I’ve read several different children’s mystery series, from Encyclopedia
Brown to the Boxcar Children. But I’d only ever heard of Nate the Great
until I read Nate the Great and the Crunchy Christmas, which
appears to have been the 18th book in the series, which is designed for
children who are advanced enough to read independently but aren’t quite
ready for chapter books. Written by Marjorie Weinman Sharmat and Craig
Sharmat and illustrated by Marc Simont, the approximately 40-page-long
book finds young detective Nate distracted from the job of shoveling his
driveway by the arrival of a friend in need.
That pal is
Annie, the owner of Fang, a large, tough-looking pooch who intimidates
Nate. Fang is out of sorts, which Annie insists is because he has not
yet received a Christmas card from his mother. Don’t ask how, in a world
where canines aren’t even capable of speaking, a dog can send Christmas
cards; that is one particular mystery on which Nate can shed no light.
But he is determined to figure out what exactly happened to the letter
that Annie insists must have arrived.
With 40 pages to fill,
Nate has time to try out every trick in the trade, but the ultimate
solution is quite simple, reminding me of the book The Berenstain Bears and the Missing Dinosaur Bone.
In both cases, the detectives’ four-legged sidekicks prove to be
essential in finally cracking the case. Hence, this book is as much for
dog lovers as mystery fans, with plenty of commentary on dog behavior,
whether it’s the tendency to bark at the mailman or an uncatlike
willingness to wear silly costumes.
Most of the sentences in
the book are fairly short, often taking up just one line, and repetition
is frequently used for emphasis and humor. For instance, when he
investigates Annie‘s catalog collection, Nate notes, “Some of the
catalogs were for dogs. Christmas food for dogs. Christmas toys for
dogs. Christmas clothes for dogs. Fang must be on a mailing list.”
Fang is the most amusing character in the cartoonish illustrations,
always a cross between foreboding and cuddly. He looks like a German
shepherd without any color variation in his fur, and he’s charmingly
complacent as he sits outside in the snow in a tiny hat and jingle bell
collar. Also worth a laugh is Rosamond, an eccentric friend of Annie’s
whose Christmas tree is decorated with several live cats.
While Rosamond and Annie are preparing for Christmas, Nate celebrates
Chanukah. This doesn’t come into the story much, but it’s an interesting
element, particularly when he mentions eating potato pancakes. The
lights in his window at the end of the book are also a subtle nod. For a
more overt examination of friendship across faiths during the holidays,
I recommend Patricia Polacco’s The Trees of the Dancing Goats, but if you like a little mystery with your “merry” and some canine with your “Christmas,” check out Nate the Great and the Crunchy Christmas.
Monday, November 9, 2009
For Those Too Little for Little House, There's Christmas in the Big Woods
Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House books have been enjoyed by
children and adults alike for decades. While her original novels
continue to be popular, some have discovered this plucky youngster and
her pioneering family through adaptations. Not only have there been
films and, of course, the long-running TV series, but there have also been simplified versions of the books published for an especially young audience. One such abridgement is My First Little House Books: Christmas in the Big Woods.
Taken from Christmas, the fourth chapter in Little House in the Big Woods, this story describes the Christmas that Laura and her family spend in their log cabin in Wisconsin. Though they are fairly isolated most of the time, the holiday brings company that fills the house with merriment. With four adults and six children under one roof, they set about making their Christmas as joyful as possible with their limited resources.
One of the nicest things about this simple story is the way it emphasizes the excitement Laura and the other children feel over the meager gifts they receive. Each child gets a peppermint stick and a new pair of mittens, and that is enough to make them “so happy they could hardly speak.” Whether it’s homemade candy or pancake people prepared by Ma Ingalls, the children savor each good thing they are given, knowing that such treats are scarce.
The chapter in the book is about 20 pages long, whereas this book contains only 14 paragraphs printed over illustrations covering two pages. Thus, most of the dialogue is lost, along with some of the more detailed descriptions of items, such as the doll Laura receives. In the novel, half a page is devoted to her physical appearance, but the picture book whittles it down to just “a beautiful rag doll with black button eyes and a pink-and-blue calico dress.” Then again, we get to see the doll, dubbed Charlotte by Laura, in full color on several pages, so to some extent the illustrations speak for themselves.
Renee Graef makes a great effort to keep her work consistent with that of original illustrator Garth Williams, and some of her spreads are clearly inspired by specific pictures in Little House in the Big Woods. There’s the girls making molasses candy with their mother, playing in the snow and trying to get to sleep on Christmas Eve. My favorite picture in the chapter, of most of the extended family snuggled together, is stretched out in Graef’s imagination in order to make it fit two pages. I prefer the intimacy of Williams’ drawing, in which both dads are receiving hugs from one of their daughters, but I like the way Graef incorporates every member of the family, even the dog Jack.
Additionally, despite the trimming, several bits of writing are lifted directly from Wilder. For instance, both the book and the chapter end the same way: “Christmas was over. But what a happy Christmas it had been!” Ending on this appreciative note again emphasizes the importance of being grateful for one’s blessings, and keeping so much of the language similar ensures that Wilder’s writing will feel familiar when, hopefully, the children who read Christmas in the Big Woods decide to move on to the novels.
Taken from Christmas, the fourth chapter in Little House in the Big Woods, this story describes the Christmas that Laura and her family spend in their log cabin in Wisconsin. Though they are fairly isolated most of the time, the holiday brings company that fills the house with merriment. With four adults and six children under one roof, they set about making their Christmas as joyful as possible with their limited resources.
One of the nicest things about this simple story is the way it emphasizes the excitement Laura and the other children feel over the meager gifts they receive. Each child gets a peppermint stick and a new pair of mittens, and that is enough to make them “so happy they could hardly speak.” Whether it’s homemade candy or pancake people prepared by Ma Ingalls, the children savor each good thing they are given, knowing that such treats are scarce.
The chapter in the book is about 20 pages long, whereas this book contains only 14 paragraphs printed over illustrations covering two pages. Thus, most of the dialogue is lost, along with some of the more detailed descriptions of items, such as the doll Laura receives. In the novel, half a page is devoted to her physical appearance, but the picture book whittles it down to just “a beautiful rag doll with black button eyes and a pink-and-blue calico dress.” Then again, we get to see the doll, dubbed Charlotte by Laura, in full color on several pages, so to some extent the illustrations speak for themselves.
Renee Graef makes a great effort to keep her work consistent with that of original illustrator Garth Williams, and some of her spreads are clearly inspired by specific pictures in Little House in the Big Woods. There’s the girls making molasses candy with their mother, playing in the snow and trying to get to sleep on Christmas Eve. My favorite picture in the chapter, of most of the extended family snuggled together, is stretched out in Graef’s imagination in order to make it fit two pages. I prefer the intimacy of Williams’ drawing, in which both dads are receiving hugs from one of their daughters, but I like the way Graef incorporates every member of the family, even the dog Jack.
Additionally, despite the trimming, several bits of writing are lifted directly from Wilder. For instance, both the book and the chapter end the same way: “Christmas was over. But what a happy Christmas it had been!” Ending on this appreciative note again emphasizes the importance of being grateful for one’s blessings, and keeping so much of the language similar ensures that Wilder’s writing will feel familiar when, hopefully, the children who read Christmas in the Big Woods decide to move on to the novels.
Josh Groban Turns His Masterful Voice to Christmas With Noel
As a rule, I’ve never been especially drawn to operatic voices, but I’ve
found my appreciation for them beginning to expand lately as I’ve
become enchanted with such singers as Paul Byrom
and Susan Boyle. One of the first classically trained singers who
really won me over was Josh Groban, who wowed me with his rendition of You Raise Me Up
in late 2003 and has been on my radar ever since. In the past six
years, I’ve heard many renditions of that particular song, including an
outstanding one by Byrom, but my hands-down favorite is Groban’s version
of the song with backing by an African children’s choir during 2007’s Idol Gives Back.
Part of Josh Groban’s appeal is his humble attitude and charitable outlook. So many of his songs are inspirational in nature, and there’s a definite air of sincerity in his renditions. This talented young man is almost exactly two weeks my junior, which makes him especially relatable. Up until the past few years, there were very few musicians my own age I admired; now, with the likes of Groban, Byrom, Clay Aiken and Ryan Kelly, they’re all coming out of the woodwork…
I’m always a sucker for a Christmas album, so when I received this as a gift from my friend Cynthia a couple years back, I was excited to hear how Josh would tackle some of my favorite holiday classics. Unsurprisingly, the tone of the album is serious, with a focus on songs of faith and celebrations of home and family. Those who love his powerful voice or well-crafted Christmas albums in general should be well pleased.
Silent Night - Josh sings the first and third verses beautifully, but the track is at its most remarkable with the second verse, when the MacDalen College Choir takes the melody and Josh harmonizes.
Little Drummer Boy - Guitarist Andy McKee does most of the percussion work on this song, especially through the first verse. Halfway through, bagpipes join in, reminding me of the military tattoo I attended when I visited Edinburgh several years ago. Pristine background vocals in this midsection add to the splendor.
I’ll Be Home for Christmas - This track has gotten a lot of airplay on the radio, and it’s probably the most poignant version of the song I’ve heard. Not only does Josh sing it beautifully, with just the right touch of wistfulness, but there are also several recorded messages from soldiers who are unable to spend Christmas with their families. This song was written during World War II, and this timely rendition really drives home the longing of families separated by war.
Ave Maria - Given Josh’s operatic leanings, this is a natural choice to include on the album, and he certainly does it justice, once again aided by the MacDalen College Choir, who provide a delicate backdrop to his powerful vocals.
Angels We Have Heard on High - Another acoustic guitar-driven track, this one really takes off when Brian McKnight joins him for a soulful duet.
Thankful - This lovely original written especially for this album by Carol Bayer Sager and David Foster, who produced Noel, expresses both the desire and the need to be thankful, as well as the drive to respond to one‘s blessings by doing something proactive for others. Like John Bucchino’s Grateful, it’s an ideal Thanksgiving anthem, but it applies wonderfully to Christmas. “It's up to us to be the change / And even though we all can still do more / There's so much to be thankful for.”
The Christmas Song - A pretty basic version of this song, with strings in prominence and Josh sticking close to the melody except in the last verse, when he branches out a bit.
What Child Is This? - I like Lucia Micarelli’s violin work on this track, and Dean Parks provides some nice guitar accompaniment. It’s a shame that a commonly sung verse is skipped, and I’m not sure how I feel about the echoey effects in the last verse, but on the whole it’s a nice rendition.
The First Noel - I’ve yet to find a version of this song that I like better than Clay Aiken’s on American Idol: The Great Holiday Classics, but Josh’s duet with Faith Hill is quite nice, with an interestingly jazzy feel to it toward the end. The jubilant choir also adds a nice touch.
Petit Papa Noel - This song is a kick for me because we used to sing the chorus in my middle school French classes, and I’d never heard it anywhere else. It’s rather funny to hear Josh singing it with such solemn sincerity, since I always thought of it as kind of a silly song, the French equivalent of Jolly Old St. Nicholas. There’s a disconnect between the subject matter and the ostentatious arrangement. But it makes me smile. And want to dust off my old French dictionary.
It Came Upon a Midnight Clear - Josh actually plays the piano on this one, which is neat, since I was unaware he played an instrument. It reminds me of Art Garfunkel playing the piano on Simon and Garfunkel’s Silent Night, a little-known contribution. I also like the addition of the choir toward the end.
Panis Angelicus - The second Latin song on the album. It’s hard to say whether I prefer his powerhouse rendition or the delicate version by Chloe Agnew on Celtic Woman - A Christmas Celebration, but it’s very suited to his voice.
O Come All Ye Faithful - The organ and the presence of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir on this track make it sound very much like a recording of a candelit Christmas Eve service - albeit at a much bigger church than the one I attend. A reverent way to end the album.
If I have one complaint about Noel, it’s with the liner notes, which are printed in all caps in an extremely tiny font. On top of that, there’s insufficient contrast between the background color and the text color, particularly during Josh’s page-long note at the back. It’s gold on burgundy, which looks majestic but is nearly impossible to read. But if my eyes are a little unhappy with this CD, my ears certainly aren’t. Josh Groban’s Noel is everything a Christmas album should be.
Part of Josh Groban’s appeal is his humble attitude and charitable outlook. So many of his songs are inspirational in nature, and there’s a definite air of sincerity in his renditions. This talented young man is almost exactly two weeks my junior, which makes him especially relatable. Up until the past few years, there were very few musicians my own age I admired; now, with the likes of Groban, Byrom, Clay Aiken and Ryan Kelly, they’re all coming out of the woodwork…
I’m always a sucker for a Christmas album, so when I received this as a gift from my friend Cynthia a couple years back, I was excited to hear how Josh would tackle some of my favorite holiday classics. Unsurprisingly, the tone of the album is serious, with a focus on songs of faith and celebrations of home and family. Those who love his powerful voice or well-crafted Christmas albums in general should be well pleased.
Silent Night - Josh sings the first and third verses beautifully, but the track is at its most remarkable with the second verse, when the MacDalen College Choir takes the melody and Josh harmonizes.
Little Drummer Boy - Guitarist Andy McKee does most of the percussion work on this song, especially through the first verse. Halfway through, bagpipes join in, reminding me of the military tattoo I attended when I visited Edinburgh several years ago. Pristine background vocals in this midsection add to the splendor.
I’ll Be Home for Christmas - This track has gotten a lot of airplay on the radio, and it’s probably the most poignant version of the song I’ve heard. Not only does Josh sing it beautifully, with just the right touch of wistfulness, but there are also several recorded messages from soldiers who are unable to spend Christmas with their families. This song was written during World War II, and this timely rendition really drives home the longing of families separated by war.
Ave Maria - Given Josh’s operatic leanings, this is a natural choice to include on the album, and he certainly does it justice, once again aided by the MacDalen College Choir, who provide a delicate backdrop to his powerful vocals.
Angels We Have Heard on High - Another acoustic guitar-driven track, this one really takes off when Brian McKnight joins him for a soulful duet.
Thankful - This lovely original written especially for this album by Carol Bayer Sager and David Foster, who produced Noel, expresses both the desire and the need to be thankful, as well as the drive to respond to one‘s blessings by doing something proactive for others. Like John Bucchino’s Grateful, it’s an ideal Thanksgiving anthem, but it applies wonderfully to Christmas. “It's up to us to be the change / And even though we all can still do more / There's so much to be thankful for.”
The Christmas Song - A pretty basic version of this song, with strings in prominence and Josh sticking close to the melody except in the last verse, when he branches out a bit.
What Child Is This? - I like Lucia Micarelli’s violin work on this track, and Dean Parks provides some nice guitar accompaniment. It’s a shame that a commonly sung verse is skipped, and I’m not sure how I feel about the echoey effects in the last verse, but on the whole it’s a nice rendition.
The First Noel - I’ve yet to find a version of this song that I like better than Clay Aiken’s on American Idol: The Great Holiday Classics, but Josh’s duet with Faith Hill is quite nice, with an interestingly jazzy feel to it toward the end. The jubilant choir also adds a nice touch.
Petit Papa Noel - This song is a kick for me because we used to sing the chorus in my middle school French classes, and I’d never heard it anywhere else. It’s rather funny to hear Josh singing it with such solemn sincerity, since I always thought of it as kind of a silly song, the French equivalent of Jolly Old St. Nicholas. There’s a disconnect between the subject matter and the ostentatious arrangement. But it makes me smile. And want to dust off my old French dictionary.
It Came Upon a Midnight Clear - Josh actually plays the piano on this one, which is neat, since I was unaware he played an instrument. It reminds me of Art Garfunkel playing the piano on Simon and Garfunkel’s Silent Night, a little-known contribution. I also like the addition of the choir toward the end.
Panis Angelicus - The second Latin song on the album. It’s hard to say whether I prefer his powerhouse rendition or the delicate version by Chloe Agnew on Celtic Woman - A Christmas Celebration, but it’s very suited to his voice.
O Come All Ye Faithful - The organ and the presence of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir on this track make it sound very much like a recording of a candelit Christmas Eve service - albeit at a much bigger church than the one I attend. A reverent way to end the album.
If I have one complaint about Noel, it’s with the liner notes, which are printed in all caps in an extremely tiny font. On top of that, there’s insufficient contrast between the background color and the text color, particularly during Josh’s page-long note at the back. It’s gold on burgundy, which looks majestic but is nearly impossible to read. But if my eyes are a little unhappy with this CD, my ears certainly aren’t. Josh Groban’s Noel is everything a Christmas album should be.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Celtic Woman Treats Christmas Classics With Delicate Reverence in A Christmas Celebration
It’s been several years now since my family first discovered Celtic
Woman on PBS. We always stop and watch when one of their concerts is on,
but I hadn’t thought about them in a while when I first became
entranced with Celtic Thunder,
a group that in some ways is their male equivalent. My fondness for
Celtic Thunder runs much deeper; I have always gravitated much more
toward male voices, and Celtic Thunder places much more emphasis on
individuals than Celtic Woman, while also focusing less on traditional
music.
Not that I object to a more folksy focus, because I love those types of songs, and Chloe Agnew, Orla Fallon (no longer with the group), Lisa Kelly, Mairead Nesbitt and Meav Ni Mhaolchatha (also no longer with the group) perform them beautifully. Given my steady diet of Celtic Thunder recently, I knew that Celtic Woman would be one of the first Christmas albums I pulled out this season. When they join together, the lads convey a feeling of strength and power. The women, meanwhile, demonstrate exquisite delicacy, which comes across beautifully on Celtic Woman: A Christmas Celebration.
O Holy Night - In discussions of favorite Christmas songs, this classic seems to come up more often than just about any other, particularly in religious circles. It’s a simply glorious carol that appears on countless albums as singers try to prove they’ve got the vocal chops to pull it off. Celtic Woman’s extraordinarily delicate rendition is one of my favorites. Though I wish they hadn’t skipped one verse and truncated another, their voices have a crystalline beauty to them that make this a genuine contender for my favorite version of the song. I’m hoping Celtic Thunder covers this one too; if they do, I suspect I’ll like theirs even better, but until then, I’m quite happy to listen to the ladies.
Away in a Manger - Orla Fallon has this beautiful version of a Christmas classic to herself, one of only a few solo numbers.
Ding Dong Merrily on High - This lively group number allows for plenty of complex harmonizing. One of the peppiest songs on the album.
White Christmas - Piano-driven snippets of Somewhere Over the Rainbow weave in and out of this wistful song, which is loveliest when the women come together in harmony.
Silent Night - An excellent showcase for Mairead’s fiddle, and Meav’s vocals are gorgeous, particularly during the portion in which she sings the old favorite in Irish.
Christmas Pipes - I’ve actually heard this one on the radio, so I think of it as the face of this album. A stirring song about the power of music and of the ability of Christmas to unite people. It starts very quiet and gathers intensity gradually. Includes a nice little sample of O Holy Night.
The Christmas Song - Lisa has solo honors on this one. There’s nothing especially unique about it, but her rendition definitely brings out the beauty of her voice.
Carol of the Bells - Mostly instrumental in focus, this choral number that already has a slightly Celtic flavor to it is an ideal choice for the group.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas - As with the others, this poignant song is at its most affecting when several of the voices are going at once. Some of the harmonies here are quite gorgeous.
Panis Angelicus - Chloe, my favorite member of the group as well as the youngest, takes the lead on this Latin song with which I am otherwise unfamiliar. It’s a beautiful song despite the language barrier.
Don Oiche Ud I mBeithil (That Night in Bethlehem) - A Nativity-focused Gaelic song with a haunting melody and harp accompaniment featuring Chloe, Mairead and Meav.
O Come All Ye Faithful - While my all-time favorite version of this song is the one Art Garfunkel recorded for the album The Very Best of Christmas Pop, this rich rendition, enhanced by a majestic chorus, is probably my second.
The Little Drummer Boy - Rather oddly, this track begins with an eerie chorus of male Gregorian chanting that continues throughout much of the song. Less surprising is the steady drumbeat throughout the song. The melody has a slightly minor tone to it and is a showcase for Chloe and Orla.
The Wexford Carol - A tender tune describing the Nativity, this is Meav’s solo number, though she is often backed by a chorus. This has an air of antiquity about it but is quite lovely.
Let It Snow! - This is designated as a bonus track, and I’m really not sure why; then again, I never really have understood the concept of “bonus tracks”. This jazzy song has a more contemporary feel to it than most of the tracks on the album and is a fun way to end the album.
Celtic Woman: A Christmas Celebration stands alongside the Irish Rovers’ An Irish Christmas as my favorite way to put an Irish stamp on my Christmas celebration. If you too would like to see a little green in your December beyond just the Christmas tree, it’s a good time to get to know Chloe, Orla, Lisa, Mairead and Meav.
Not that I object to a more folksy focus, because I love those types of songs, and Chloe Agnew, Orla Fallon (no longer with the group), Lisa Kelly, Mairead Nesbitt and Meav Ni Mhaolchatha (also no longer with the group) perform them beautifully. Given my steady diet of Celtic Thunder recently, I knew that Celtic Woman would be one of the first Christmas albums I pulled out this season. When they join together, the lads convey a feeling of strength and power. The women, meanwhile, demonstrate exquisite delicacy, which comes across beautifully on Celtic Woman: A Christmas Celebration.
O Holy Night - In discussions of favorite Christmas songs, this classic seems to come up more often than just about any other, particularly in religious circles. It’s a simply glorious carol that appears on countless albums as singers try to prove they’ve got the vocal chops to pull it off. Celtic Woman’s extraordinarily delicate rendition is one of my favorites. Though I wish they hadn’t skipped one verse and truncated another, their voices have a crystalline beauty to them that make this a genuine contender for my favorite version of the song. I’m hoping Celtic Thunder covers this one too; if they do, I suspect I’ll like theirs even better, but until then, I’m quite happy to listen to the ladies.
Away in a Manger - Orla Fallon has this beautiful version of a Christmas classic to herself, one of only a few solo numbers.
Ding Dong Merrily on High - This lively group number allows for plenty of complex harmonizing. One of the peppiest songs on the album.
White Christmas - Piano-driven snippets of Somewhere Over the Rainbow weave in and out of this wistful song, which is loveliest when the women come together in harmony.
Silent Night - An excellent showcase for Mairead’s fiddle, and Meav’s vocals are gorgeous, particularly during the portion in which she sings the old favorite in Irish.
Christmas Pipes - I’ve actually heard this one on the radio, so I think of it as the face of this album. A stirring song about the power of music and of the ability of Christmas to unite people. It starts very quiet and gathers intensity gradually. Includes a nice little sample of O Holy Night.
The Christmas Song - Lisa has solo honors on this one. There’s nothing especially unique about it, but her rendition definitely brings out the beauty of her voice.
Carol of the Bells - Mostly instrumental in focus, this choral number that already has a slightly Celtic flavor to it is an ideal choice for the group.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas - As with the others, this poignant song is at its most affecting when several of the voices are going at once. Some of the harmonies here are quite gorgeous.
Panis Angelicus - Chloe, my favorite member of the group as well as the youngest, takes the lead on this Latin song with which I am otherwise unfamiliar. It’s a beautiful song despite the language barrier.
Don Oiche Ud I mBeithil (That Night in Bethlehem) - A Nativity-focused Gaelic song with a haunting melody and harp accompaniment featuring Chloe, Mairead and Meav.
O Come All Ye Faithful - While my all-time favorite version of this song is the one Art Garfunkel recorded for the album The Very Best of Christmas Pop, this rich rendition, enhanced by a majestic chorus, is probably my second.
The Little Drummer Boy - Rather oddly, this track begins with an eerie chorus of male Gregorian chanting that continues throughout much of the song. Less surprising is the steady drumbeat throughout the song. The melody has a slightly minor tone to it and is a showcase for Chloe and Orla.
The Wexford Carol - A tender tune describing the Nativity, this is Meav’s solo number, though she is often backed by a chorus. This has an air of antiquity about it but is quite lovely.
Let It Snow! - This is designated as a bonus track, and I’m really not sure why; then again, I never really have understood the concept of “bonus tracks”. This jazzy song has a more contemporary feel to it than most of the tracks on the album and is a fun way to end the album.
Celtic Woman: A Christmas Celebration stands alongside the Irish Rovers’ An Irish Christmas as my favorite way to put an Irish stamp on my Christmas celebration. If you too would like to see a little green in your December beyond just the Christmas tree, it’s a good time to get to know Chloe, Orla, Lisa, Mairead and Meav.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Buy Yourself a Bloody Ben Linus and Watch the Baddie Bobble
This past summer marked the last LOST panel at the San Diego
Comic-Con, if head writers Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse are to be
believed. I wanted to go. But I couldn’t afford such an extravagant
trip, especially when I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to get into the LOST
panel. So I followed the coverage from afar. But shortly before the
convention began, I got wind of an exclusive convention item that I
longed to possess. I’m not one who does a lot of frivolous spending, but
figurines are one of my downfalls, and LOST has been steadily
depleting my bank account ever since I discovered McFarlane’s sadly
truncated line of talking action figures. The object of my desire this
time? A bloody Ben Linus bobblehead.
No, I’m not swearing a la raving Scotsman Desmond. I’m describing the physical condition of the character at the moment in which he is captured. On the one hand, I thought, “Now why in the world do we want to look at that?” On the other hand, there’s a certain satisfaction for some in seeing Ben beaten to a bloody pulp. Not that it’s really anything new; Ben has probably endured as much bodily injury as any character on the show. And he’s usually had it coming.
But even though he’s a homicidal sociopath, Ben is one of LOST‘s most compelling characters, and I can’t help being completely fascinated with him and hoping he will find redemption. In that light, this is actually an ideal way for Ben to be presented, since it shows the immediate aftermath of one of his more sympathetic moments. We don’t know that at the time when we first see him board Ajira 316, his left arm cradled in a sling over his pale purple shirt, luggage and jacket draped over his right arm. We also don’t know that before his moment of mercy, he had murder on his mind, though anybody who had seen season four’s The Shape of Things to Come probably could venture a guess about the promise he told Jack he had to keep before he left Los Angeles. This is a moment that reminds the ardent fan of the best and worst in Ben, that accentuates his inscrutability. We probably won’t really know where he’s coming from until the final episode. If then.
Of course, since I was not going to Comic-Con, I was in a jam, as this bobblehead kept taunting me in Facebook links and in the pages of TV Guide. My understanding was that he would be for sale at Comic-Con, in an extremely limited run, and would never be seen again. And I found that most unfair. So after the convention began, I trotted off to eBay, and I secured myself a Ben Linus, even as I berated myself for paying such an inflated price for such a silly trinket. And then, this week, after getting word that more LOST bobbleheads are being rolled out, I found out that Ben is now available at the website Entertainment Earth for a mere $17. If I’d known that was going to happen, I would have waited and saved myself some money.
But aside from my disgruntlement over spending more than I had to, I don’t regret buying Ben. He comes in a white package stamped with the Dharma logo, and I thought about keeping him there, ironically trapped inside a “magic box”. But I couldn’t resist taking him out and thunking him down on my piano. Ben is seven inches tall and pretty heavy-duty. He stands on a black base with the Dharma logo on top in white and “Benjamin Linus” across the front and “LOST” on the back, also in white.
His shoes are brown, his pants are black, his pinstriped lilac shirt is disarmingly dapper. Though his arm is in a sling, it’s his face that really shows the aftermath of his ordeal, with large red streaks across his forehead, cheeks and chin. There are five scars in all, the most glaring one a gaping wound on his left cheek that extends to his eye and the bridge of his nose. His eyes are blue and beady, while his lips are pursed into a disquieting expression that may be indicative of misery or mirth; you never can tell with Ben. His hair is brown and rather messy; his ears have avoided serious injury. The skin tone is natural, with a very slight greyish tint to fit the experience Ben has just had, and his head is well situated, bobbling boisterously with the flick of a finger.
Of course, I’ve been spoiled by both the McFarlane figures and the bobblehead Spock I bought in May; those come equipped with sound chips, and I’d love to have a more complete representation of Michael Emerson’s Emmy-winning magnificence. For this bobblehead, the most logical quote would probably be, “If you can ever get off this Island, find Desmond Hume for me. Tell him I said I was sorry.” Alas, the one line I really long for in a talking Ben figure, “You guys got any milk?”, is so far in the past that he wasn’t even going by the same name at the time. Anyway, it’s a moot point since this Ben doesn’t speak. Oh, how I wish he did! Only if this figure was anything like my Spock bobblehead, he would start randomly jabbering in the middle of the night. Spock is generally soothing; Ben might give me the heebie-jeebies if he caught me by surprise at three in the morning.
If you’re as big a LOST geek as I am, then I feel obliged to inform you that Bif Bang Pow! didn’t stop with Ben. You can get 7-inch-tall action figures Jack and Kate or Sawyer and Juliet, dressed in Dharma garb and costing $30 per pair. These are fun, but since I already have McFarlane versions of all but Juliet, I can probably resist them. Same goes for Edgar Halliwax, one of the several personas of Dr. Pierre Chang, because when he’s staring out from that filmstrip, that dude is just creepy, even if he is holding a bunny.
Though I feel my resolve wavering even now, so I’ll move on to Richard Alpert, the serene Others advisor who became so much more interesting when season three‘s The Man Behind the Curtain revealed his agelessness. And unlike the other bobbleheads in this line, at least so far, he comes on a sand-colored base covered with leaves and twigs, and the top of it reads “Ille qui nos omnes servabit,” which is the elusive answer to the all-important question, “What lies in the shadow of the statue?”
Even better is Daniel Faraday, addled scientist extraordinaire, portrayed so winningly by Jeremy Davies. He’s got a lousy memory and a heap of mother issues (which is a bit of a nice change, I guess, from all the father issues, though he probably has those too). But he’s the only one who has any kind of handle on what is happening to the Island in the science fiction-heavy fifth season, so this gentle quantum physicist is not only one of my favorite characters, he’s indispensable. “Edgar,” Richard and Daniel each go for $13; I’m not sure why they’re four bucks cheaper than Ben, but I’m not complaining. The only downside is that they don’t arrive until early 2010, though you can pre-order them now. And, of course, that they don’t have sound chips either.
LOST‘s time is up in just a few short months. But maybe Bif Bang Pow! can help extend the experience just a little. I don’t know how many more bobbleheads are planned, so I don’t know that I’m prepared to say yet which one is the best of the bunch, and anyway, we all have our favorites. But Ben is certainly one of the most iconic characters, so if you’re an avid collector, I suspect the bedraggled Mr. Linus will be hard to pass up.
No, I’m not swearing a la raving Scotsman Desmond. I’m describing the physical condition of the character at the moment in which he is captured. On the one hand, I thought, “Now why in the world do we want to look at that?” On the other hand, there’s a certain satisfaction for some in seeing Ben beaten to a bloody pulp. Not that it’s really anything new; Ben has probably endured as much bodily injury as any character on the show. And he’s usually had it coming.
But even though he’s a homicidal sociopath, Ben is one of LOST‘s most compelling characters, and I can’t help being completely fascinated with him and hoping he will find redemption. In that light, this is actually an ideal way for Ben to be presented, since it shows the immediate aftermath of one of his more sympathetic moments. We don’t know that at the time when we first see him board Ajira 316, his left arm cradled in a sling over his pale purple shirt, luggage and jacket draped over his right arm. We also don’t know that before his moment of mercy, he had murder on his mind, though anybody who had seen season four’s The Shape of Things to Come probably could venture a guess about the promise he told Jack he had to keep before he left Los Angeles. This is a moment that reminds the ardent fan of the best and worst in Ben, that accentuates his inscrutability. We probably won’t really know where he’s coming from until the final episode. If then.
Of course, since I was not going to Comic-Con, I was in a jam, as this bobblehead kept taunting me in Facebook links and in the pages of TV Guide. My understanding was that he would be for sale at Comic-Con, in an extremely limited run, and would never be seen again. And I found that most unfair. So after the convention began, I trotted off to eBay, and I secured myself a Ben Linus, even as I berated myself for paying such an inflated price for such a silly trinket. And then, this week, after getting word that more LOST bobbleheads are being rolled out, I found out that Ben is now available at the website Entertainment Earth for a mere $17. If I’d known that was going to happen, I would have waited and saved myself some money.
But aside from my disgruntlement over spending more than I had to, I don’t regret buying Ben. He comes in a white package stamped with the Dharma logo, and I thought about keeping him there, ironically trapped inside a “magic box”. But I couldn’t resist taking him out and thunking him down on my piano. Ben is seven inches tall and pretty heavy-duty. He stands on a black base with the Dharma logo on top in white and “Benjamin Linus” across the front and “LOST” on the back, also in white.
His shoes are brown, his pants are black, his pinstriped lilac shirt is disarmingly dapper. Though his arm is in a sling, it’s his face that really shows the aftermath of his ordeal, with large red streaks across his forehead, cheeks and chin. There are five scars in all, the most glaring one a gaping wound on his left cheek that extends to his eye and the bridge of his nose. His eyes are blue and beady, while his lips are pursed into a disquieting expression that may be indicative of misery or mirth; you never can tell with Ben. His hair is brown and rather messy; his ears have avoided serious injury. The skin tone is natural, with a very slight greyish tint to fit the experience Ben has just had, and his head is well situated, bobbling boisterously with the flick of a finger.
Of course, I’ve been spoiled by both the McFarlane figures and the bobblehead Spock I bought in May; those come equipped with sound chips, and I’d love to have a more complete representation of Michael Emerson’s Emmy-winning magnificence. For this bobblehead, the most logical quote would probably be, “If you can ever get off this Island, find Desmond Hume for me. Tell him I said I was sorry.” Alas, the one line I really long for in a talking Ben figure, “You guys got any milk?”, is so far in the past that he wasn’t even going by the same name at the time. Anyway, it’s a moot point since this Ben doesn’t speak. Oh, how I wish he did! Only if this figure was anything like my Spock bobblehead, he would start randomly jabbering in the middle of the night. Spock is generally soothing; Ben might give me the heebie-jeebies if he caught me by surprise at three in the morning.
If you’re as big a LOST geek as I am, then I feel obliged to inform you that Bif Bang Pow! didn’t stop with Ben. You can get 7-inch-tall action figures Jack and Kate or Sawyer and Juliet, dressed in Dharma garb and costing $30 per pair. These are fun, but since I already have McFarlane versions of all but Juliet, I can probably resist them. Same goes for Edgar Halliwax, one of the several personas of Dr. Pierre Chang, because when he’s staring out from that filmstrip, that dude is just creepy, even if he is holding a bunny.
Though I feel my resolve wavering even now, so I’ll move on to Richard Alpert, the serene Others advisor who became so much more interesting when season three‘s The Man Behind the Curtain revealed his agelessness. And unlike the other bobbleheads in this line, at least so far, he comes on a sand-colored base covered with leaves and twigs, and the top of it reads “Ille qui nos omnes servabit,” which is the elusive answer to the all-important question, “What lies in the shadow of the statue?”
Even better is Daniel Faraday, addled scientist extraordinaire, portrayed so winningly by Jeremy Davies. He’s got a lousy memory and a heap of mother issues (which is a bit of a nice change, I guess, from all the father issues, though he probably has those too). But he’s the only one who has any kind of handle on what is happening to the Island in the science fiction-heavy fifth season, so this gentle quantum physicist is not only one of my favorite characters, he’s indispensable. “Edgar,” Richard and Daniel each go for $13; I’m not sure why they’re four bucks cheaper than Ben, but I’m not complaining. The only downside is that they don’t arrive until early 2010, though you can pre-order them now. And, of course, that they don’t have sound chips either.
LOST‘s time is up in just a few short months. But maybe Bif Bang Pow! can help extend the experience just a little. I don’t know how many more bobbleheads are planned, so I don’t know that I’m prepared to say yet which one is the best of the bunch, and anyway, we all have our favorites. But Ben is certainly one of the most iconic characters, so if you’re an avid collector, I suspect the bedraggled Mr. Linus will be hard to pass up.
Season One of The Cosby Show Introduces a Family For Many to Cherish
On Wednesday night, PBS aired the presentation of the annual Mark Twain
Award to a comedian of outstanding caliber, and this year’s recipient
was Bill Cosby. I watched, enjoying both the tributes and the clips of
his own routines, and it made me appreciate anew the brilliance of the
man, who I had the pleasure of seeing live in Erie several years ago. If
you were to ask me to name my favorite humorist, it’d be a toss-up
between Garrison Keillor and Cosby, and if I were to compare my average
number of laughs while listening to A Prairie Home Companion and watching The Cosby Show, I’m pretty sure the latter would come out the winner.
The Cosby Show is one of those series I just always remember being there. I think I must have watched it from a very early age, always identifying with adorable Rudy Huxtable (Keshia Knight-Pulliam), the youngest of the large family, and laughing riotously over the antics of her intelligent, compassionate and utterly goofy father. By this point, I imagine I’ve seen a majority of the episodes, since the show always seems to be in syndication somewhere. But my favorites are from the early seasons, before the family expanded to include in-laws and grandchildren. Season one, with its focus on all those ordinary child-rearing hurdles that so many parents face, is probably the most iconic of all.
The first episode, Theo’s Economic Lesson, quickly establishes the dynamic of the family and the parenting styles of suave lawyer Clair (Phylicia Rashad) and overwrought obstetrician Cliff (Bill Cosby). One conversation with Theo (Malcolm-Jamal Warner), a slacker in his early teens and the only boy in the family, is particularly memorable, as Cliff tries to hammer in some sense about the importance of a good education and the realities of adult money management. At one point, Theo earnestly appeals to his father to simply accept him for who he is, a D student, a plea that in schmaltzier territory like Full House would likely elicit a tender hug. Instead, Cliff responds with an exasperated, “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my life!” “I am your father,” he says moments later. “I brought you into this world, and I’ll take you out!” No, Cliff does not mince words. Nonetheless, even in the midst of a lecture such as this, his deep affection for his children is readily apparent.
Season one is filled with scenes that demonstrate his hands-on parenting approach. Another especially memorable one occurs in the second episode, Goodbye, Mr. Fish, in which Cliff, having been informed by pesky pre-teen Vanessa (Tempestt Bledsoe) that Rudy’s pet fish has died, decides to respect her sense of loss and initiate her into the rites of mourning by holding a toilet-side funeral, complete with formal attire. His over-the-top reaction to the death is very sweet and funny, while Clair, in her serene, quiet way, has a better sense of what Rudy really needs right now.
Of course, sibling relationships are very important to the show as well. Watching some season one episodes recently, I was struck by the closeness of Theo and his older, eclectic sister Denise (Lisa Bonet). Nowhere is that more apparent than in A Shirt Story, in which she offers to make him a replica of a designer shirt for his night out, only to discover that her skills as a seamstress could use a little fine-tuning. Rudy and Vanessa tend to pair up as well, though more often than not, they are bickering. Away-at-college Sondra (Sabrina Le Beauf) is largely out of the picture here, not showing up until the tenth episode, in which she must overcome Cliff’s objections to her desire to spend a summer abroad in Paris.
I’ve watched a lot of family-themed sit-coms and enjoyed many of them, but none can match the sincerity, the razor-sharp wit and the sense of a familial bond apparent on The Cosby Show. These are children and parents - and often grandparents, particularly Cliff’s stern but twinkly-eyed dad Russell (Earle Hyman) - who kid around with one another relentlessly but always maintain the utmost respect for each other (as demonstrated in Theo and the Joint, in which Theo corners a peer who dropped a joint into his bookbag, desperate to prove to his parents that he is in the clear even though they‘ve already said they believe him), who grumble about all the chaos but honestly revel in it (as shown in You‘re Not a Mother Night, in which Cliff tries to give an overtaxed Clair an evening of child-free ease).
There’s plenty for children to relate to here, as Cosby’s scripts show a keen understanding of how kids’ minds work. I always thought of Rudy in particular, who was about my age, as a potential pal and could relate to her feelings on a number of issues. There’s a perfect balance of juvenile concerns and adult situations, with some scenes more likely to appeal to kids but none inappropriate for them. The humor is clean, and you never know when they might slip in something educational, especially pertaining to music. And while Cliff and Clair tease each other, it’s also obvious in every episode just how in love they still are. In so many shows of this type, especially from the past decade or so, it seems like the spouses spend so much time barking at one other that it’s a wonder how they ever got together in the first place. After watching Ray and Debra and Frank and Marie snipe at each other for half an hour on Everybody Loves Raymond, Cliff and Clair’s constant flow of romantic gestures is so refreshing.
Several years ago, I read the autobiography of Nichelle Nichols, who played Lt. Uhura on Star Trek. In it, she recalled an encounter she had with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.. Frustrated with the way her role was often diminished by the network, she had been contemplating quitting, but Dr. King thanked her for her work and told her that she was breaking down barriers, and so she stuck with it. I can’t help thinking that the same could be said of Bill Cosby and everyone else involved with this remarkable show. Here was this warm, witty, wonderful family, and while the show often took the opportunity to celebrate their culture, their experiences cut across all sorts of divides. No matter what their background, people can find in the Huxtables a family to admire, to laugh with and to love.
The Cosby Show is one of those series I just always remember being there. I think I must have watched it from a very early age, always identifying with adorable Rudy Huxtable (Keshia Knight-Pulliam), the youngest of the large family, and laughing riotously over the antics of her intelligent, compassionate and utterly goofy father. By this point, I imagine I’ve seen a majority of the episodes, since the show always seems to be in syndication somewhere. But my favorites are from the early seasons, before the family expanded to include in-laws and grandchildren. Season one, with its focus on all those ordinary child-rearing hurdles that so many parents face, is probably the most iconic of all.
The first episode, Theo’s Economic Lesson, quickly establishes the dynamic of the family and the parenting styles of suave lawyer Clair (Phylicia Rashad) and overwrought obstetrician Cliff (Bill Cosby). One conversation with Theo (Malcolm-Jamal Warner), a slacker in his early teens and the only boy in the family, is particularly memorable, as Cliff tries to hammer in some sense about the importance of a good education and the realities of adult money management. At one point, Theo earnestly appeals to his father to simply accept him for who he is, a D student, a plea that in schmaltzier territory like Full House would likely elicit a tender hug. Instead, Cliff responds with an exasperated, “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my life!” “I am your father,” he says moments later. “I brought you into this world, and I’ll take you out!” No, Cliff does not mince words. Nonetheless, even in the midst of a lecture such as this, his deep affection for his children is readily apparent.
Season one is filled with scenes that demonstrate his hands-on parenting approach. Another especially memorable one occurs in the second episode, Goodbye, Mr. Fish, in which Cliff, having been informed by pesky pre-teen Vanessa (Tempestt Bledsoe) that Rudy’s pet fish has died, decides to respect her sense of loss and initiate her into the rites of mourning by holding a toilet-side funeral, complete with formal attire. His over-the-top reaction to the death is very sweet and funny, while Clair, in her serene, quiet way, has a better sense of what Rudy really needs right now.
Of course, sibling relationships are very important to the show as well. Watching some season one episodes recently, I was struck by the closeness of Theo and his older, eclectic sister Denise (Lisa Bonet). Nowhere is that more apparent than in A Shirt Story, in which she offers to make him a replica of a designer shirt for his night out, only to discover that her skills as a seamstress could use a little fine-tuning. Rudy and Vanessa tend to pair up as well, though more often than not, they are bickering. Away-at-college Sondra (Sabrina Le Beauf) is largely out of the picture here, not showing up until the tenth episode, in which she must overcome Cliff’s objections to her desire to spend a summer abroad in Paris.
I’ve watched a lot of family-themed sit-coms and enjoyed many of them, but none can match the sincerity, the razor-sharp wit and the sense of a familial bond apparent on The Cosby Show. These are children and parents - and often grandparents, particularly Cliff’s stern but twinkly-eyed dad Russell (Earle Hyman) - who kid around with one another relentlessly but always maintain the utmost respect for each other (as demonstrated in Theo and the Joint, in which Theo corners a peer who dropped a joint into his bookbag, desperate to prove to his parents that he is in the clear even though they‘ve already said they believe him), who grumble about all the chaos but honestly revel in it (as shown in You‘re Not a Mother Night, in which Cliff tries to give an overtaxed Clair an evening of child-free ease).
There’s plenty for children to relate to here, as Cosby’s scripts show a keen understanding of how kids’ minds work. I always thought of Rudy in particular, who was about my age, as a potential pal and could relate to her feelings on a number of issues. There’s a perfect balance of juvenile concerns and adult situations, with some scenes more likely to appeal to kids but none inappropriate for them. The humor is clean, and you never know when they might slip in something educational, especially pertaining to music. And while Cliff and Clair tease each other, it’s also obvious in every episode just how in love they still are. In so many shows of this type, especially from the past decade or so, it seems like the spouses spend so much time barking at one other that it’s a wonder how they ever got together in the first place. After watching Ray and Debra and Frank and Marie snipe at each other for half an hour on Everybody Loves Raymond, Cliff and Clair’s constant flow of romantic gestures is so refreshing.
Several years ago, I read the autobiography of Nichelle Nichols, who played Lt. Uhura on Star Trek. In it, she recalled an encounter she had with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.. Frustrated with the way her role was often diminished by the network, she had been contemplating quitting, but Dr. King thanked her for her work and told her that she was breaking down barriers, and so she stuck with it. I can’t help thinking that the same could be said of Bill Cosby and everyone else involved with this remarkable show. Here was this warm, witty, wonderful family, and while the show often took the opportunity to celebrate their culture, their experiences cut across all sorts of divides. No matter what their background, people can find in the Huxtables a family to admire, to laugh with and to love.
An Evergreen Is Ever Useful in Who Would Like a Christmas Tree?
Last weekend was Halloween. Our house is still decked out with pumpkins,
black cats and bats. But I heard my first carol on a commercial last
night, and the grocery store down the street is selling artificial
trees. The Christmas season has unofficially begun. One of my favorite
ways to ring in this part of the year is to peruse Christmas picture
books. This season’s first for me is Who Would Like a Christmas Tree?: A Tree for All Seasons,
written by Ellen Bryan Obed and illustrated by Anne Hunter, both of
whom have first-hand experience with Christmas tree farms. This is a
nice book to ease me into Christmas mode, since it focuses on a
Christmassy object, but mostly in non-Christmassy situations.
Obed and Hunter follow the same basic format through the book. “Who would like a Christmas tree in January? is the opening inquiry. Turn the page, and you’ll see the response, once again in bold print: “We would like a Christmas tree in January.” Each month gets two pages in which the volunteers explain, in fairly lengthy paragraphs, why they would like a Christmas tree in that particular month. First it’s the black-capped chickadees, then the field mice, then the white-tailed deer and so on.
Each month offers insights into the habits of that particular animal (or, in one case, plant), and the accompanying illustrations show the changing of the seasons. Some descriptions make references to Christmas despite their distance from the actual holiday; for instance, the monarch butterflies, who would like a tree in August, indicate that they “feed on flowers and rest like delicate black and orange ornaments on the milkweeds and Christmas trees.” In October, the fox, first mentioned in association with the mice, gets a month to himself. Throughout the first 11 months of the year, we see the trees serving a variety of important purposes before finally coming to rest, on the last page, in the living room of a happy family.
Like Ann Purmell’s Christmas Tree Farm, this is a book whose aim is mostly educational. Children can learn about various types of wildlife and how evergreens fit into that picture. In a two-page segment in the back, children can read what tree farmers do during each month of the year to prepare for December. This section shows how much work is involved in operating a tree farm and mentions that the trees shown in the book are Balsam Firs and Fraser Firs. The writing is pretty dry; it’s mostly a collection of facts, with the familiar refrain and the fairly detailed pictures to help keep kids’ interest. My favorite illustration shows a trio of bright-eyed chickadees searching for seeds among fir branches.
For a child interested in the background of Christmas tree production, I recommend this and Christmas Tree Farm together. As a story, it’s only mildly engaging, but as a learning tool, Who Would Like a Christmas Tree? is useful.
Obed and Hunter follow the same basic format through the book. “Who would like a Christmas tree in January? is the opening inquiry. Turn the page, and you’ll see the response, once again in bold print: “We would like a Christmas tree in January.” Each month gets two pages in which the volunteers explain, in fairly lengthy paragraphs, why they would like a Christmas tree in that particular month. First it’s the black-capped chickadees, then the field mice, then the white-tailed deer and so on.
Each month offers insights into the habits of that particular animal (or, in one case, plant), and the accompanying illustrations show the changing of the seasons. Some descriptions make references to Christmas despite their distance from the actual holiday; for instance, the monarch butterflies, who would like a tree in August, indicate that they “feed on flowers and rest like delicate black and orange ornaments on the milkweeds and Christmas trees.” In October, the fox, first mentioned in association with the mice, gets a month to himself. Throughout the first 11 months of the year, we see the trees serving a variety of important purposes before finally coming to rest, on the last page, in the living room of a happy family.
Like Ann Purmell’s Christmas Tree Farm, this is a book whose aim is mostly educational. Children can learn about various types of wildlife and how evergreens fit into that picture. In a two-page segment in the back, children can read what tree farmers do during each month of the year to prepare for December. This section shows how much work is involved in operating a tree farm and mentions that the trees shown in the book are Balsam Firs and Fraser Firs. The writing is pretty dry; it’s mostly a collection of facts, with the familiar refrain and the fairly detailed pictures to help keep kids’ interest. My favorite illustration shows a trio of bright-eyed chickadees searching for seeds among fir branches.
For a child interested in the background of Christmas tree production, I recommend this and Christmas Tree Farm together. As a story, it’s only mildly engaging, but as a learning tool, Who Would Like a Christmas Tree? is useful.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
The BBC's Anne of Avonlea Sticks Closer to the Book Than Kevin Sullivan's Miniseries
A long-time fan of Anne of Green Gables, I grew up watching the
Kevin Sullivan miniseries based on the book and its sequel, based on the
second, third and fourth books in L. M. Montgomery’s series. Those two
adaptations have been firmly lodged in my mind for so long that I have a
hard time thinking of them as anything other than definitive.
Nonetheless, while Sullivan’s Anne of Green Gables is very true to the book, Anne of Avonlea takes all sorts of liberties, angering some purists. So when I discovered that the BBC had done a miniseries of Anne of Avonlea in the 1970s, I was eager to check it out.
Anne of Avonlea, as adapted by Elaine Morgan and directed by Joan Craft, is 350 minutes long and divided into six sections (or two DVDs). The first four are drawn from the book Anne of Avonlea, while the last two are from Anne of the Island. Upon reflection, I would have to say that of the five books in which Anne is the central character, Anne of Avonlea is probably the least eventful. It’s pleasant because we spend the whole time in a beloved locale, full of familiar characters like Marilla Cuthbert, Rachel Lynde, Diana Barry and Gilbert Blythe. But with Anne happily settled into village life and most of the major disasters of her impetuous youth behind her, there’s just not a lot of drama there.
I was all too aware of that throughout the first half of this miniseries. It was enjoyable enough, but it just seemed to move very slowly, especially because this is a very basic production that almost feels more like a play. The stirring score and gorgeous cinematography that contributed so much to the atmosphere of the Sullivan productions are absent here, making the whole thing seem quite drab. Additionally, if you’re familiar with the movies but not the books, as is the case with my mom, you’ll spend the first half of the miniseries comparing the actors from the two productions and wondering who all these new characters are that Sullivan skipped right over.
Rowdy Davy (Nicholas Lyndhurst) and mousy Dora Keith (Annabelle Lanyon), the orphaned children of Marilla’s cousin, are two of the most prominent newbies. Marilla (Barbara Hamilton) and Anne (Kim Braden) take the children in, and while Dora doesn’t cause much trouble, Davy is a bundle of angsty energy, fueled by his fear of abandonment and his jealousy that Anne is so fond of Paul Irving (Keith Steven), an eccentric, poetic pupil of hers. Of the three, Lyndhurst is the best actor, doing an effective job of conveying Davy’s emotional state and sounding more convincingly Canadian than the other two. Lanyon doesn’t sound Canadian at all, and it makes me wonder why that wasn’t a dealbreaker during casting. Maybe they figured she could learn; as it is, her British accent stands out jarringly whenever she speaks. Claire Lewis, who plays a young housekeeper nicknamed Charlotte IV, has a similar problem.
The adults are more consistent, and David Garfield as Mr. Harrison, the cranky neighbor with whom Anne develops a bond, is especially entertaining. Hazel Bainbridge is a kindly Mrs. Blythe, and Kathleen Byron does a good job of demonstrating the ethereality of Miss Lavendar Lewis. I also loved Susan Field in the role of Charlotte E. Morgan, a famous authoress Anne adores; she appears in just one small segment of the miniseries, but it’s one of the comedic and inspirational high points. Toward the end of the miniseries, we’re introduced to Philippa Gordon (Sabina Franklyn), a worldly student who boards with Anne and Jane (Zuleika Robson) at college, as well as her beau Jonas Blake (David Troughton), a humble clergyman. I thought that both of these characters came across very well, with the contrast between them accentuated effectively. I was less impressed with Anthony Forrest, who failed to elicit a flutter from me as Anne’s sophisticated college boyfriend, Roy Gardiner, even though this production’s Gilbert (Christopher Blake) is nothing like the heartthrob Jonathan Crombie is. He’s sweet but awkward in a Neville Longbottomish sort of way, and it’s a little easier to understand how Anne could have failed to fall madly in love with him years ago.
The performances of Megan Follows and Colleen Dewhurst are so iconic that I have a hard time adjusting to Braden and Hamilton, but I tried to remind myself that this adaptation came first and that nobody who watched it in the 1970s had such preconceived notions. Comparisons aside, each does a good job with the material. Braden comes off as passionate but less moony than Follows, while Hamilton has a permanent pout on her face that makes me think of Narnia’s Puddleglum. I miss the crinkle around Dewhurst’s eyes, but I do enjoy Hamilton’s dowdy take on the character. As Rachel Lynde, Madge Ryan is every bit as shrill and annoying as Patricia Hamilton, who happens to be Barbara Hamltion’s sister, but she lacks Hamilton’s impeccable comic timing.
The first half of the miniseries is comfortable but poky. If you love these characters already, it’s not a bad way to spend three hours. But the second half is much more interesting. It’s in this portion that adulthood really starts creeping up on Anne. Along with going to college, she receives marriage proposals from four different men, two of whom are laughably unsuitable, reminding me of Mr. Collins in Pride and Prejudice. On the more somber side of things, she suffers the loss of a childhood friend to illness, an experience that will haunt her all the more when Gilbert nearly succumbs to typhoid fever. The realization of how much Gilbert means to her finally dawns in a sweet scene that brings her some answers to the questions she had about her parents, but it isn’t until the very end of the miniseries that she makes Gilbert aware of this. It’s such a momentous occasion, I do think that Morgan and Craft could have given us a bit more; the tiny concluding scene hardly seems sufficient and certainly isn’t as eye-mistingly tender as Sullivan’s.
So my loyalties remain with Sullivan, his unfortunate third installment aside. But if you felt the Avonlea gang got the short end of the stick under his watch, you can get your fill of Davy, Dora, Paul, Mr. Harrison and the rest in the BBC version of Anne of Avonlea.
Anne of Avonlea, as adapted by Elaine Morgan and directed by Joan Craft, is 350 minutes long and divided into six sections (or two DVDs). The first four are drawn from the book Anne of Avonlea, while the last two are from Anne of the Island. Upon reflection, I would have to say that of the five books in which Anne is the central character, Anne of Avonlea is probably the least eventful. It’s pleasant because we spend the whole time in a beloved locale, full of familiar characters like Marilla Cuthbert, Rachel Lynde, Diana Barry and Gilbert Blythe. But with Anne happily settled into village life and most of the major disasters of her impetuous youth behind her, there’s just not a lot of drama there.
I was all too aware of that throughout the first half of this miniseries. It was enjoyable enough, but it just seemed to move very slowly, especially because this is a very basic production that almost feels more like a play. The stirring score and gorgeous cinematography that contributed so much to the atmosphere of the Sullivan productions are absent here, making the whole thing seem quite drab. Additionally, if you’re familiar with the movies but not the books, as is the case with my mom, you’ll spend the first half of the miniseries comparing the actors from the two productions and wondering who all these new characters are that Sullivan skipped right over.
Rowdy Davy (Nicholas Lyndhurst) and mousy Dora Keith (Annabelle Lanyon), the orphaned children of Marilla’s cousin, are two of the most prominent newbies. Marilla (Barbara Hamilton) and Anne (Kim Braden) take the children in, and while Dora doesn’t cause much trouble, Davy is a bundle of angsty energy, fueled by his fear of abandonment and his jealousy that Anne is so fond of Paul Irving (Keith Steven), an eccentric, poetic pupil of hers. Of the three, Lyndhurst is the best actor, doing an effective job of conveying Davy’s emotional state and sounding more convincingly Canadian than the other two. Lanyon doesn’t sound Canadian at all, and it makes me wonder why that wasn’t a dealbreaker during casting. Maybe they figured she could learn; as it is, her British accent stands out jarringly whenever she speaks. Claire Lewis, who plays a young housekeeper nicknamed Charlotte IV, has a similar problem.
The adults are more consistent, and David Garfield as Mr. Harrison, the cranky neighbor with whom Anne develops a bond, is especially entertaining. Hazel Bainbridge is a kindly Mrs. Blythe, and Kathleen Byron does a good job of demonstrating the ethereality of Miss Lavendar Lewis. I also loved Susan Field in the role of Charlotte E. Morgan, a famous authoress Anne adores; she appears in just one small segment of the miniseries, but it’s one of the comedic and inspirational high points. Toward the end of the miniseries, we’re introduced to Philippa Gordon (Sabina Franklyn), a worldly student who boards with Anne and Jane (Zuleika Robson) at college, as well as her beau Jonas Blake (David Troughton), a humble clergyman. I thought that both of these characters came across very well, with the contrast between them accentuated effectively. I was less impressed with Anthony Forrest, who failed to elicit a flutter from me as Anne’s sophisticated college boyfriend, Roy Gardiner, even though this production’s Gilbert (Christopher Blake) is nothing like the heartthrob Jonathan Crombie is. He’s sweet but awkward in a Neville Longbottomish sort of way, and it’s a little easier to understand how Anne could have failed to fall madly in love with him years ago.
The performances of Megan Follows and Colleen Dewhurst are so iconic that I have a hard time adjusting to Braden and Hamilton, but I tried to remind myself that this adaptation came first and that nobody who watched it in the 1970s had such preconceived notions. Comparisons aside, each does a good job with the material. Braden comes off as passionate but less moony than Follows, while Hamilton has a permanent pout on her face that makes me think of Narnia’s Puddleglum. I miss the crinkle around Dewhurst’s eyes, but I do enjoy Hamilton’s dowdy take on the character. As Rachel Lynde, Madge Ryan is every bit as shrill and annoying as Patricia Hamilton, who happens to be Barbara Hamltion’s sister, but she lacks Hamilton’s impeccable comic timing.
The first half of the miniseries is comfortable but poky. If you love these characters already, it’s not a bad way to spend three hours. But the second half is much more interesting. It’s in this portion that adulthood really starts creeping up on Anne. Along with going to college, she receives marriage proposals from four different men, two of whom are laughably unsuitable, reminding me of Mr. Collins in Pride and Prejudice. On the more somber side of things, she suffers the loss of a childhood friend to illness, an experience that will haunt her all the more when Gilbert nearly succumbs to typhoid fever. The realization of how much Gilbert means to her finally dawns in a sweet scene that brings her some answers to the questions she had about her parents, but it isn’t until the very end of the miniseries that she makes Gilbert aware of this. It’s such a momentous occasion, I do think that Morgan and Craft could have given us a bit more; the tiny concluding scene hardly seems sufficient and certainly isn’t as eye-mistingly tender as Sullivan’s.
So my loyalties remain with Sullivan, his unfortunate third installment aside. But if you felt the Avonlea gang got the short end of the stick under his watch, you can get your fill of Davy, Dora, Paul, Mr. Harrison and the rest in the BBC version of Anne of Avonlea.
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.
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.
Examine Harry Potter Through a Scholar's Lens in John Granger's The Deathly Hallows Lectures
I just finished Breaking Dawn, the final installment in Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight series, and it made me recall the anticipation and pleasure of reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
two years ago. I was exhilarated to finally come to the conclusion of
the saga but depressed that it was all over. One of the ways I kept the
series alive despite its conclusion was writing poems focusing on
various characters. Another was following and participating in online
conversations about the books.
Some of the meatiest discussions occurred at Hogwarts Professor: Thoughts for the serious reader of Harry Potter. I visited the site now and again, pondering the insights of John Granger, who runs the site, and his fellow Potterphiles, and when last year saw the release of Granger‘s The Deathly Hallows Lectures, I snatched up a copy.
Granger, who has written several books exploring deeper layers of meaning he believes are embedded in J. K. Rowling’s series, applies some of the ideas from his earlier volumes to the seventh book. He makes reference to other Harry Potter books, particularly Philosopher’s / Sorcerer’s Stone, but his primary focus is on this specific book. In the first chapter, he explains his Five Keys to Unlocking Harry Potter, which include Narrative Misdirection, Literary Alchemy, Hero’s Journey, Traditional Symbolism and Postmodern Themes, giving a brief overview as to how each applies specifically to Deathly Hallows.
The second chapter has to do with literary alchemy, a subject with which I was unfamiliar prior to reading Granger’s work. He gives a good primer on what it’s all about and offers several compelling examples to suggest that Rowling was using it as a framework. First there’s the alchemical wedding. Then there’s the nigredo, or black stage, which is characterized by despair and disorder. Albedo, the white stage, has to do with purification, and rubedo, the red stage, completes the process with its “resolution of contraries”. Granger’s thoughts on this subject are fascinating, and it’s fun to go through his lists of tip-offs to the alchemical formula and contemplate how many of these references were placed there by Rowling for the very reasons he suggests.
The subject of sight is extremely prominent in this book, and Granger explores it in different ways throughout the fourth through seventh chapters. Chapter four deals with Harry’s mother Lily and the significance of her green eyes, particularly in light of Dante’s The Divine Comedy. Chapter five points out all of the ways in which Rowling incorporates sight-oriented symbols - mirrors and eyes - into Deathly Hallows, while chapter six addresses the value of “taking Harry seriously,” an endeavor for which Granger recommends using “triangular vision,” an idea connected to the novel’s central symbol, which is explored in more depth in the seventh chapter.
With his first book on the subject, Granger became a pioneer in the area of studying Harry through a Christian lens. Given the fierce debate that has raged around the suitability of these books for a Christian audience, I have found his conclusions welcome and refreshing, so I was probably most interested in the third chapter, which has to do with the Christian elements of Deathly Hallows. These are so numerous and significant that when I finished Rowling’s epic, I couldn’t help thinking that it ought to put to rest many of those who would object to the books on religious grounds. Granger picks up on even more than I did, and I came away more convinced than ever of Rowling’s rightful place amongst the giants of Christian fantasy like J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis.
Each chapter comes with a series of helpful endnotes, often with websites listed so that readers can easily delve more deeply into the subject at hand. The chapters are also broken up with bold-printed section titles, making it easy to flip through quickly and get a very basic idea of what is being discussed. Additionally, there’s a lengthy index in the back. My favorite aspect of the book for quick reference is the FAQ, in which Granger answers 31 questions over the course of 36 pages. Question 21, “How does Deathly Hallows fit in with or complete the seven book series?”, is especially worth reading, as he charts all of the similarities between the first and last book.
Though there are a couple places when Granger goes a little over my head, in general his writing style is very accessible. For a book with only seven chapters, it’s a fairly lengthy 300 pages, and I wouldn’t feel obligated to read it front to back; I skipped around, reading different sections and chapters as the mood struck. It’s a book I continue to enjoy flipping through now and then, and I expect that others who love examining Harry from all angles would feel the same way.
Some of the meatiest discussions occurred at Hogwarts Professor: Thoughts for the serious reader of Harry Potter. I visited the site now and again, pondering the insights of John Granger, who runs the site, and his fellow Potterphiles, and when last year saw the release of Granger‘s The Deathly Hallows Lectures, I snatched up a copy.
Granger, who has written several books exploring deeper layers of meaning he believes are embedded in J. K. Rowling’s series, applies some of the ideas from his earlier volumes to the seventh book. He makes reference to other Harry Potter books, particularly Philosopher’s / Sorcerer’s Stone, but his primary focus is on this specific book. In the first chapter, he explains his Five Keys to Unlocking Harry Potter, which include Narrative Misdirection, Literary Alchemy, Hero’s Journey, Traditional Symbolism and Postmodern Themes, giving a brief overview as to how each applies specifically to Deathly Hallows.
The second chapter has to do with literary alchemy, a subject with which I was unfamiliar prior to reading Granger’s work. He gives a good primer on what it’s all about and offers several compelling examples to suggest that Rowling was using it as a framework. First there’s the alchemical wedding. Then there’s the nigredo, or black stage, which is characterized by despair and disorder. Albedo, the white stage, has to do with purification, and rubedo, the red stage, completes the process with its “resolution of contraries”. Granger’s thoughts on this subject are fascinating, and it’s fun to go through his lists of tip-offs to the alchemical formula and contemplate how many of these references were placed there by Rowling for the very reasons he suggests.
The subject of sight is extremely prominent in this book, and Granger explores it in different ways throughout the fourth through seventh chapters. Chapter four deals with Harry’s mother Lily and the significance of her green eyes, particularly in light of Dante’s The Divine Comedy. Chapter five points out all of the ways in which Rowling incorporates sight-oriented symbols - mirrors and eyes - into Deathly Hallows, while chapter six addresses the value of “taking Harry seriously,” an endeavor for which Granger recommends using “triangular vision,” an idea connected to the novel’s central symbol, which is explored in more depth in the seventh chapter.
With his first book on the subject, Granger became a pioneer in the area of studying Harry through a Christian lens. Given the fierce debate that has raged around the suitability of these books for a Christian audience, I have found his conclusions welcome and refreshing, so I was probably most interested in the third chapter, which has to do with the Christian elements of Deathly Hallows. These are so numerous and significant that when I finished Rowling’s epic, I couldn’t help thinking that it ought to put to rest many of those who would object to the books on religious grounds. Granger picks up on even more than I did, and I came away more convinced than ever of Rowling’s rightful place amongst the giants of Christian fantasy like J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis.
Each chapter comes with a series of helpful endnotes, often with websites listed so that readers can easily delve more deeply into the subject at hand. The chapters are also broken up with bold-printed section titles, making it easy to flip through quickly and get a very basic idea of what is being discussed. Additionally, there’s a lengthy index in the back. My favorite aspect of the book for quick reference is the FAQ, in which Granger answers 31 questions over the course of 36 pages. Question 21, “How does Deathly Hallows fit in with or complete the seven book series?”, is especially worth reading, as he charts all of the similarities between the first and last book.
Though there are a couple places when Granger goes a little over my head, in general his writing style is very accessible. For a book with only seven chapters, it’s a fairly lengthy 300 pages, and I wouldn’t feel obligated to read it front to back; I skipped around, reading different sections and chapters as the mood struck. It’s a book I continue to enjoy flipping through now and then, and I expect that others who love examining Harry from all angles would feel the same way.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)