Stephenie Meyer Brings the Twilight Saga to a Satisfying Conclusion with Breaking Dawn

Breaking Dawn, the fourth and final installment in Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight series, hit shelves in the summer of 2008, just about a year after the release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. It wasn’t a pop culture event of quite that magnitude, but it was probably the most anticipated book of the summer, at least among my friends. Curious, but not convinced that I would ever actually pick up the series myself, I read a few reviews of the finale and found the overall reception to be negative. I felt sorry for all of the ardent devotees who had invested themselves in the series only to be let down in the end.

Of course, different people are satisfied by different things; certainly there were many fans who didn’t love Deathly Hallows as much as I did. Still, I came away from my review-reading with several spoiled plot points and even less assurance that I wanted to start reading something with an ending that would be disappointing. But once I did pick up the series for myself, I knew that I would have to see it through to the end. I’m glad I didn’t let those comments sway me; while I enjoyed the first two books in the series well enough, I much preferred the final two volumes, and for me, Breaking Dawn was just about perfect.  (I tried to avoid too many spoilers here, but I do mention a couple of rather prominent plot points, so tread carefully...)
It begins as Bella Swan, a nondescript 18-year-old living in Forks, Washington with her father Charlie, is on the verge of getting married to Edward Cullen, the man of her dreams, who just happens to be a vampire. For the first few chapters, Bella puts forth one last burst of whininess, one of her defining characteristics. It’s rather tedious to slog through her “Ugh, my fiance just bought me a bulletproof car! Blech, I’m marrying the most perfect man on the face of the planet! Gack, my sweeter-than-honey future sister-in-law is giving me the most beautiful wedding imaginable!” I mean, boy, Bella, you have it tough. The funny thing is that in her human life, the better things are for her, the more she complains. Thankfully, she seems to get over this once she becomes a vampire; she does have a rather vicious response to one revelation involving Jacob, but once the shock wears off, she comes to understand it as a fortuitous circumstance.

Yes, she does make the transformation; was there any doubt? Meyer tried to introduce nuggets of it, mostly through her relationship with Jacob, who spends half his time as a wolf and most of his time hopelessly in love with Bella. Jacob narrates the second portion of this novel himself, which I suppose muddies the waters further, since it seems at one point that Bella might not survive beyond the first half of the book. But after all that buildup, I think many fans would have been up in arms if she had chosen a human life or died before Edward could change her. And seeing her in vampire form helps to demonstrate just how unusual some of her characteristics are and how she almost seems to have been destined for this very different life all along.

Aside from a brief chapter at the end of the third novel, Bella has served as the lone narrative voice, so getting Jacob’s perspective for a couple hundred pages is a welcome change. At first, his tone is so aggressive that it’s uncomfortable to read his ramblings; even the chapter titles are sarcastic rants, as opposed to Bella’s terse one- or two-word summaries. But Jacob, who oversees the most gruesome portion of the novel, undergoes a powerful change in this book as his fondness for Bella forces him into close quarters with Edward’s vampire family. Though he’d fought alongside some of them before, it’s not until this point that he is able to really appreciate them as individuals, developing genuine affection for gentle patriarch Carlisle, his tender-hearted wife Esme and their adopted daughter Alice, whose sprightly enthusiasm makes her my favorite character in the series. It’s fascinating to watch so many of his prejudices gradually dissipate, and though her solution is unconventional, I thought Meyer’s way of firmly resolving the werewolf-vampire feud was quite clever and satisfying.

There is more adult material in this book than the others. Though celibacy is something Edward insists upon throughout the first three volumes, once they wed, he consents to consummating the marriage while Bella is still human, owing to her assumption that once she becomes a vampire, she’ll be too thirsty to think about canoodling, at least for the first few years. We see the immediate aftermath of a couple of these encounters, but Meyer really doesn’t go into any detail, mostly leaving the readers to fill in the blanks if they so choose. Edward’s fears about hurting Bella are confirmed in the worst way when he impregnates her, a feat he thought impossible. This was the element that seemed to garner the most complaints. Bella suffers through a hideously painful, albeit rapidly accelerated, pregnancy and labor. It’s an incredibly violent process that involves the infant sapping away all of Bella’s nourishment and breaking her bones from the inside. But the thing is, now that she has all the reason in the world to whine, Bella, seized by a fierce, protective love for her unborn baby, suddenly learns forbearance. And when she takes it all in such stride, it’s hard to get too grossed out by what is happening to her.

The book takes several directions that surprised me, or that would have if I hadn’t read about certain twists beforehand. The child, who even old-fashioned Edward and Carlisle immediately want to abort for fear that the pregnancy will kill Bella, turns out very differently than I expected. Bella’s parents don’t simply disappear from the book after the wedding. Jacob matures, and the trials and complications of the first three books start to feel like stepping stones instead of roadblocks. One of the reasons I decided to read the series was that it had become a topic of discussion at a couple of my favorite Harry Potter websites, and I found myself particularly reading through the lens of John Granger’s comments on literary alchemy in Looking for God in Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows Lectures. So many alchemical elements are present in this concluding volume, including a wedding, a death/rebirth and the merger of a “quarreling couple” - in this case the vampires and werewolves. From the beginning, the Twilight series has invited comparisons with Romeo and Juliet; happily, Meyer brings the feuding parties together without killing off most of the major characters.

At this point in the series, the main characters are well established, but some gain greater prominence, particularly Seth Clearwater, who only recently became a werewolf. Young Seth is an earnest lad of about 15, and he’s probably my favorite character in this novel next to Alice, though he isn’t as involved in the second half. He alone among his peers is able to instantly put aside the natural prejudice against vampires after their alliance with the Cullens in Eclipse. Sweet-natured and brave, he forms a lasting friendship with Edward, and his loyalty to his own people is tested when Sam, the werewolf leader, has reason to see the vampire family as a threat to be eliminated. His sister Leah, the lone female werewolf, also takes on a bigger role as she makes a clean break from the man who broke her heart and strives to find meaning in her life once again.

We’re reintroduced to the Volturi, an ancient group of vampires in Italy who serve a similar role to Harry Potter’s Ministry of Magic. Caius is hot-headed and eager to make trouble, while Aro comes across as mostly gentle and compassionate, though never quite safe. Their brother Marcus resurfaces with them but contributes so little that his presence is easy to forget. They dole out justice among immortal beings, and though the vampire world owes them much for maintaining order, these are not authorities to be trifled with. Meyer also introduces several other vampires who have associated with the Cullens in the past, and it’s interesting to see how they interact with one another. Lest all the new names become confusing, Meyer provides a list of who’s who in the back of the book.

In a series as in-depth and complex as Harry Potter, the conclusion Meyer offers might seem excessively simplistic, but for the series at hand, in which one is used to small misunderstandings blossoming into major crises and fairly one-dimensional characters falling madly in love with one another at first sight, I think it’s just right. Perhaps Meyer made things easier on herself by sidestepping a few opportunities for conflict, but as someone who’s always rooting for a happily-ever-after, I appreciated the approach she took here. At about 750 pages, this volume could still benefit from a little trimming, but I really didn’t mind the slow pace. By the time I turned the final page, I was rather sorry to say goodbye to her world but pleased to do so on an unexpectedly high note.

A Robin Comes to Roost in Annie and Snowball and the Cozy Nest

A few years ago, I discovered Cynthia Rylant, and I quickly discovered that she is one of the most prolific children's book authors in the business. She seems to be constantly publishing something. One reason she writes so often is that she has several different series to juggle, and some have even spawned spin-off series. In the case of Henry and Mudge, the easy reader chronicles of a young boy and his enormous dog, there are two spin-offs: Puppy Mudge, designed for very early readers, and Annie and Snowball, which aims at the same grade level as Henry and Mudge but is geared more toward girls.

Annie and Snowball and the Cozy Nest is the fifth book in this series. It stars Henry's cousin Annie and her fluffy white rabbit Snowball. Of course, because Annie now lives next-door to Henry, the stories in this series tend to involve all four pretty heavily. Annie's dad and Henry's parents also make occasional appearances. This particular volume has a springtime focus. In four short sections, Rylant lets a simple story unfold. There is a robin building a next on Annie's porch, in a secluded spot that can only be seen easily from the swing. Everyone, especially Annie and Henry, is excited to watch the bird's progress, and when five blue eggs appear inside, anticipation increases. Babies are on the way! But oh, what a long time to wait!

Like the other books in this series, this one is designed for independent readers who are still mastering the skill, so there's a bit of complexity to the writing but it's still pretty basic. Rylant sneaks some facts into the story, sometimes with some comical help from illustrator Sucie Stevenson. For instance, there's a silly picture of an elephant in a nest that is dreamed up by Annie, who figures Mudge could furnish enough fur to house an elephant. But Rylant paranthetically points out that elephants don't really build nests. Annie's dad, meanwhile, informs his daughter that she mustn't touch the eggs, though she is welcome to observe them.

There are a couple of small issues I had with the book. First off, it begins with Henry's birthday party, but Rylant only makes brief mention of this as a happy thing occurring in the spring. It seems like a bit of a letdown to show Henry and Annie at his party with a pile of gifts on the floor and cake on the table and not to linger there long enough even to open one present or take one bite of cake. I'm trying to remember if there is a book about Henry's birthday that takes place after the point in the Henry and Mudge series when Annie moves next door. Maybe this is a sly attempt to make this book a jumping-off point into the previous series.

The other slight complaint I have is that when the robins are finally born, they don't look like newborn robins. They're basically just smaller, fuzzier versions of their mother. I've seen baby robins, and when they first hatch, they're not cute and fuzzy. They're gangly and mostly unfeathered, and their beaks are freakishly enormous. Stevenson's depiction isn't very true-to-life.

Otherwise, though, this is a nice installment in a charming series. As usual, ungainly Mudge provides a few laughs, and the children reading Annie and Snowball and the Cozy Nest can learn a lesson in the value of patience right along with Annie and Henry.

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."

A Baby Brother Brings Confusion in Junie B. Jones and A Little Monkey Business

During my years of working at a bookstore, I have become very familiar with the popularity of Barbara Park's Junie B. Jones series, but until the other day, I had never actually read beyond the back-cover blurb. When my friend Libbie picked up a couple of the books at a block sale, I got my first full dose of Junie B., a sort of latter-day Ramona Quimby. The books are divided into chapters and run about 60 pages each, but the large print and the many illustrations make them easy for an adult to devour in well under an hour. I began my immersion with Junie B. Jones and A Little Monkey Business, the second book in the series.

In the first 17 Junie B. Jones books, the protagonist is a spunky kindergartener. While Beverly Clearly gets readers into Ramona's head, those books are still written in the third person, while Junie narrates these stories herself. That means that there is a lot of improper grammar, as Junie isn't anywhere near mastery of the English language yet. It also means that everything is filtered through her limited understanding. Denise Brunkus's illustrations are detailed and full of expression, and Junie herself is usually the focus of them. Aside from the cover art, these pictures are all in black and white.

Monkey Business opens with Junie reacting to her parents' announcement that they have a surprise for her. It's a rather troubling scene because it is reminiscent of a typical day in the Dursley household in the Harry Potter books, with spoiled young Dudley ranting and raving because he wants something and it isn't being delivered quickly enough for his liking. When Junie hears "surprise," she thinks "present," and when it turns out that what her parents have instead is news of an impending baby, she behaves in a manner that is most unbecoming.

Later in the book, after Junie has adjusted to the idea of sharing her home with a sibling, she encourages a bidding war between her best friends Lucille and Grace, both of whom want to be the first to see her newborn brother. Lucille, who comes from an affluent family, is the one who plants the idea in her head by offering Junie temporary ownership of her locket in exchange for first dibs. Junie thinks that allowing Grace the chance to pay her off as well is only fair, though of course it would have been better to tell both girls that they could see her brother soon, no charge. This scene reminds me of Tom Sawyer's fence-painting con, in which the rascal manages to make his chore sound so appealing that his friends start paying him whatever they can find for the privilege of participating. It ceases to be funny, however, as Junie begins to feel that she is entitled to everything of value that both of her friends possess, whether it's fancy new shoes or snack tickets. The tantrum and the extortion are the most unseemly moments in the book.

Junie is more willfully naughty than Ramona. However, some of the mistakes that she makes are simple misunderstandings that become magnified when coupled with her forceful personality. The biggest misunderstanding in this book has to do with idioms and serves as a reminder that for those just learning the language, these phrases can be very confusing. In this instance, Junie's grandma describes the new baby as a "cute little monkey" with long fingers and loads of dark hair, which leads Junie to believe that her brother is literally a monkey. I thought this was a clever premise on which to hang a story, and I liked the compassionate, level-headed way the principal responds to the situation, turning an embarrassing mistake into a learning experience for everyone.

My favorite character aside from the principal is Frank Miller, Junie's grandpa. We don't see him very much, but he's a warm and funny man who seems especially adept at understanding how a kid's mind works. He makes her waffles and plays games with her, and because of his attention, Junie is too busy having fun to feel left out of the birth process. I have a vivid recollection of waking up in the middle of the night in September of 1988 to the sight of my grandparents; when I asked if the baby had been born yet, Grandpa assured me, "Well, he's thinkin' about it!" He didn't live to see my brother's first birthday, so I'm especially glad that we were able to share such a landmark event.

Now that I've read a couple of books in Park's series, I would say that they're not nearly as classic as Cleary's books. For one thing, there are many more of them, with nearly 30 in the series so far as opposed to eight Ramona books. For another, they are considerably shorter, and some are likely to find the writing style annoying. Additionally, Junie's behavior tends to be a little bit more intentionally bratty than Ramona's.

On the other hand, the books are very funny, and Junie usually walks away from her latest adventure wiser in some way, and perhaps chastened. The principal is a great example of a school administrator who truly cares about the students in his care and strikes a good balance between strict and understanding in dealing with transgressions. Moreover, as Junie discovers new words, she passes her knowledge onto readers with custom definitions that entertain as they inform, which reminded me a bit of Lemony Snicket.

I'd recommend these books for young readers, preferably a little bit older than Junie so they will come into it with a solid understanding of what constitutes appropriate behavior, especially in school. In any case, I advise parents to familiarize themselves with the stories so that even if the children read them on their own, some frank parent-child discussions can follow. Junie has many lessons to teach, but most are by negative example, so it's important to talk about why some of the things she does are out of line and what might be a better way of handling the situation. As long as young readers approach it with that spirit, Junie B. Jones and A Little Monkey Business is a bundle of fun.

At Least Amelia Bedelia Doesn't Try Sitting on the Baby...

I've done a lot of baby-sitting in my life, but most of it has not involved actual babies. While older children are often more demanding than infants, I find the inevitable language barrier with pre-toddlers frustrating. Especially when there are massive amounts of crying involved. So I sympathize with the bewildered heroine in Peggy Parish's Amelia Bedelia and the Baby.

Amelia Bedelia is a perpetually sunny, extremely literally-minded maid who works for a wealthy couple. In this book, her employer, Mrs. Rogers, sends her off to babysit for Mrs. Lane, a neighbor. Evidently Mrs. Rogers offered Amelia's services, despite the maid's lack of experience; the book doesn't say definitively, instead dropping us into the middle of a scene with Amelia's objection of "But Mrs. Rogers, I don't know a thing about babies."

It's true. Amelia is utterly clueless on that score, and neither Mrs. Rogers nor Mrs. Lane supplies her with much information, though the latter furnishes a list, which she does her best to follow. In typical Amelia style, however, she misunderstands an item or two... You would think that Parish would have run out of ideas rather quickly for a series about a woman who incorrectly interprets nearly every instruction. Instead, she wrote book after book conveying Amelia's cheerful ineptitude.

It seems like a bad idea to stick someone who claims no past association with babies in a situation where she will be alone with an infant for several hours. But although Amelia has never even heard of a baby bottle before, she's a fast learner, and she improvises solutions to several problems that present themselves as she works her way through the list, with a smile on her face as always and a tasty recipe up her sleeve.

Amelia Bedelia and the Baby is illustrated by Lynn Sweat with line drawings featuring varying shades of yellow, pink and black. Amelia, in her black dress, white apron and flower-fringed bonnet, is cheerful and charming, and the slightly disastrous scenes attending her first bout of babysitting are entertaining. The book is about 60 pages long with several sentences on each page, so while it is designed for beginning readers, it is on the lengthier end of the spectrum. But that shouldn't pose much of a problem. Amelia's exploits are so enjoyable, this is the sort of book kids will want to see through to the end. Hopefully the complications won't turn too many of them off baby-sitting...