the trio's opposition to war, while Day Is Done is a soothing lullaby that seems to take such frightening world events into consideration.

The Song Is Love is simple but lovely, and I Have a Song to Sing, O! is silly and chipper. Going to the Zoo is a boisterous, memorable children's song by Tom Paxton, as is Marvelous Toy, one of the most entertaining songs the trio recorded, though I prefer the version from their Christmas concert. Mary honors John Denver again with the warm, welcoming Follow Me, while Paul puts his commitment to Christianity to words with Wedding Song (There Is Love), which became the cornerstone of his charitable foundation.

The three come together joyously for Weave Me the Sunshine, which brims with optimism. I first encountered this song in the cartoon Puff the Magic Dragon, in which it forms the backdrop to a much more cheerful ending than the song offers. In my mind, it's always accompanied by trippy images, but I don't mind. It's probably my favorite track, with the possible exception of the witty I Dig Rock and Roll Music, in which the trio mercilessly skewers Donovan, the Beatles, the Mamas and the Papas and the state of contemporary music in general.

Other songs on this disc include The Other Side of This Life / Single Girl; Sometime Lovin'; The Good Times We Had; No Other Name; House Song; Too Much of Nothing; Moments of Soft Persuasion; Hymn; Leatherwing Bat; Because All Men Are Brothers and By Surprise.

Disc Four

This collection of songs from their later years together has fewer tracks than any of the other discs, but it's the one we're most likely to listen through without skipping. Such Is Love is an especially harmonious ode to the value of mature love. Wild Places has a spiritual bent to it as well as an environmental message, while There But For Fortune encourages empathy for those on the fringes of society. Inspired by a newspaper article, the deceptively peppy El Salvador chronicles some of the atrocities taking place there, and No Easy Walk to Freedom enthusiastically embraces the struggles that come with working toward social justice, invoking such leaders as Martin Luther King, Jr. and Nelson Mandela.

Greenland Whale Fisheries is a tragic but oh-so-catchy sea shanty featuring glorious flute accompaniment, and Bob Dylan's It Ain't Me, Babe is a bitter song railing against unrealistic expectations in relationships. Children Go Where I Send Thee and Light One Candle are two of the most interactive songs from the Christmas album I grew up with. The first celebrates Christianity, the second Judaism, though it is just as much a social justice anthem as a remembrance of Hanukkah.

Peter, Paul and Mary have always had a rapport with children, and that especially comes across on this disc. Right Field features Paul, embracing his youthful side as he slips into the head of a clumsy kid who finally gets a shot at glory in game of baseball with his playmates. The Fox is a fast-paced folktale about a bushy-tailed father providing for his family, and The Garden Song, in which the trio is joined by a chorus of kids, is pleasantly repetitive, simply demonstrating the process by which a garden grows. The Kid, which I first heard on Art Garfunkel's Everything Waits to Be Noticed, is the epic reflection of a perpetual daydreamer, while It's Magic celebrates the remarkable moments everyday life can bring. Don't Laugh at Me, the final song in the collection, is the theme of their anti-bullying initiative. Taking the child's perspective, it explores all sorts of differences that might lead to teasing and encourages compassion instead of derision. Similarly, All Mixed Up celebrates unique elements of individual cultures while acknowledging the advantage of learning from each other.

Other songs on this disc include Greenwood; Pastures of Plenty and Mi Caballo.

Peter, Paul and Mary made an incredible mark on music for nearly half a century, and both through personal involvement and inspiration to others, they helped to bring about many positive changes in our world. Their deep affection for one another and their incredible talent fused to make them one of the most organic groups I've ever heard. They sounds as though they were born to find one another; even their names - with a slight tweaking on Noel Paul Stookey's part - fit together perfectly. With Mary's death, the world has lost one of its loveliest voices, and I can only imagine how bereft her longtime singing partners must feel. But what a rich legacy she left behind!

Budge Wilson Imagines Anne's Life Before Green Gables

I've been on an Anne of Green Gables kick lately, so when I ran out of L. M. Montgomery's Anne books, I decided to read Before Green Gables, the prequel released in conjunction with the 100th anniversary of the publication of the original novel. Canadian author Budge Wilson tackles the tale of Anne's life prior to her life-changing encounter with Matthew Cuthbert. Based on what Montgomery's Anne had to say about her early years, I expected a prequel would be pretty grim, and Wilson's certainly is that. Virtually gone is the humor so characteristic of Montgomery's stories, and poor Anne has to dig deep to find something to be happy about in her unpleasant circumstances.

Wilson does a pretty effective job of populating young Anne's life with a variety of interesting characters. She first introduces us to Walter and Bertha Shirley, giving us a solid idea of the love-filled life Anne might have enjoyed had her parents survived beyond her early infancy. Wilson lets us peek into the heads of various characters throughout the novel, but she focuses mostly on Anne, who is resilient and hard-working and whose imagination keeps her resentment from consuming her.

The childhood I imagined for Anne was similar to Wilson's in some ways. I envisioned a lot of hard labor and little love, and that's basically what Wilson conveys. While neither of Anne's homes is anywhere near as idyllic as Green Gables, however, Anne doesn't find herself entirely devoid of affection. On the one hand, she is expected to shoulder an even heavier burden than I'd guessed, cooking, cleaning and in all other ways caring for a series of young, unruly children. On the other, each of her guardians cares about her to some extent, even though they don't treat her very well, and in each place she finds kindred spirits to comfort her.

Wilson seems determined not to give us any cardboard villains. Mrs. Thomas, with whom Anne lives for her first nine years, served as a housekeeper for the Shirleys, a job that brought her more happiness than any portion of her marriage to an alcoholic, unstable husband. She begs him to let her adopt Anne, but when she bears four children over the next five and a half years, she quickly loses interest in the orphan girl. Working outside the home, she starts absurdly early in delegating responsibility to Anne, and she often snaps at her. Yet occasionally, she treats Anne with kindness, if only because she reminds her of her parents. Mr. Thomas is a brutish monster of a man when he is drunk, and his addiction nearly leads the family to ruin on several occasions. Yet he never mistreats Anne, and in fact, he comes to quite enjoy conversing with her and trying to get the knack of her ability to imagine away her problems.

As a fan of the Kevin Sullivan adaptation of Anne of Green Gables, which begins with Anne still living with the Hammonds before the man of the house suffers a fatal heart attack, I have always pictured Mrs. Hammond as middle-aged and exceptionally cross, constantly subjecting Anne to a barrage of verbal assaults. But Wilson paints Mrs. Hammond as a young woman in her twenties who is merely overwhelmed. Her husband is decent and hard-working but basically uninvolved in the raising of his unwieldy family, which eventually includes eight children, all under the age of six. Mrs. Hammond never hollers at Anne or knocks her around; she merely wanders around in a daze, scarcely aware of what is happening around her and leaving Anne to do the bulk of the child-rearing.

I have mixed feelings about these semi-sympathetic portrayals of Anne's guardians. On the one hand, it's nicer to imagine that Anne's childhood wasn't completely miserable, and one might wonder how someone who suffered nothing but abject neglect and abuse could turn out so well. And after all, Anne does tell Marilla that she feels sure her guardians "meant to be" good to her, even if they didn't quite manage it. But she also spoke of always being unwanted, and that's not really the case here; she's too indispensable to be truly unwanted. And there are several people in her life who genuinely love her.

Eliza, the eldest of the Thomases, is as much a mother to Anne as Anne's daughter Rilla is to the "war baby" Jims in Rilla of Ingleside. For nearly six years, she tells Anne stories and showers her with love. Then she marries out of the family and Anne's life. Her next kindred spirits arrive when the Thomases move to Marysville, where Anne gets her first schooling. There's the saintly teacher, her sympathetic aunt and a withdrawn intellectual who learns to live again after befriending Anne. The frustrating thing about these three is that while they do little things to cheer Anne up and expand her mind, none of them offer to take Anne in when Mr. Thomas dies and she is left without a home. Once with the Hammonds, she bonds with the schoolteacher there, and even the orphanage teacher takes a shine to her.

I always pictured Anne's first 11 years as being comparable to Harry Potter's, with no kindred spirits in sight. But nearly 400 pages of nothing but ill treatment would make for a rather tedious story, and the novel is enough of a downer as it is. It could definitely use a dose of Montgomery's humor. Little Anne doesn't get into any ridiculous messes like Green Gables does; it's just day after day of dreary diaper-scrubbing, vegetable-chopping and baby-minding. I imagine Wilson figured she has enough to deal with already, but I would have loved at least a couple of laugh-aloud scuffles.

Along those lines, Anne is just a little too perfect. She speaks in complete sentences at the age of three and even makes use of metaphors. By the time she's five, she speaks like a college English major, and she's practically running the household to boot. It doesn't seem very realistic, and certainly not too consistent with Montgomery's depictions of five-year-olds. Yes, Anne is an unusual girl, but Wilson takes it too far. Also inconsistent with Montgomery is the narrative style, which is fairly stark as opposed to flowery, and Wilson doesn't make a great deal of effort to align herself with late-19th century sensibilities, particularly when she has characters openly discussing biological issues that would never have been broached by Montgomery.

If you are a fan of the Anne books, Before Green Gables is an interesting installment. Wilson does a pretty good job of filling in the gaps in Anne's early life, despite lacking Montgomery's distinctive style. Was a prequel really necessary? Of course not. But if you've always wondered about Anne's early years and could use a little help in imagining them, Wilson's book is worth a look.

Mary Ann Hoberman Branches Off Into Fiction With Strawberry Hill

"Do you remember the taste of strawberries?" asks Sam Gamgee in the film version of The Return of the King, hoping to rouse his exhausted companion from the depths of despair. As someone who has found great delight in picking strawberries and who invariably opts for a strawberry sundae when we go out for ice cream, I understand the connection those bright red berries have with thoughts of serenity and joy.

It's the same connection 10-year-old Allie feels in Strawberry Hill when her parents tell her that they will be living in a house on Strawberry Hill when they move from New Haven to Stamford. It's the Depression. Jobs are scarce, and her father has been living there for some time; now they are able to join him. Unfortunately, that means leaving behind friends and familiar surroundings. Forlorn Allie clings fiercely to the shining vision of a field full of strawberries. Reality doesn't quite measure up to her dreams, but that is an important first step in a long lesson about not relying too heavily upon first impressions.

Strawberry Hill was written by Mary Ann Hoberman, who has been penning children's poetry for decades, to much acclaim. In fact, she was named the second children's poet laureate last year. She has published many picture books, but this middle-grade book is her first novel and was inspired by her own growing-up years. The Depression-era setting makes it a novel of historical interest for youngsters, while it is especially timely because of the current Recession, reminding me of the Kit Kittredge movie that American Girl released last year.

While that film focuses on the time during which the young protagonist's father is away, searching for work out of town, Allie, having already experienced such a separation, now has a fairly normal, stable home life. However, one of her friends has a dad who visits only occasionally, while another friend hasn't seen her father in months. Another starts up a paper route in order to help his mother pay the bills. Hints of the difficult times are everywhere, with the most blatant example being the hobo who knocks on Allie's door, looking for a meal.

Aside from the backdrop of the Depression, there are other indications of the times. Allie uses coal from a neighbor's oven to draw a hopscotch board on her driveway. She plays with paper dolls, and she wears dresses. Hoberman doesn't specify the year in which this takes place, but with references to Shirley Temple and Mary Poppins, it must be sometime in the mid- to late 1930s. It's interesting to note the differences and similarities between Allie and modern children; I was struck by how often I forgot that this was not set in contemporary times. So many of the same things are present, from cars to pop, and Allie behaves pretty much the way I would expect a current-day child to behave in her situation. The fact that the country is in the midst of economic troubles again makes the story even more relatable. The main difference is that the children find ways of amusing themselves without the help of technology.

Allie is a kind, imaginative girl who has an especially close bond with her sweet little brother Danny. She sometimes comes across as rather whiny, and although she is the victim of prejudice, she has a few prejudices of her own. She reminds me a bit of Anne from Anne of Green Gables in that she is very hung up on the notion of a bosom friend and has very clear ideas about what qualities this mystical person should have. Her new home presents her with many opportunities for friendships, but none are without complications.

Her neighbor Martha, who is Catholic and attends private school, is pretty and fairly well-off. She has a warm, welcoming mother, and she's the first person Allie meets upon her arrival. But Martha also has a mean streak, and her best friend can be flat-out nasty, at one point directing a religiously motivated epithet at the Jewish Allie. Mimi, another neighbor, is Jewish and attends the same school as Allie does. Her mother is lazy and sarcastic, and Mimi is overweight and clingy. But she's unfailingly considerate and appreciative of the time Allie spends with her, and Danny adores her. At school, Allie meets Allie M., who is quiet and kind, and Dan, who develops a crush on her. But neither lives nearby, so after-school association with them is limited. I do think that Allie is too focused on the idea of having one friend to whom she is closer than all others; her obsession with exclusivity certainly causes problems. But her revelations about the nature of true friendship are worthwhile and applicable to modern children.

Strawberry Hill contains 44 short, unnamed chapters and features lovely pencil drawings by Wendy Anderson Halperin. I would recommend it to children, particularly around the ages of 9 to 12, who are interested in history or who have recently moved, or will soon move. It's an engaging tale, and its lessons about friendship and making the best of a disappointing situation are relevant and helpful. If Hoberman decides to write another novel, you can count me in.

The Beatles Go Out on a High Note With Let It Be

If you were to ask me to name my favorite band, I’d quickly answer Simon and Garfunkel, the legendary folk duo recorded together during the 60s. From individual songs to their rise to fame and subsequent break-up, their story has many parallels with another quintessential 60s group: the Beatles.

They lamented lonely lives poorly memorialized (A Most Peculiar Man / Eleanor Rigby). They sang about the anguish caused by the communication gap between parents and children (Save the Life of My Child / She’s Leaving Home) and about companionship in one’s later years (Old Friends / When I’m 64). They presented vivid tributes to roads of personal significance (Bleecker Street / Penny Lane) and used birds as metaphors for people relegated to the fringes of society (Sparrow / Blackbird).

But perhaps the most striking song parallel is between Bridge Over Troubled Water and Let It Be, the title tracks to both bands‘ final albums. Released the same year, both are lengthy, sweeping, piano-driven inspirational songs that draw people together, yet they accompanied the division of the duo and the quartet. They speak of finding comfort in difficult times; both include the gloomy “darkness” and “trouble”, but also the more optimistic “see“ and “shine”.

On most days, if you asked me what my favorite Simon and Garfunkel is, I would probably reply that it’s Bridge. I fluctuate more with the Beatles, but Let It Be is always in the favorites rotation. Paul’s gentle lead vocals grow stronger with each verse, and by the final repetitions of the chorus, it’s hard to resist jubilantly joining in.

It’s a wonderful song for groups of people; my cousin played it on the guitar at my family reunion over the summer as we fumbled our way through the lyrics, and I’ll never forget the spectacle of thousands of people singing along in the dark while holding cell phones at glow sticks aloft at the Super Bowl. There have been many lovely covers of it, and Brooke White’s classy performance of the song during the first American Idol Beatles night was probably my favorite of the season. Of course, nothing can quite compare to the original.

Up until a few years ago, I, like many fans of the song, assumed that “Mother Mary” referred to the Virgin Mary. It was more personal than that, with the song stemming from a dream Paul had about his own deceased mother, who just happened to have the name Mary. I can’t help but suspect the song wouldn’t have carried quite the same power if she’d had any other name. But whichever mother you’re thinking of when you listen to the song, it’s an uplifting ode, a song of faith and fortitude that is most sustaining in trying times. I’m sorry that the song heralded the Beatles’ breakup. But I sure am glad they recorded it.

Ringo Leads a Party Beneath the Waves in Yellow Submarine

When I was growing up, I was aware of the Beatles in a general sense, but my familiarity with their catalog was limited. One of the few Beatles songs I could sing along with pretty well was Yellow Submarine, written by Paul McCartney but a showcase for Ringo Starr, who I knew as the congenial conductor on Thomas the Tank Engine, as well as a participant in several fun commercials. I was an adult before I finally saw the film Yellow Submarine, and I found it much too trippy for my tastes. But it didn't lessen my appreciation for the theme song, which is as relentlessly cheerful as the bright shade of yellow adorning the outside of the submarine.

My younger brother Nathan became obsessed with the Beatles in the fall of 2001, following George Harrison's death. At the time, my favorite radio station, Froggy, which played all oldies, had not yet been banished from the Erie airwaves, so we found ourselves listening to it a lot in search of Beatles tunes, with Nathan often calling in requests. He had a particular fondness for When I'm 64, which is the only number from the movie Yellow Submarine besides the title song that stands out vividly in my memory. Though Beatlemania didn't really hit him until that fall, when I went to Liverpool in the summer of 2001, I brought him a Yellow Submarine pin and a Yellow Submarine pen from the Beatles Museum, and later, when McFarlane Toys came out with Yellow Submarine figures, I bought him one of those as well. Though he soon discovered how rich the variety of the Beatles' music was, he paid homage to his early fondness for the song by creating a ceramic Yellow Submarine wall hanging with a mirror in the center.

Of all the Beatles songs, Yellow Submarine has perhaps the most striking image associated with it. Other songs are deeper, more lyrically complex, more musically inventive. But with the possible exception of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, there is no other Beatles hit that I think of in such visual terms. Ringo's bouncy vocals and all that underwater imagery make it a good companion for Octopus's Garden, another jaunty Ringo-led tune about the fun to be had "beneath the waves". I always have a tendency to think of the two together.

The chorus of Yellow Submarine is almost absurdly simple, which is part of what makes the song so easy to recite. "We all live in a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine..." isn't much of a challenge to the memory. According to Songfacts.com, McCartney wrote it specifically with children in mind and hoped that they would sing it. We were encouraged to belt out the song at a rally day during my high school's Freshman Welcome Week, and I didn't see a closed mouth in that gym. The verses are a bit more demanding, but not much. I am a bit puzzled by the line "And our friends are all aboard; / Many more of them live next door"; if they're living under the sea, how do they have next-door neighbors? Are all of their friends fish? Or have they come up to the surface and parked their sub in a residential area? But who am I to question such camaraderie?

And camaraderie is the chief feeling that comes through in this song, along with most of Ringo’s starring numbers. It gives off the impression that Ringo is a very friendly guy, and that the Beatles were a very chummy group. Thoughts of submarines usually make me feel claustrophobic, but I don’t think I could object to an afternoon out for a pleasure cruise with those Liverpool lads. As so often happens with Beatles songs, the ending drags on a bit, but they all sound like they’re having such fun goofing around together that I never really find myself thinking, “All right, boys, knock it off already!”

I love the aquatic sound effects, the tinny-sounding echoes throughout one of the choruses, which Peter Paul and Mary spoof in I Dig Rock and Roll Music, and the chipper trumpet music that follows “And the band begins to play.” I love the iconic picture that pops into my head whenever I hear the song and the words that spring to my mouth. Yellow Submarine is peppy and happy, guaranteed to put a smile on my face, and all these years later, it remains one of my favorite Beatles songs.

Up Is a Rip-Roaring Adventure That Makes You Appreciate Normalcy

A couple of years ago, I saw a piece on the evening news about a man who had traveled nearly 200 miles on a lawn chair with dozens of balloons tied to it. Though he didn't quite reach his destination before touching down again, the kid in me who's always wanted to take to the skies like Superman thought this seemed like an excellent notion. About a year after that, I began to hear about Up, featuring an old man who has the same basic idea - only this time, he takes his whole house along, intending to permanently relocate to Paradise Falls, the South American wonder where he had long ago promised to bring the love of his life. At the time, I didn't know anything about destination or motivation. I just thought, "What a way to travel!"

Up is the latest in a steady line of Pixar movies, each of which has delighted audiences with cutting-edge animation technology and warm, funny, clever stories to back it up. I saw it a little later than I intended - catching it at the dollar theater, which meant I didn't get the 3-D experience - but I'm just satisfied to have seen it on the big screen. It's a cinematic marvel that deserves the larger-than-life treatment.

Before the feature itself is a delightful appetizer in the form of the short film Partly Cloudy. In our theater, there was no title sequence, so at first I thought we were seeing a preview, and when I saw the sky littered with storks collecting and delivering little bundles of joy, I thought that Lambert the Sheepish Lion, one of my all-time favorite Disney shorts, might be getting the full-length treatment. Once I realized that this was a film in itself, however, I settled back to enjoy the wordless tale of a battered stork assigned to a stormy cloud that creates an array of dangerous youngsters for conveyance to Earth. While other storks report to puffy white clouds producing cuddly kittens and perky puppies, this unlucky bird gets stuck with crocodiles, porcupines and rams. The cloud and the stork seem to share a pleasant rapport, but how long can the stalwart stork withstand such abuse of life and limb? It's an endearing short whose aerial setting and theme of friendship flourishing amidst challenges make it an ideal opener for this particular film.

In the first previews I saw for Up, only one character was revealed: Carl Fredricksen, a crusty curmudgeon voiced by Ed Asner. We meet him moments into the movie, but not as an old man; instead, he's a wide-eyed lad in a movie theater, thrilling to the newsreel detailing the adventures of his hero, Charles Muntz. He's a quiet lad who is overwhelmed when he wanders into the playhouse of his neighbor Ellie (Elie Docter, daughter of co-writer-director Pete Docter). She is equally smitten with Muntz, despite the fact that the scientific community has now dismissed him as a fraud, and she can talk timid Carl into the ground. She prattles on with vim and vigor, but it isn't until the whirlwind conclusion of the first day of their friendship that Carl utters a verbal response to his new playmate.

What follows is a wordless montage chronicling Carl and Ellie's life together. It doesn't last as long as the majestic nearly-silent first section of WALL-E, but it manages to be just as powerful, depicting all the joys and disappointments a lifetime of love can bring. By the time we get to the scene from the previews of Carl slowly descending the stairs on a chair lift, he's not just a grumpy old man. He's that same endearing little boy, with years of experience behind him and several compelling reasons not to greet the morning with a smile. First and foremost, he is now a widower. Moreover, he feels he has failed Ellie because he never got her to Paradise Falls. And one glance out his front door shows us that he is a living anachronism, stubbornly clinging to his little technicolor dream home while a determined developer knocks out all of the houses around him.

If this were a different sort of movie - say, Herbie Rides Again, which pits feisty widow Mrs. Steinmetz against seedy millionaire Alonzo Hawk - that developer trying most diligently to get Carl into a nursing home would be the Big Bad. But after Carl finds himself backed into a corner, he abandons fight for flight. A former balloon vendor, he uses his expertise to get him one step closer to that long-deferred dream. It's an overnight job, and there's no time to air-proof his home, which is full of breakable knick-knacks. But oh, what a glorious sight when those hundreds of vibrant balloons lift him into the air and send him soaring into the blue!

Carl's spur-of-the-moment decision has huge implications. He intends to make for Paradise Falls, but he doesn't really know how to get there or what to do with himself once he does. One gets the idea that he intends to admire the landmark and then simply sit around and wait to join his wife. But earnest, chubby young scout Russell (Jordan Nagai) throws a wrench in his plans. Eager to earn his Assisting the Elderly badge, he's been buzzing around Carl's doorstep, and that's how he winds up an unintentional stowaway on his journey. His presence is lucky for Carl, since it's GPS-toting Russell who steers the house to South America after its owner is knocked out in a fierce storm. But when he comes to, Carl has a lot more responsibility on his hands than he'd bargained for, and no amount of spare change will be enough to stick Russell on a bus that will land him back at home.

As Pixar movies go, Up is fairly short on characters. John Ratzenberger makes his expected appearance as one of a handful of characters who speak before Carl's take-off; opportunities for a cameo in the wilds of South America would have been limited to talking dogs, or rather dogs telepathically linked to talking collars. They are foot soldiers in the personal army of one mysterious man voiced by Christopher Plummer; it is their job to attend to his comfort, ward off intruders and seek a long-desired quarry. The most intimidating of these is a Doberman named Alpha, the least a Golden Retriever named Dug, both voiced by co-writer-director Bob Peterson. In fact, Dug doesn't fit in with his cronies at all, and he adds to Carl's consternation when the chipper pooch adopts him as his new master. Meanwhile, Russell has befriended a brilliantly plumaged bird inclined to make strange noises. Three tag-alongs are not much help in walking the house to the edge of Paradise Falls before the helium holding it aloft leaks out, but when each of his companions is imperiled, it's time for Carl to re-examine his priorities.

Although Pixar's humans still look a little less realistic than just about everything else the animators come up with, I find square-headed Carl and pudgy Russell to be quite charming, while the bird they befriend is dazzling. This is probably Pixar's most colorful movie since Finding Nemo, and I especially love the way the colored light seeping through the windows from the balloons reflects off the surfaces inside the house, as though it were enclosed in stained glass. It's not a very busy movie; the pace is fairly sedate, though there are some exciting action sequences, including the most unconventional swordfight I've ever seen.

The dogs provide a lot of humor, with canine idiosyncrasies heightened by the often awkward syntax of their devices, leading to sentences like "I so ever do want the ball!" and "Why do I not have the surprised feeling?" Recurring jokes involving squirrels, tennis balls, a malfunctioning collar and references to Russell in his Wilderness Explorer uniform as a "small mailman" give us plenty to laugh about, though Dug's instant loyalty to Carl is at the heart of some of the film's most touching moments.

Carl's most significant relationships in the movie, however, are with Ellie and Russell. The Asian-American scout is a bundle of cheerful energy, but it turns out that he and taciturn Carl have some important things in common, and this new friendship may just be sufficient motivation for Carl to see a life as still having new possibilities. Up is a tale of adventure, but more than that, it's about the most important ingredients in a life well-lived. While many of us would love to embark upon a journey as extraordinary as the one Carl and Russell undertake, the theme of the movie can best be summed up with the boy's quiet reflection: "Sometimes, it's the boring stuff I remember the most."

Two Paper Companies Are Better Than One In The Office: Season Five

This past Christmas, my brothers got my parents and me hooked on NBC's workplace sit-com The Office. We breezed through four seasons in a few months before playing catch-up with the fifth season online. It's the only season of which we saw some of the episodes as they aired. With 23 episodes, it's nearly twice as long as the strike-shortened fourth season, and although affable salesman Jim (John Krasinski) and sunny receptionist Pam (Jenna Fischer) are officially a couple and nothing comes along to threaten their relationship much, all sorts of other entanglements are happening around them.

In the beginning, the big question on the Jim and Pam front is when Jim will pop the question, since it's obvious he's been burning to do so for a long time and is simply waiting for the right moment. The inevitable engagement scene comes early in the season and is surprisingly underplayed, considering how much buildup was behind it. They're also forced to endure long-distance romance while Pam takes art classes in New York, though this doesn't last long.

Meanwhile, preppy warbler Andy (Ed Helms) remains engaged to prissy accountant Angela (Angela Kinsey), but he as he eagerly makes wedding arrangements, she has covert meetings with her old flame, the relentlessly eccentric Dwight (Rainn Wilson). Clueless boss Michael Scott (Steve Carell) finally gets his shot at true love with the new public relations person, the daffy Holly (Amy Ryan), but his life takes a turn for the worse when David Wallace (Andy Buckley) from corporate get wind of their romance, which breaks company policy.

The most surprising story arc of the fifth season involves Michael's rash decision to leave Dunder Mifflin after David hires the no-nonsense Charles (Idris Elba) as an intermediary between himself and Michael. Dunder-headed Michael has no idea how to get along in the world outside of his cozy position, and he seems likely to flounder, especially when he announces that he will be starting up his own rival paper company. However, Pam demonstrates initiative and loyalty by offering to join him in his new venture, and it isn't long before Michael tracks down former know-it-all intern Ryan (B. J. Novak), now working in a bowling alley, and convinces him to join the team. The three of them have an interesting dynamic, with Pam the go-getter who keeps the project from unraveling and Ryan the useless tagalong. Back at the office, Angela and flirtatious Kelly (Mindy Kaling) compete for the favor of the nonplussed Charles, and Dwight struggles to retain his clients in the face of the sudden threat from Michael.

Dwight is the most outlandish character in a show full of kooks, so many of the season's most memorable scenes belong to him. Crime Aid has him emulating Jud Fry in an amusing parody of Oklahoma!'s auction scene. In Moroccan Christmas, he brings to mind the Tickle-Me-Elmo and Furby crazes as he stocks up on the year's "it" toy and charges his officemates exorbitant rates for their children's satisfaction. Prince Family Paper is Dwight at his most infuriating, undermining Michael's soft-hearted decision not to use the information gathered on a Mom and Pop paper company during an undercover mission against them, as is Stress Relief, in which Dwight goes so overboard on creating a realistic fire alarm that Stanley (Leslie David Baker) has a heart attack.

My very favorite Dwight moment of the season occurs in conjunction with Andy in The Michael Scott Paper Company, in which the two, caught up in rivalry with each other even as they try to nourish a friendship, throw together a guitar-banjo rendition of John Denver's Take Me Home, Country Roads that is more like Dueling Banjos. It was a sublime surprise for this John Denver fan - particularly as they happen to be singing for the benefit of a character named Erin - followed by a disagreeable jolt when wet blanket Toby (Paul Lieberstein) cut the concert short.

We watched part of this season out of order, and it didn't really make much of a difference. It's best to watch episodes of The Office is the proper sequence, but it isn't critical to one's enjoyment or understanding. The shake-ups that occur in the fifth season are entertaining, and several developments in the final episode set us up for excitement in the sixth, which is already upon us. I can hardly wait!

The Blythes and the Merediths Enjoy a Few Blissful Years in Rainbow Valley

Last week, I read Rilla of Ingleside, the eighth book in Lucy Maud Montgomery's series of books that focus on plucky orphan Anne Shirley and her children. This week, I backtracked to the seventh. I should have read that one first, of course, but my curiosity about Montgomery's take on World War I was more immediate, plus I wanted to complete the series on a positive note, and I figured Rilla would be rather depressing. In Rainbow Valley, we meet four children whose mother has died and who like to hang out in a graveyard, as well as a pair of adult sisters who have lost both of their parents and, in the case of one, a sweetheart. Despite these specters, however, the book never feels gloomy or oppressive. After all, death taints every installment in the series, and on the whole, this is one of the cheeriest of the "Anne" books. I call it an Anne book loosely because she is barely involved in the occurrences of the novel (though she's even less visible, and only referred to as "Mrs. Blythe" or "Mrs. Dr. Dear", in the eighth book). Her children are more involved, but the main focus is on John Meredith, the new minister in town, and his four free-ranging children.

It's interesting to read this book in light of the one that follows, since we get to know the Merediths so well here. They move into the background in Rilla, as sweethearts of Blythe youngsters, participants in Ladies' Aid efforts and soldiers. They have important roles to play, but Una is the only character who is fairly well fleshed out within that book itself. If I'd read this book first, I certainly would have cared more about the Merediths when I got to the concluding volume.

Twelve-year-old Jerry is the oldest, and he doesn't let his siblings forget it, particularly when they form the Good Conduct Club in an effort to stop inadvertently giving local gossips something to talk about. He is the one who most often points out transgressions, and he also is in charge of coming up with appropriate punishments, some of which have severe consequences. Eleven-year-old Faith is kind but spunky. She is the most Anne-like child of her generation. Trouble seems to follow her around, and her attempts to make amends sometimes lead to even further scandal. Still, her courage is admirable; she's determined to help her father as best she can, whether it's by making a public speech, printing a letter in the newspaper or paying a visit to a wealthy potential parishioner.

Gentle ten-year-old Una is a delicate child with a slightly otherworldly air about her, which makes her a good match for poetic Walter Blythe, whom she secretly admires. Shy and compassionate, she puts her own reservations aside on more than one occasion in order to appeal on someone else's behalf. I like all of the Merediths, but Una is my favorite. Nine-year-old Carl is the youngest. An impish, fun-loving chap, he is rarely without some small creature or another stuffed in his pockets. Every reptile, rodent and insect in the valley seems to be his friend, which doesn't bother his siblings but startles many in the community.

In this book, there are essentially only four Blythes as well. Jem, the oldest of the bunch, carries himself with authority, reveling in masculine games as he teeters on the brink of higher learning, which will take him away from his newfound friends. Classically handsome Walter spends his days mooning about with his head stuck in a book, much to the disapproval of some and the derision of others, though generally, the Merediths appreciate his storytelling abilities. Nan and Di are twins, with Nan especially beautiful and Di especially clever. Rilla, the chubby six-year-old who will go on to be the main character in the last book, is involved in one memorable scene but generally is absent, while Shirley, the second-youngest, is scarcely mentioned at all. He's the invisible Blythe; over the course of three books, we learn practically nothing about him except that he has brown eyes, hair and skin and that he is especially close to Susan, the housekeeper.

Susan is a part of this book and makes her opinions on a number of subjects known. She is particularly outspoken in her concern about Walter wasting his time with poetry, which of course is an opinion that Anne does not share. Another prominent side character is "Miss" Cornelia, a family friend who is married but distrusts men in general and harbors a deep prejudice against Methodists. She is most important to the book because Una persuades her to take in Mary Vance, a coarse, street-smart orphan the Merediths find sleeping in a barn. Mary is likable enough, and the matter-of-fact way in which she describes the ruthless woman she escaped makes her easy to sympathize with. But she also has a tendency to scold the Merediths and make them feel badly about themselves. Her self-righteousness makes the Blythes and Merediths glad that her playtime with them is limited.

John Meredith is kindly but distracted. He spends so much time immersed in thought that his children scarcely see him, and he has no idea how much mischief they get into while no one is supervising them. A widower who cannot imagine falling in love again, he keeps his mind on heavenly things. His children adore him, but they worry that their shenanigans could cost him his job. Across town lives a very different sort of widower. Argumentative, agnostic Norman Douglas never comes to church, and he's known throughout the glen for his terrible temper, which cost him the love of his life in his youth. Despite his subsequent marriage, he still carries a torch for fiery Ellen West, the only woman he's ever known who can keep pace with him in a debate. She lives in a house on a hill with her younger sister Rosemary, who is as kind as Ellen is abrasive. Rosemary develops a close bond with the minister, much to the alarm of her sister, who lives in dread of the thought of solitude.

The romantic entanglements of these adults are rarely in the forefront of the novel, but Montgomery slips hints of them in until the final chapters, when she explores them more thoroughly. It's nice to have the adult perspective to counter all of the exploits of the lively children, though their misadventures are well-written and quite engaging. The romance that gradually blossoms between John and Rosemary is one of the best in the series, and heaps better than Rilla's non-courtship with her longtime crush Kenneth in the eighth book. One thing that makes it so satisfying is the consideration for the children involved. It isn't until Faith stumbles into a heart-to-heart talk with Rosemary after suffering a calamity that she realizes just how bereft she has been without a mother in whom to confide. It's clear that while Rosemary is falling in love with John, she's falling in love with his children as well, his children who so desperately need a little more attention and guidance than their father is able to give.

It seems fairly plain to me that Montgomery had already planned on writing the eighth book as she was working on this one. For one thing, it's dedicated to the memory of three soldiers who died during World War I. For another, there are hints of things to come sprinkled throughout the novel. Jem is obsessed with playing soldier; Anne thinks it's a passing fancy, but he's every bit as gung-ho about the idea when the opportunity comes for him to actually sign up in Rilla. Ellen West discusses her conviction that the Kaiser is a threat to the peace of Europe and her frustration that almost nobody seems to agree with her. There's a rather elegiac quality to some of the writing about the idyllic valley, as Montgomery knows that not only will the children soon face adulthood, but war will tear them apart.

Most heavy-handed, though, is Walter's vision of "the Piper", which occurs in the eighth chapter after he tells his playmates in the valley the story of the Pied Piper coming and leading all of the children away from their homes. He gets a faraway look in his eye, and he announces that the Piper will come to the valley and that he and the other boys will be forced to follow him while the girls stay at home and wait for their return. Just before this, Una demonstrates her perceptive nature when, instead of pitying the lame lad in the story who cannot follow the Piper, she is happy for his mother, who is able to have him home safe, unlike all of the other mothers in town. The image of the Piper concludes the novel as well, with Walter asserting that he has grown closer, to which notion Jem responds enthusiastically. More foreshadowing of Walter's actions in Rilla comes in the form of his decision to get into a fistfight with a classmate who insults his mother and his friend. After the event, John Meredith tells him, "My motto, Walter, is, don't fight till you're sure you ought to, and then put every ounce of you into it." It seems likely this advice comes back to him when he finally decides to become a soldier.

I don't recall that I've ever had an objection to Montgomery's language before, but I was taken aback when she put a certain racial epithet beginning with "n" in the mouth of Mary Vance. What's more, while the Meredith children are shocked and affronted by her use of the word "darn," none of them seem bothered by it. Its inclusion is indicative of the time in which this book was written, though, and thankfully, she only uses the word once. My only other major issue with this book is its limited connection to Anne, and having grown used to her decreased presence in the series after reading the sixth and eighth books, I found I didn't really mind that she didn't have much to do. I would have preferred for her to be a more involved character, but she does have a role to play. All of the Merediths feel comfortable talking with her when they have problems, and Anne's spirited defense of the family in the face of her neighbor's criticism is a shining moment. Even though the thread that links Rainbow Valley to Anne of Green Gables is fairly tenuous, I enjoyed this light-hearted novel very much and would recommend it to any fan of Montgomery's work.

Pictures Speak Louder Than Words in Patrick McDonnell's South

My mom and I went to the mall with a friend recently, and as we were leaving a flock of geese flew overhead in a graceful formation. "Goodbye!" our friend called out, waving toward the sky. "See you next year!" Yes, the time for migration is upon us, summer having slipped by all too quickly. It's the perfect occasion to read Patrick McDonnell's South, the simple, nearly-wordless story of a songbird that sleeps through his flock's take-off. What's a poor bird to do? Find a friend like Mooch.

Mooch is the altruistic feline at the heart of McDonnell's comic strip Mutts. The strip, which has run since the early '90s and was a favorite of Charles Schulz, frequently emphasizes the virtues of kindness and cooperation. One wouldn't expect a cat to come upon a little lost songbird and commit to spending as long as it takes accompanying him on a journey to find his flock, but that is exactly what Mooch does, and fans of the strip won't be all that surprised to see this particular cat make such a magnanimous gesture. Mooch has an especially generous nature.

South is printed on creamy paper and features full-color illustrations that focus on autumnal hues, then wintry. Bluish-black Mooch offers his paw, and a yellow wing accepts. Together they traverse a landscape of browning grass, fallen leaves, barren trees and, eventually, snow. One image of them trekking among stands of birches as a fawn looks on is especially serene. We get the sense that this is a very young bird; until he finally reunites with those who left him behind, he never makes any attempt to fly. I suspect he lacks confidence as a solo flier.

So he walks, and the progress is slow but steady. Poor Mooch can't even get a nap in, since his charge feels abandoned yet again when he tries to catch some Zs. But you won't hear any complaints from this steadfast cat, nor does his face betray any annoyance. He has a job to do, and he will see it through to the end. He knows a cozy spot waits for him by the fireplace back at home; rest can wait until then.

This is a lovely book for children and parents to "read" together. Of course, it isn't so much reading as studying the illustrations, which only occasionally contain a demonstrative word like "WEEP WEEP WEEP," which emanates from the songbird in particularly helpless moments. There is no true dialogue, and certainly no narration. That's for the reader to furnish, if he or she so desires. Picture books can be wonderful exercises in storytelling, with the structure of the tale already laid out and nothing left to add but the words. Then again, McDonnell's sparse book is complete as is, so it may be preferable to simply enjoy the pages together as a finished product.

However one chooses to peruse these pages, South is a beautiful little book, an ode to the unchanging patterns of life and the richness added when one embarks upon the journey with a friend.

Mr. Putter and Tabby Spill the Beans, With Help From Mrs. Teaberry and Zeke

I am 28 years old. But I am not ashamed to admit that one of my most-anticipated new book releases of 2009 was Mr. Putter & Tabby Spill the Beans, the 18th installment in the beginning reader series written by Cynthia Rylant and illustrated by Arthur Howard. Rylant is a giant in the field of children's literature, having published dozens of books aimed at children spanning the age spectrum but focusing especially on the early elementary school set. Her other series for this age group include Henry and Mudge, about a boy and his gregarious dog, and Poppleton, about a mild-mannered, middle-aged pig. I've read many of her books and loved most of them, but it's the Mr. Putter and Tabby series, featuring a pudgy elderly bachelor and his creaky cat, along with his zesty neighbor and her cheerful bulldog Zeke, that really captures my fancy.

All but a couple of the volumes in the series have involved the quartet rather than just the duo of the old man and his cat, who are lovable enough on their own. But bringing Mrs. Teaberry into the equation adds excitement, conversation and just the slightest hint of romance, so I was pleased to find her an integral part of Mr. Putter & Tabby Spill the Beans. As in several other installments, she has an idea for something "new and fun" to do, and she takes a rather reluctant Mr. Putter along for the ride. In past books, her ideas have included learning a musical instrument, entering a race for seniors and taking a train trip through the countryside. Some of these ventures have been more successful than others. Mr. Putter, who isn't inclined to be adventurous, knows that mishaps may occur, especially with Tabby and Zeke in tow, but he doesn't want to dampen her enthusiasm.

In this case, her proposition seems less intimidating than dull. She wants them to take a class on how to cook beans. One hundred different ways to do it. The reminded me of the classic Animaniacs episode in which a pair of overbearing survey ladies makes a series of bean-related queries, as well as a song on Pardners, a collection of Disney cowboy songs, indicating that beans are the sole sustenance of many folks who ride the open range. I'm not a particular fan of beans, and it seems Mr. Putter isn't either - unless perhaps it's vanilla beans, as he has a sweet tooth that can sometimes only be satisfied by ice cream.

Like the other books in this series, this one is separated into short chapters. While most have four or five, this latest installment has seven, so most of the sections are even shorter than usual. Neighbors introduces the main characters for those who may be reading about them for the first time. New and Fun and One Hundred Ways focus on Mr. Putter's misgivings before the class, while Beans, Granola and Wide Awake detail the events of the class itself. Finally, the story wraps up with Sodas. Rylant is especially good at using repetition to her advantage, and certain words and phrases recur throughout the book, particularly "new," "fun," "beans" and "one hundred ways". And, as before, Tabby is "fine" and Zeke is "good," even though both seem to have a knack for getting into mischief.

Mr. Putter & Tabby Spill the Beans isn't the most laugh-aloud funny installment in the series, but there are some very amusing moments, including the spillage hinted at in the title. My favorite bits, though, involve Mr. Putter reminiscing over past outings with Mrs. Teaberry. His recollections of past escapades demonstrate the depth of his affection for her. For instance, on one page, "Mr. Putter thought about the many times he had trusted Mrs. Teaberry." In the accompanying illustration, both of them look quite alarmed as they zoom along on a roller coaster. In Rylant's world, it seems pets are welcome just about everywhere, so we also see Tabby's tail sticking out as she cowers on the floor, while Zeke alone is unperturbed enough to gaze ahead with a big doggy smile on his face. I also love his reflection a few pages later on some of his less traumatic experiences, particularly "When they had gone to the hair show, he'd won a case of shampoo that made a very good doorstop." Of course, since Mr. Putter is bald but for a couple of tufts of gray hair, shampoo wouldn't do him much good in its intended use!

As always, Howard's excellent illustrations, which so effectively convey the emotions of the characters, are as important to the book as Rylant's words. Together, they create yet another story sure to leave fans smiling, whether they're 8, 28 or 88.

If You Like The Lovely Bones, You Should Try Dead on Town Line

Back in July, I read Waiting for Normal, a novel by Leslie Connor, an author with whom I had no prior familiarity. I found myself unable to put the book down and hoped that she had written other books as well. My search yielded two results: the picture book Miss Bridie Chose a Shovel and Dead on Town Line, a novel in verse. I have limited familiarity with this unusual form, the best other example I can give being Love That Dog, a lovely reflection on the power of poetry to shape young lives and aid in the grieving process. But while that explores some similar themes, it aims at a much younger audience.

Dead on Town Line is the story of a 16-year-old girl who is murdered. Just how, and by whom, we gradually discover as she reveals the details one poem at a time. Like Susie in The Lovely Bones, Cassie Devlin speaks to us from beyond the grave, but instead of inhabiting some celestial almost-heaven while she awaits closure, she remains at the scene of the crime, occasionally feeling a tug leading her to "the next" but unable to follow while those who loved her search for her in vain.

Through Connor's carefully crafted free verse, we get to know Cassie, a girl similar in some ways to Addie, the 11-year-old narrator of Waiting for Normal. Both girls are compassionate, eager to extend kindness to the marginalized. Both live alone with their mothers, though unlike Addie, Cassie enjoys a tranquil home life with a mom who is entirely capable and devoted. Perhaps most of all, Cassie and Addie are united by their love of music. While Addie plays the flute, Cassie is a pianist, and a composer to boot. Her most precious possession is Morning of the Moths, a work in progress and the object at the heart of her untimely demise.

Cassie's poems are short, generally one or two pages long with terse titles printed in all capital letters. Connor is quite as successful at capturing a teenager's voice as an 11-year-old's. We also hear another young woman speak frequently. Waiting with Cassie is Birdie, a Southern, dark-skinned mother-to-be who was also buried nearby, more than sixty years earlier. Murdered by the man who impregnated her, she is dour from years of abuse and neglect and merely wants solitude in her afterlife.

But Cassie is curious, and eventually Birdie begins to open up as together, they explore the possibility of manipulating the matter around them, reminding me of Sam and the spooky longtime subway dweller in Ghost. There's nothing quite so dramatic as avalanches of paperwork or invisible fingers on a keyboard, but they find that a gentle, well-directed breeze can have a powerful impact.

Other characters come to light as well. Kyle, the gentle boyfriend upon whom suspicion rests. Abel Sorrenson, the music teacher and mentor who searches most diligently. Gail Sherman, the problem student Cassie took into her Composer's Workshop. Jory, her cowed brother. Mrs. Devlin, whose life is empty without the daughter who defined it. And from many years before, the corrupt preacher who kept Birdie in a state of near-slavery and the unborn infant who vanished while her mother stayed.

The decision to include Birdie adds considerable depth to the story. It gives Cassie someone to converse with; it presents two girls who have been burned by previous relationships slowly building a friendship with one another. Learning to trust again, which is particularly difficult for Birdie, who has not had love in her life for a very long time, if ever. It's a gruesome tale in some ways, with two murders described and frequent discussion of bones and blood and death. But for all that, the reflections, often tinged with the extended metaphor of music, have beauty.

"Death's hard to explain," Cassie tells us early in the book. "Even now, / When I should know. / It reminds me of / A dog bite..." She goes on to recall her experience of being bitten and watching the resulting bruise grow ever darker. "I was almost relieved / To find out: / Okay. / So this is a / Dog bite. / And okay, / So this is / Death. / But like the bruising, / More seems to be coming. / Being dead / Isn't being done."

I don't know whether Connor was influenced at all by The Lovely Bones, but despite slightly different approaches, the two books cover enough of the same territory with similarly lyrical writing for me to suspect that those who like one will enjoy the other. Dead on Town Line is much shorter at just over 130 pages, with empty spaces, full-page illustrations in stark black-and-white and lines scarcely more than a few words long. I read it in little more than an hour, but it again cemented in my mind the fact that Connor is a writer of great talent and heart whose name I intend to seek out on library shelves for years to come.

Campy Life on Mars Pays Tribute to the 70s

The fifth season of LOST was very much wrapped up in the 70s, one of my favorite decades. When I realized how important that era would be to the season, I couldn't help but wonder whether LOST and Life on Mars, the trippy, campy throwback crime drama that aired in the next time slot, were in cahoots. Life on Mars was a remake of the British show that ran for two seasons. Each contained eight episodes, making it almost exactly the length of the U. S. edition, which ran for 17 episodes, though series creators were hoping to go longer than one season. At least there was sufficient notice to give the show some resolution, though I wonder whether the series got the intended ending; it's hard to tell when a series is cancelled at the last minute like that, though I would hope they had the conclusion in mind from the outset.

Ironically enough, Life on Mars is a British import starring an Irishman acting the part of an American (who, in one episode, has to go undercover as an Irishman). Jason O'Mara is Sam Tyler, the detective who is utterly bewildered to find himself zapped to 1973 after a car accident. The show actually began airing in the fall, and previews led me to believe that Lisa Bonet ("in her first television appearance since The Cosby Show!") would play a major role in the series, but her part was much smaller than I expected. However, other characters, along with the terrific setting and the mysterious premise, were enough to keep me watching.

Sam is a pretty ordinary modern guy. A decent fellow who loves his mother, who raised him almost single-handedly, and cares deeply about justice, he is startled by some of the methods employed by the police force of the 70s and troubled by revelations he receives about his own family in the course of his work. Although the show is billed as a drama, I was never entirely able to take it seriously because it spends so much time consciously parodying the 70s, and in particular cop shows of the 70s. There are many sly winks at the audience that are a lot funnier if you are familiar with the pop culture of that decade. Of course, some of the references are hard to miss, like Sam's use of the pseudonym Skywalker when he first meets his mother (Jennifer Ferrin) in the past.

The show is mostly episodic, with a new case to solve every week, but at the same time, Sam is collecting clues about his past and trying to piece together just what happened to land him in this strange place. Sam finds himself in a department run by Lieutenant Gene Hunt (the superb Harvey Keitel), who is a tough guy who doesn't mind throwing his weight around, though underneath all that intimidation is a heart of gold. His most antagonistic coworker is Ray (Michael Imperioli), a crude, seemingly misogynistic man with a mustache half the size of his head. Balancing him out is ambitious Annie Norris (Gretchen Mol), who longs to gain detective status and who is the only one in the department who thinks there might be something to Sam's insistence that he comes from the future. There's also Chris (Jonathan Murphy), a sweet, Jimmy Olsen-ish sort of character who is the young buck on the force, and at Sam's apartment building is an eccentric, free-spirited woman named Windy (Tanya Fischer) who flits in and out of his life. Fischer and Bonet appear in the same number of episodes, but Fischer makes a much bigger impression.

Every episode is filled with little jokes making the most of the time frame, but the best evocation of the era comes in the form of the music. My jaw dropped when I watched the conclusion of the second episode, which has Sam and Windy dancing together to Simon and Garfunkel's I Am a Rock on the record player. Just two episodes later, Sam recognizes his mother to the tune of Simon's Mother and Child Reunion. Finally, toward the end of the season, it was back to the duo with Fakin' It for a scene in which Annie goes undercover. I spent most of LOST's fifth season waiting for Simon and Garfunkel to turn up on the Dharma record player, and while I was never satisfied on that score, it was nice to know that I was likely to have more luck with Life on Mars, which also featured music by Elton John, Ringo Starr, the Partridge Family, Cat Stevens, Three Dog Night and the Turtles, among many others. Not only is Jim Croce's Bad, Bad Leroy Brown the backdrop to a raucous bar fight, but Sam actually rubs elbows with the tragically short-lived troubadour in one scene and warns him to stay away from small airplanes.

That's one of the few instances in which Sam does something in a conscious effort to change the future. Like season five of LOST, Life on Mars is very preoccupied with issues of meddling with the established space-time continuum. On both shows, one especially difficult decision involves the question of whether it is morally permissible to kill a child, knowing he will otherwise grow up to be a reprobate. While one character on LOST sees himself as an infant, Sam is actually able to interact with his pint-sized self, though he resists the opportunity for a long time, fearing the consequences. Ultimately, Sam's situation doesn't resonate quite as strongly with LOST as I had suspected, but I enjoyed contemplating parallels from week to week, especially when both shows explored similar issues on the same night.

I missed a few episodes of Life on Mars in the fall, when I often worked the evenings it aired and didn't have LOST as a lead-in. I understand that one of those episodes was especially well done and gave the tantalizing impression of a complex mythology underpinning the plot. However, as I mentioned before, I was never able to invest myself in the show fully. The gap between LOST and Life on Mars is comparable to the way I experienced Harry Potter and A Series of Unfortunate Events. While I found the latter very entertaining, those characters never became real to me as J. K. Rowling's did. They were more like caricatures, and even during the most perilous moments, I couldn't muster up very passionate feelings of concern. So even before I realized that Life on Mars was getting just one season, I didn't expect the ending to move me much or make a lot of sense. From that viewpoint, I found the conclusion strange but mostly satisfying, and certainly less depressing than some I had envisioned. I didn't love it, but I didn't hate it either. However, some of my friends despised it, and that seems to be a common opinion, so that may be something to consider before you commit to all those viewing hours.

If you don't mind a bit of the nonsensical, check out Life on Mars for the outstanding soundtrack, the amusing homages to the 70s and the great performances, especially by Keitel, whose character is much more complicated than he at first appears. It's a shame the show got cut short; I was hoping for another team-up with LOST. But as a stand-alone season, it's a fun, retro romp, so if you think you'd like to get to know Sam Tyler and his pals, hitch a ride with the Rocket Man and get ready for Life on Mars.

My Top Ten Movies of the '60s

A grand decade for Disney, the 1960s included some of my all-time favorite movies, as well as a lot of flicks that are highly watchable once, with limited replay value.  All of my top ten are ones I'd be happy to sit through multiple times.  And have.

Peter Pan (1960) - Though I'm not a fan of the Disney version of the J. M. Barrie classic about a boy who stays forever young on a magical isle called Never-Neverland, I love this version, a television adaptation of the musical starring Mary Martin. She is endearingly spunky, and I never seem to mind much that she's a girl. Perhaps that softens Peter's bravado; even when he's bragging up a storm with I Gotta Crow, I don't find him nearly as obnoxious as the animated Disney imp. I love the songs throughout the film, and the performance of Cyril Ritchard as sinister but silly Captain Hook / ineffective Mr. Darling is the most entertaining aspect of the whole movie.

Swiss Family Robinson (1960) - Two words: ostrich races. Not to mention the treehouse of my dreams and what may have been the beginning of my love affair with stories about folks shipwrecked on seemingly uninhabited islands.

The Sword in the Stone (1963) - I can trace my love of King Arthur back to this Disney cartoon, in which he is a scrawny kid known as "the Wart" living under the thumb of his corpulent uncle and brutish cousin. Merlin serves as a wise but comical mentor, with some help from the requisite animal sidekick, Archimedes, who bears a strong resemblance to the owl from Bambi. Sticking with the fairly light-hearted portion of T. H. White's The Once and Future King, heightening the slapstick and doing a lot of simplifying, it's among the funniest animated Disney films, even if it was less successful than most.

Mary Poppins (1964) - A real contender for my all-time favorite movie. The songs showcase the Sherman Brothers at their best, from peppy classics like Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious to my personal favorite, the compassionate, religiously loaded Feed the Birds. The cast is wonderful, especially Julie Andrews as eccentric but exceptional Mary and Dick Van Dyke as irrepressibly jolly Bert. An engrossing tale of magic, imagination and parents and children coming to appreciate each other, it's also the movie that made me fall in love with London.

Cinderella (1965) - I've seen many versions of this story, but this television adaptation of the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical, starring Leslie Anne Warren, will always be my favorite. She makes such a perfect Cinderella, sweet and starry-eyed, dutifully doing her chores amid abuses by her absurd step-mother and step-sisters but taking time to imagine better things. The prince is dreamy, with loads more personality than the Disney version, and Cinderella's step-family is hilarious. The step-sisters even evoke some sympathy, as the lady of the house is scarcely any kinder to her own daughters. It's all very low-frills, with scarcely any props at all, but the story and the fantastic songs more than make up for it. This is my second-favorite Rodgers and Hammerstein musical.

The Sound of Music (1965) - This, naturally, tops the list. Rodgers and Hammerstein's crowning achievement, it's another movie starring Julie Andrews as an unusual nanny who swoops in to repair a family with unruly children and a distant father. But in this case, she plays an aspiring nun who hadn't bargained on falling in love with the dashing captain so excellently portrayed by Christopher Plummer. The sweeping cinematography, the iconic songs, the historical backdrop, the religious overtones, the humor, the romance... It all blends perfectly for a movie I can watch over and over again with rapt enjoyment.

The Russians are Coming, the Russians are Coming (1966) - Quite possibly the funniest movie of the decade. Of course, by the time I saw this, Russians no longer seems a great threat, so I never had much reason to see Alan Arkin's merry band of accidental invaders as antagonists. I just reveled in the relentless slapstick and silly one-liners. But I've also come to think of it as an inspiring tale underneath all that comedy, one that dares to hope that people who are supposedly enemies can be united by a common goal and can overcome suspicions to form unlikely friendships.

The Graduate (1967) - It took a couple of viewings for me to really appreciate this movie, which stars a hilariously awkward Dustin Hoffman as confused young college graduate Benjamin, who is lured into an affair with the wife of a family friend. But now that I've been in Benjamin's shoes - as an aimless college grad, that is, not someone who channeled that aimlessness in such an unhealthy direction - the film seems very apt. And what kind of Simon and Garfunkel fan would I be if I left this off the list?

The Jungle Book (1967) - Another triumph for the Sherman Brothers, this story of a boy raised by wolves features an intriguing array of creatures, each with a distinct personality. No-nonsense panther Bagheera, sibilant snake Kaa, haughty elephant Colonel Hathi, lackadaisical bear Baloo, ambitious orangutan King Louie, sinister tiger Shere Khan and a hapless quartet of vultures all make an impact on Mowgli's journey. With the exception of the cats, they all have a song, too, each in a different style. Kaa has a hypnotic lullaby, Hathi a crisp march, Louie a jazzy scatfest, the vultures a Beatles-esque harmonious ode. Baloo, of course, gets one of the bounciest numbers in Disney history. A simple story magnificently told, with lush animation every step of the way.

The Love Bug (1969) - I just love WV bugs, and this is why. Herbie, the little white beetle with the number 53 on his side, is more lovable than any car ought to be. He doesn't talk; he simply uses a series of mechanical noises to communicate emotion, and he maintains control over his own steering. This is the first of his adventures. Though Dean Jones, David Tomlinson and especially Buddy Hackett make terrific co-stars, this little automobile is clearly the star.

My Top Ten Movies of the '50s

I watch a lot of movies, but my list of movies that came out before the '60s is fairly short.  One of these days I need to expand my familiarity with '50s cinema, but as of now, these are my ten favorites of the decade.

Harvey (1950) - I first heard of this movie because I was curious about the origin of the name of my aunt's cat, Chumley. She explained that he was a character from this film, and that she'd also had a cat named Elwood. That's the character Jimmy Stewart plays, a mild-mannered bachelor who scandalizes his socialite sister by hanging around in bars and consorting with a six-foot-tall rabbit no one else can see. Very funny and, in its way, extremely wise.

Hans Christian Andersen (1952) - We rented this when The Little Mermaid came out in theaters. I assume that this was to give my brother and me some background on the man who wrote this story that had so enchanted us. The story of the mermaid who longs to be human is only one of many Andersen tales referenced in this delightful musical biopic. Thumbellina and The Ugly Duckling are other standouts, all magnificently told by the vivacious Danny Kaye.

Lady and the Tramp (1955) - One of Disney's most romantic movies, despite the fact that the main characters are dogs. More than just about any animated Disney film up to this point, there's ample time taken to develop their individual personalities and let their romance unfold gradually. A high-class dame and a scallywag make a go of it, once he's demonstrated that he's not such a scoundrel after all. That candlelit spaghetti dinner stands as one of the most romantic scenes in any film, animated or not.

Oklahoma! (1955) - I was in high school before I got into this one. I'd seen it once but hadn't been that impressed. Then I heard it was to be the spring musical my junior year. Soon I was well acquainted with it, and my classmates' production, particularly one friend's tour de force performance as overbearing Ado Annie, won me over to the musical completely. It's hardly my favorite Rodgers and Hammerstein musical, but it has some wonderful moments, including the auction and anything involving Ado Annie or Ali Hakim.

Carousel (1956) - I didn't know a thing about this musical until I saw the play, starring my future acting teacher's wife, my freshman year of high school, at which point I became completely obsessed with it. Though the movie doesn't quite capture the play's magnificence, in part because of a strange framing device that takes away the element of surprise, it's one of Rodgers and Hammerstein's most thought-provoking efforts. The songs range from comical to inspiring, with You'll Never Walk Alone transcending the musical to attain its own iconic status.

The Court Jester (1956) - Danny Kaye again, in one of his silliest and most entertaining roles. He was such a wonderful performer, and he pulls out everything in his arsenal here. A master of slapstick, he was ideally suited to play a jester, but it's the verbal acrobatics that really stick with me. "The vessel with the pestle holds the pellet with the poison. The flagon with the dragon holds the brew that is true." Try saying that ten times fast!

The King and I (1956) - Yes, it was a good decade for Rodgers and Hammerstein. This, too, has a high school connection, as my acting teacher, his wife and their two children starred in a local production of it. But I'd loved the musical long before that and in particular the performance of Yul Brynner as the imperious king whose bark is generally worse than his bite. Though certain elements of this culture clash saga paint him in an antagonistic light, he is my favorite character, a man who, much like Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof, struggles to reconcile centuries of tradition with a world clearly changing around him.

The Red Balloon (1956) - Short, sweet, sad. This nearly-wordless French film depicts one glorious day in which a boy befriends a balloon and roves through town with it, reveling in the spirit of adventure but never far from hostile forces. A gentle fantasy whose tragic elements cannot overpower its ability to uplift. "No one can be un-cheered by a balloon," postulates Pooh; this film may prove that he is correct.

Old Yeller (1957) - Now, if you really want depressing, this is the movie for you. Most of its cast would go on to star in Swiss Family Robinson, which features several exotic creatures, none of which end up with rabies. It's a fate not to be wished on any dog, especially one so faithful as Yeller. This classic with the deceptively cheerful theme song is the quintessential Boy Meets Pet-Boy and Pet Have Adventures-Boy Kills Pet tale, so if you like weepy animal stories, you can't consider your repertoire complete until you've seen it.

The Shaggy Dog (1959) - If you'd rather have the animals without the tragedy, Disney proves itself equally adept with live-action comedy. Tommy Kirk from Old Yeller returns for this goofy tale of a teen with the unhappy habit of transforming into an enormous English Sheepdog. There's a reason for this, of course, and the aim is to ultimately get his normal life back. It all ends very happily - but not happily enough to prevent a couple of equally silly sequels.