When Life Gives You Lemons, Consult Lemony!

"A library is like an island in the middle of a vast sea of ignorance," writes Lemony Snicket, "particularly if the library is very tall and the surrounding area has been flooded." Silly addendum aside, this must be the way that Daniel Handler, the demented genius behind A Series of Unfortunate Events, feels about libraries. While the characters in those tales of woe are fun and their adventures are interesting, the best parts of those narratives, for me at least, involve off-hand remarks that allude to the annals of literature, history or science and convey a profound love of language that begs to be shared. Despite the forbidding marketing materials that have always accompanied the books, I suspect that Handler must feel quite pleased knowing that books bearing the name of his alter-ego can be found in libraries the world over.

Horseradish: Bitter Truths You Can't Avoid collects some of the wittiest and most useful of these asides, along with, as the jacket promises, "selections from his unpublished papers and remarks he has made at dinner parties and anarchist riots." Readers are not exactly warmly welcomed into the book. The back cover bluntly states, "Life is a turbulent journey, fraught with confusion, heartbreak and inconvenience. This book will not help." Then again, from an author who usually warns his audience to run screaming from his latest effort, this is pretty mild, as is the warning - for those folks with a habit of flipping to the last page of a book first - that "the quoting of an aphorism... rarely indicates that something helpful is about to happen."

As if to discourage readers encountering Snicket for the first time through this book from picking up a volume of his famous series due to the presence of a particularly amusing quote, none of the advice comes with a citation. Having read all 13 of those books and jotted down several of my favorite one-liners, I remain largely unsure as to which ones I've read before and which merely seem like something that would fit right in with A Series of Unfortunate Events. An exception to my uncertainty is the following, which appears in the final section of this book and page 102 of The Wide Window, third in the series, which I know because it may be my favorite single sentence in the entire series: "If you are allergic to a thing, it is best not to put that thing in your mouth, particularly if the thing is cats."

Perhaps to further downplay the connection between this volume of wit and wisdom and his series, he refrains from dedicating the book to his dearly departed Beatrice, to whom each of the volumes in A Series of Unfortunate Events is dedicated. Curiously, though, he does not dedicate the book to anyone at all, as if the enigmatic object of his affections is the only one Lemony Snicket deems worthy of a dedication.

Like each of the volumes in that series, Horseradish is divided into 13 chapters, the subjects of which all are integrated into the introduction, which relates a skewered story about a woman who climbs a mountain in order to consult a wise man about the meaning of life. The chapter titles include Home, Family, School, Work, Entertainment, Literature, Travel, Emotional Health, Affairs of the Heart, A Life of Mystery, The Mystery of Life, An Overall Feeling of Doom that One Cannot Ever Escape No Matter What One Does and Miscellaneous. Each of the title pages is set apart and features a series of silhouettes of the photographed man weeping on the front cover, a horseradish root slung over his shoulder, who may or may not be Handler. The root and the handkerchief are absent in the silhouettes, and in the last few sections, he comes across as a rather jolly fellow, cheerfully resigned to his fate.

Most of the selections in this nearly 200-page-long book are funny, and many actually manage to be useful at the same time. They vary in length and font size, with those consisting only of a few words presented in large print and lengthy selections of several sentences in tiny print. Short or long, these clever commentaries are sure to amuse and enlighten.

Once Again, With Grim Grotto, Snicket Really Satisfies You

As anyone who was stuck in Hurricane Katrina's path can attest, water has the potential to be deadly. But the aqueous troubles facing the Baudelaires in the thus-far final installment of the Series of Unfortunate Events have little to do with the weather - though Snicket goes to great lengths to make certain his readers understand the intricacies of the water cycle, less in an attempt to educate than to bore his audience to sleep if they are too stubborn to put down the book after his repeated warnings. At the outset of the book, the orphans are racing through the waters of a massive melted waterfall, but the remainder of the book takes place deep underwater - inside both a submarine and a mysterious cave known as the Gorgonian Grotto.

This book differs from previous chapters in several ways. Once the orphans descend from the icy current into the relative safety of a submarine occupied by VFD sympathizers, they remain in a peaceful for the next hundred pages or so. Yes, they're still evading a dangerous villain and searching for a valuable artifact that he desperately wants, but they are in the company of kindred spirits, folks who appreciate their talents and are able to offer them reasonably comfortable accommodations. On board are one surprisingly familiar chap and two strangers who nonetheless know just who the children are and what has happened to them. These new friends introduce themselves as Captain Widdershins, a loud, addled man bound by the personal philosophy "He (or she) who hesitates is lost" and overly fond of the word "aye," and his stepdaughter Fiona, a triangle-spectacled mycologist a bit older than Violet. Though there are more comforting locations to be in than a rickety submarine, the stretch of pages from the Baudelaires' entry onto the vessel to their departure in search of the all-important sugar bowl is possibly the most pleasant since their stay with Uncle Monty, even if their captain's hasty speech leads to some confusion.

When Olaf finally does show up, there is no attempt at a disguise; of course, he hasn't resorted to that tactic since the eighth book, but it's nonetheless a bit abrupt the way he appears and demands that the children join him on his own hi-jacked vessel. What's especially unusual is that when Olaf captured the underwater vehicle, he had no idea that the children were inside. At this point, the Baudelaires and their new friend Fiona - of whom Klaus is especially fond - have already encountered a deadly situation. One could perhaps call the perpetrator malicious, but most likely the venomous mushrooms that poisoned Sunny took no pleasure in the act. Nonetheless, this fungus poses a far more serious threat than the count, who is so taken with his new form of villainous laughter that he has little attention to devote to anything else.

Esme, meanwhile, is preoccupied with Carmelita Spats, the Baudelaires' dreadful classmate who conducts herself with all the charm of Veruca Salt. One would presume that, given her eagerness to deride orphans, Carmelita has parents of her own, but she seems perfectly content to be adopted by the villainous couple. Because Esme adores her and Olaf - whom Carmelita calls "Countie" - is badgered by her (to the point of reluctantly naming his submarine after her), she gets to do whatever her little heart desires, and under the influence of the violinist vice-principal at Prufrock Prep it seems her favorite pastime is performing recitals. Her dancing is abysmal, but her singing - usually an acrostic song she composed in which she insists that the "m" in her name stands for "gorgeous" - is akin to the sort of torture Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy describes in relation to Vogon poetry readings.

Speaking of poetry, more of the author's literary preferences shine through this volume. In the last book, we learned he was an admirer - nay, a friend - of poet Robert Frost. Here, we note his approval of the uniforms worn by Widdershins and his crew. They feature a portrait of Herman Melville, an appropriate source of inspiration for seafarers. Widdershins' admiration for the Moby Dick author - whose style Klaus describes as "strange" and "experimental" as well as humanitarian - is also apparent in his decision to name the vessel in homage of Queequeg, Ishmael's faithful crewmate. The children later encounter poetry by Louis Carroll - which Violet dismisses as "too whimsical" - and T. S. Eliot - which Klaus complains is "too opaque." In spite of these less than glowing opinions, however, Snicket asserts that anyone would agree these two poets are preferable to the man featured on the uniforms worn by Olaf and his crew. This name of this poor abused fellow, Edgar Guest, seemed familiar to me, but I had to do a bit of searching before I discovered just what it was he had written to make Snicket deride him as "a writer of limited skill, who wrote awkward tedious poetry on hopelessly sentimental topics." The problem? As I had slightly suspected would be the case, I rather liked the guy. I guess his is the sort of verse you might encounter on a Hallmark card. Certainly his generally family-oriented or inspirational poems don't seem the sort of which Olaf and his crew would approve, but apparently that was not sufficient reason to pass up an opportunity to pummel a prolific pedestrian poet.

When I read these books, I have taken to jotting down page numbers containing particularly interesting phrasing, and I believe I jotted down more numbers here than ever before. Snicket is at his snarky best, pulling out one mangled metaphor, bizarre illustration or pithy observation after another, all the while building upon the central conceit of the water cycle and demonstrating Sunny's ever-improving speech skills, which seem to indicate that she will be fluent in several languages. A few random examples of the author's genius:

* "Having a personal philosophy is like having a pet marmoset, because it may be very attractive when you acquire it, but there may be situations when it will not come in handy at all."

* "It is one of life's bitterest truths that bedtime so often arrives just when things are really getting interesting."

* "If you are stricken with a great sadness, you may feel as if you have been set aflame, not only because of the enormous pain, but also because your sadness may spread over your life, like smoke from an enormous fire. You might find it difficult to see anything but your own sadness, the way smoke can cover a landscape so that all anyone can see is black. You may find that happy things are tainted with sadness, the way smoke leaves its ashen colors and scents on everything it touches. And you may find that if someone pours water all over you, you are damp and distracted, but not cured of your sadness, the way a fire department can douse a fire but never recover what has been burnt down."

Ah, the poetry. As I gaze at the back cover of the book I have just finished, I notice Snicket's traditional warning, which this time cautions me to find a happier book "in order to keep [my] eyes and [my] spirits from being dampened." Alas, I did not listen, and I'm sitting here with my waterlogged soul, despairing in the knowledge that I have finished the series thus far and I cannot proceed immediately to the next installment. Oh, the calamity! But I will be shedding tears of a different sort than Snicket warns against when the enigmatic next book arrives. As the Baudelaires embark on the final stages of their grand adventure, I will be awash with joy and blessing this morose narrator for his perseverance.

The Baudelaires Struggle Along the Road Less Traveled By in The Slippery Slope

When I was in college, I took an advanced poetry class during which the professor, with the aid of another Creative Writing professor, sought to explain how the poem The Road Not Taken has been misused by the vast majority of its readers since the time it was published. What is generally heralded as an inspirational ode to individuality is instead a cynical and depressing commentary stating that we may forge out a path for ourselves in hopes of achieving a life of greatness and nobility, but in the end none of it really matters. It has, in fact, not made all the difference, and Robert Frost was a bitter old coot. I don't know which of these readings is closer to the truth, but I suspect Lemony Snicket would fall into the camp of those who prefer the latter interpretation. Then again, the orphans he so dutifully chronicles are well-defined individuals, and it seems that the path they decide to take will make a great deal of difference. How far will they be willing to go in order to preserve their lives? To the point of not preserving their integrity? These are some of the difficult questions served up in The Slippery Slope, tenth in the Series of Unfortunate Events.

I must say, these books almost invariably have brilliant beginnings. Each one is so masterfully executed, so memorable and entertaining, that it winds up a contender for my list of all-time favorite literary openings. As a student of poetry and a particular fan of Robert Frost, I was especially drawn into the opening paragraph of this tenth tome, and I might venture to say it is my favorite grand entrance thus far: "A man of my acquaintance once wrote a poem called 'The Road Less Traveled,' describing a journey he took through the woods along a path most travelers never used. The poet found that the road less traveled was peaceful but quite lonely, and he was probably a bit nervous as he went along, because if anything happened on the road less traveled, the other travelers would be on the road more frequently traveled and so couldn't hear him as he cried for help. Sure enough, that poet is now dead."

And so with the image of a frost-laced headstone with Frost's name on it, we are drawn into the ever more perilous journey of the Baudelaire orphans. This book signals a major departure, because for the first time, the siblings are separated for the vast majority of the book. In the fourth book, Klaus was hypnotized for a portion of the time, and in the eighth, Violet was abducted and readied for a cranioectemy. But the focus remained on the capacitated siblings. Here, the reader must switch back and forth between adventures, spending more time with Violet and Klaus but also checking in occasionally with the dreadfully isolated young Sunny. At first, it isn't clear whether we are going to get to witness her portion of the story at all, but once we do, she shows herself to be surprisingly self-reliant.

Several characters re-emerge here in surprising places, and the Baudelaires find new enemies to conquer but also new allies to depend upon. Additionally, we finally begin to crack the secrets of V. F. D., those mysterious initials that seem to pop up everywhere and that are linked to a secret organization of which most of the Baudelaires' acquaintances, it seems, were a part. The orphans also must deal with one of the most horrific menaces they've yet faced: a large community of snow gnats, which sting people for no reason whatsoever. Snicket finds another set of absurd people to poke fun at, and they are even more ludicrous than the incessantly singing Volunteers Fighting Disease. They are the Snow Scouts, an intrepid group of kids containing one person the orphans had hoped never to meet again and two who seem vaguely familiar. Just as those hospital visitors had a theme song, these folks have a pledge consisting of one word for every letter of the alphabet, each ostensibly detailing a desirable quality in a scout. But several of the adjectives are pointless or contradict one another, and the presence of one of them is inexcusable, as the word is a noun, not an adjective, and is inappropriate for describing anyone. The Scouts add a lot of amusement to the book and evidently are an indication that the author often finds pledges - and perhaps scouts - rather silly.

The parts of the book I most enjoyed, however, were those dealing with Sunny's exploits. For one, this meant more of Count Olaf and his troupe, and the lines between good guys and bad blur once again as certain characters who seemed wicked and unscrupulous begin to display shades of compassion and decency. We also meet two sinister figures who are known only as "the man with a beard but no hair" and "the woman with hair but no beard." It seems odd that no mention was made of them before, as they appear to be instrumental to Olaf's plans, rather to his displeasure, it seems. Even he is intimidated by these villains.

But what really distinguishes this section of the story is the way Sunny flourishes apart from her siblings. She is beginning to develop a distinct personality; there's more to this kid than a passion for biting things. Turns out she is also an accomplished cook, and it seems she somehow, at her young age, already possesses a vast knowledge of academic subjects ranging from history to literature to cinema. In the early books, while the translations for her comments seemed intelligent, her words were almost exclusively gobbledygook. But increasingly, she has peppered her speech with actual words. Usually there is a very logical link between what comes out of her mouth and what she means, though the connection is often abstract. I found her remarks consistently amusing and indicative of a great intellect. Examples:

"Godoti??" - "We don't know where to go, and we don't know how to get there."
"Sakesushi" - "I don't think you'll enjoy salmon if it's not cooked."
"Bicuspid?" - "Should I drag my teeth across the ice too?"
What really got me, though, was the author's sneaking a sly bit of political commentary into the book via Sunny's innocent mouth. Coincidence? Perhaps. But if the word Sunny chooses sounds remarkably like two men in high positions of power in our country, well, I suspect it was intentional.
"Busheney" - "You're an evil man with no concern whatsoever for other people."

When we leave the orphans, the useless Mr. Poe is nowhere to be found, and the children are hurtling down a slippery slope toward a predicament that will probably be even more treacherous than their last. But with their sister's newfound skills and a new friend out there waiting for them somewhere, they may just have a few more resources at their disposal, and that can be enough to make a very significant difference when you are spending your life fleeing from despicable people who want to kill you. The Baudelaires' road of misfortune is not one many have had to tread, but we are privileged to traverse it from a distance in order to discover whether the difference it has made for the orphans is indeed as deadly as the author would have us believe.

"Freak" is in the Eye of the Beholder in Carnivorous Carnival

Yesterday, my mom and brother were discussing how we all probably think we're freaks at one time or another. We all have something distinguishing ourselves from others, and ultimately it's up to us to decide whether that is a blessing or a curse. In The Carnivorous Carnival, the ninth book in the Series of Unfortunate Events, the Baudelaire orphans encounter three people who definitely view their differences in a negative light. It seems the idea of putting "freaks" on display at carnivals thankfully went by the wayside many years ago, but the practice is alive and well in whatever ambiguous time period Lemony Snicket is writing about. So it is that we meet Hugo, the complacent hunchback (perhaps named in honor of Victor Hugo?); Colette, the gentle contortionist; and Kevin, the Eeyorish ambidextrous fellow. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Just how do the orphans find themselves in such curious company? After smuggling themselves into Count Olaf's trunk, they find themselves at a carnival in the middle of nowhere, where they must disguise themselves in order to evade Count Olaf's attention. They have little hope that their freakish costumes (Violet and Klaus posing as a two-headed person, Sunny as a half-wolf) will fool their would-be captor, but it seems their only course of action. Surprisingly, neither Olaf nor his associates recognize them when they present themselves to Madame Lulu, the fortune-telling carnival owner whose accent is remarkably similar to that of Gunther, the auctioneer Olaf pretended to be in The Ersatz Elevator. So it is that they meet the sad trio who have resigned themselves to a life of getting laughed at day after day without pay because they are convinced their unusual attributes prevent them from being productive members of society. Ironically, one of Olaf's own henchmen is hook-handed, yet he gleefully ridicules the Baudelaires and their companions for their so-called deformities, recoiling in anger when it is suggested that he might be a freak himself.

We have never spent this much time with Olaf and his associates before, and it's interesting to see them off-duty. I almost feel a little sorry for Olaf here, as he seems confused and hen-pecked. In fact, his girlfriend Esme is probably worse than the series' most famous villain. The others are, for the most part, bumbling and impolite but probably not really evil, though years of bad company have made them willing to do unpleasant things. After seeing what happens to certain characters by the book's finale, one can't help but wonder about the earlier lives of Olaf's buddies. How did they fall into such a dastardly line of work? Madame Lulu is an intriguing character, particularly once it is revealed that she, too, is wearing a disguise. She possesses the potential to provide the Baudelaires with the information they crave and us with a more solid grasp on how Snicket's story intertwines with the orphans'. Tantalizing, no?

The mob mentality that was demonstrated in The Vile Village and to a lesser extent in The Hostile Hospital comes to the forefront again here as we observe the repugnant antics of the carnival's visitors. Here are people who are all tingly with excitement at the prospect of throwing a freak to the lions, thereby allowing them to experience violence and sloppy eating all at once. This strikes me more as behavior exhibited at the Colosseum hundreds of years ago than something a semi-contemporary crowd would resort to. But then, one of Snicket's trademarks is presenting situations that are unrealistic and over-the-top.

This is an especially perilous book, with danger so near all the time. The Baudelaires are forced to violate their consciences several times in favor of surviving, and they begin to wonder whether they might end up in league with Count Olaf, which would be a far worse fate even than being ridiculed daily by uncouth visitors. But as always, Snicket breaks up the tension with heaps of laugh-aloud absurdity. Like this discussion of what part of a lion is most dangerous and upsetting: "Some say the teeth of the beast, because teeth are used for eating children, and often their parents, and gnawing their bones. Some say the claws of the beast, because claws are used for ripping things to shreds. And some say the hair of the beast, because hair can make allergic people sneeze." This is Snicket's way of building up to the phrase "the belly of the beast," about which he woefully warns, "I'm sorry to tell you that this book will use the expression 'the belly of the beast' three times before it is over, not counting all the times I have already used 'the belly of the beast' in order to warn you of all the times 'the belly of the beast' will appear."

The Baudelaires conclude this adventure in even more upsetting circumstances than before, still with no sign of the elusive Mr. Poe. Things don't look good for the intrepid threesome, but we can be assured that they won't be biting the dust just yet. In fact, they have reason to be hopeful, and that is a very powerful motivator - perhaps enough, when combined with their ingenuity, to help them defeat Count Olaf once and for all.

As If Hospitals Aren't Scary Enough As It Is...

A week and a half ago I closed the book on Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, leaving me free to immerse myself once more in the verbose eccentricity of Lemony Snicket. I have just completed the eighth volume in his lamentable series, and The Hostile Hospital boasts even more problems for the Baudelaire orphans than usual. There is no Mr. Poe to come and assist the children, however ineffectively, in finding a safe new home. The forever coughing banker remains out of touch in spite of the lengthy telegram the children send, begging for his assistance. Worse, they are stuck in the middle of nowhere, far enough away from civilization that they cannot keep up their journey on foot but near enough that almost everyone knows them on sight as the vicious murderers depicted in The Daily Punctilio. Because of this, while they encounter some nice enough folks in their flight from the authorities, they live with the knowledge that they cannot count on a long-term confidante; as soon as that companion learns of their supposed identity, they will be in grave danger.

This is the darkest book in the series since The Miserable Mill. While the orphans are not forced into exhausting manual labor, they are more alone than they have ever been, without a guardian of any kind or a stranger discerning enough to surmise that not everything printed in The Daily Punctilio is true. They nearly find such a friend in Hal, the elderly, visually impaired director of the Library of Records in the hospital in which they find themselves, but the orphans are forced to do something that causes him to lose his trust in them, in turn causing Violet to question whether they are becoming too much like the villains they are trying to escape.

The orphans are initially glad to find themselves at the hospital with the Volunteers Fighting Disease, an excessively cheerful group who pass out heart-shaped balloons and sing the same annoying song over and over in an attempt to spread good will but never stop long enough to do anything for the patients that might actually be useful. Could this finally be the VFD they’ve been searching for? And when the opportunity arises for them to work in the Library of Records, their luck seems to be holding. Perhaps one of the files, when combined with the shreds of notes gleaned from the notebooks of Duncan and Isadora Quagmire, will provide them with enough information to solve some of the mysteries in which they have become entwined. But none of them is prepared for what they actually do find in the file drawer, and it only adds more complexity to their plight.

Snicket’s signature style continues to amuse, though I didn’t find myself laughing out loud that often in this volume. There are serious problems afoot. Count Olaf has inevitably shown up again with Esme Squalor in tow, and they plan to do a cranioectomy on Violet while dozens of people watch. In The Miserable Mill, Violet and Sunny had to work together without their brother’s help as they strove to save him. Now, Klaus and Sunny must attempt to rescue Violet without the aid of one of her brilliant inventions. It won’t be easy.

But lighter moments do occur. The members of the VFD are comical, somewhere between a clown troupe and a band of hippies. It’s nice to have such cheerful people around in the midst of this gloom, even if their happiness is more aggravating than helpful. There are Snicket’s patently absurd metaphors to enjoy, and for the first time we get a good look at Olaf’s henchmen when they are off-duty. Moreover, there is another puzzle to be solved by astute readers. Who is Ana Gram, and what does she have to do with Violet, who has been so viciously abducted by a poorly disguised Esme? Can we figure out what Count Olaf is up to before Klaus and Sunny do, or will we find ourselves muttering, as Sunny is wont to do at this juncture, the word that is to The Hostile Hospital what “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” is to Mary Poppins -- except that it does little to make the one speaking it feel better?

I’m not sure where this volume fits into my ranking of the books in this series. While it may be low on that totem pole, I’ve long ago determined that a book by Snicket is a book worth reading, and this is no exception.

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!" Doubt Snicket's Talent, That Is

I soon will be taking a break from A Series of Unfortunate Events. Certainly this isn’t because I dislike the series, and I actually don’t mind an excuse to stretch it out longer, since I only have four books left and when they run out, that will be more depressing than the stories themselves. No, this halt in my reading stems from the fact that tomorrow – Saturday, to be exact, though midnight feels like the same day to me – heralds the arrival of a book for which I have waited for two years. A tome considerably longer than any of Lemony Snicket’s volumes, one that could last a week if I restrain myself to a few chapters a day. The book? Why, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, of course. Maddeningly, J. K. Rowling picked an inopportune weekend from my standpoint. I will be in central Pennsylvania, at the reunion and in the location about which I wrote my book The Land That Gives and Takes Away: Reflections on Little Pine Valley. There may actually be an opportunity for me to attend a Harry Potter release party, as my aunt works at a bookstore in Williamsport, but even if I go I don’t intend to crack open the first page until I arrive back home. I look forward to this trip all year, and if I start reading Harry I won’t have any time to appreciate the fact that I’m camping. I’ll be too immersed. So in anticipation of camping and Harry, I write my last Lemony Snicket review for a while. Suffice it to say, at least as of this book, he hadn’t lost his touch.

The Vile Village is the seventh installment of the lamentable saga of the Baudelaire orphans. The first four books were fairly self-contained, featuring the loyal and resourceful Violet, Klaus and Sunny, with side appearances by ineffective executor Mr. Poe and the loathsome Count Olaf in some ludicrous new disguise. With the fifth book, The Austere Academy, Snicket changed the game a bit. Now not only do the Baudelaires have to worry about themselves, they are determined to rescue their friends, the Quagmires, who have fallen into Olaf’s clutches. They have little to go on aside from the mysterious letters “V. F. D.,” the mystery of which they erroneously thought they solved in the sixth book, The Ersatz Elevator. When they encounter the initials here, they dare to hope that they’ve hit upon something more substantial this time. So it is that they find themselves under the care of a new guardian: the entire town of V. F. D., taking the axiom “It takes a village to raise a child” perhaps a little further than originally intended.

As it happens, however, the Baudelaires have only one man directly responsible for their care once they reach V. F. D., an unsightly village in the middle of a dusty expanse that seems to waver from a distance due to its immersion in crows. While the Council of Elders, a severe group whose youngest members are octogenarians, is only interested in the orphans as a means to get out of doing their own chores, Hector, the town handyman, takes the children into his home and proves their best guardian since the late, great Uncle Monty. The problem? Timidity, which seems to be a rampant shortcoming amongst Baudelaire guardians. Gullibility is another, but at least Hector never is taken in by the lies of which the Baudelaires continue to be the victims. In fact, were it not for his unshakable fear of elderly council members in crow hats, he would be most effective. As it is, his willingness to harbor a library full of illegal books and a workshop full of tools for making illegal mechanical devices helps the Baudelaires a great deal.

The suspicion that moving to V. F. D. would bring them closer to their friends seems to be confirmed when the Hector finds a couplet bearing Isadora’s handwriting and distinct literary style. The couplets continue to arrive, leaving Violet, Klaus and Sunny increasingly puzzled. More complications arise when they hear the triumphant announcement of Count Olaf’s arrest. Could it be that their insidious foe has finally been bested? Or could something far more sinister be afoot? Questions pile up in this book as the narratorial backstory becomes more enmeshed in the orphans’ travails. At one point in the story, the orphans even hear the name Snicket – and seem to recognize it. The cleverness of the author continues to impress me, though I surprised myself by figuring out the whereabouts of the Quagmire triplets about a hundred pages before the Baudelaires did. Maybe I’m catching on!

Snicket’s literary prowess hasn’t diminished, and he amusingly pokes fun at shoddy newspapers by pointing out repeated mistakes in The Daily Punctilio, the newspaper published in the Baudelaires’ hometown. It seems he has a particular grudge against this paper, as he mentions it as a key player in the demise of his relationship with the fabled Beatrice. One thing I found very amusing was his reference throughout the book to the phrase “small potatoes.” He tends to have one phrase that pops up in a similar fashion in most of his books; in The Austere Academy, for instance, it was “making a mountain out of a molehill,” and “small potatoes” is used to similar purpose, most entertainingly – and perilously – just before the book’s climax.

The Vile Village is Snicket’s most complex tome yet, with by far the most nebulous ending, and I can’t wait to see what awaits the Baudelaires next. I also can’t wait to find out more about how the narrator got swept up in this orphans’ ordeal. Actually, I can, because I must. But oh, how sweet will my return to A Series of Unfortunate Events be.

You Don't Have To Know the Meaning of the Word "Ersatz" to Enjoy Elevator

When I read the letter from Lemony Snicket to his editor at the conclusion of The Austere Academy, it occurred to me that living in a penthouse is hardly the most unfortunate event I could contemplate. To be honest, I would not particularly want to live in one myself, as I dislike the idea of living in a building with so many other people and of not having a yard. Nonetheless, given the choice between a rickety shack filled with crabs, a lumber mill and a house teetering on the edge of a cliff, I highly suspect I would take the penthouse. But Snicket has no trouble whatsoever in milking misfortune out of these seemingly cushy surroundings.

Comfortingly, the Baudelaire orphans find themselves once more in their hometown, just blocks away from their old mansion. It’s pleasant for them to be back among familiar sights, even if they’re usually viewing them from the top floor of an extremely tall building. When they arrive, the atmosphere of their new home at 667 Dark Avenue matches the name, and they are forced to walk up the staircase past an indeterminate number of floors in near blackness after the doorman explains that both light and elevators are unfashionable at the moment. They are about to learn that fashion is of great importance to one of their guardians, the shockingly petty and self-absorbed Esme Squalor. Her whole life revolves around what is “in” and “out,” and nothing gives her greater delight than to receive a tip about something being in and send her hen-pecked husband Jerome off to acquire it.

Jerome Squalor is a man of boundless good will and patience, and one wonder how such a thoroughly decent chap ever got hooked up with such a shallow fiend. Unfortunately, Jerome as lily-livered as Charles, the co-owner of the lumber mill where the orphans worked in The Miserable Mill. He would be a most suitable guardian indeed if only he weren’t so unwilling to argue. Though the Baudelaires eventually come to a parting of the ways with Jerome, as always happens in some way or another with the Baudelaire guardians, I wonder whether he might pop up again. He clearly was very closely associated with the mother of Violet, Klaus and Sunny, though most of his recollections in this book are cut short by his nagging wife. Esme, meanwhile, makes intriguing mention of Beatrice, which I’m pretty sure is the first reference thus far to the author’s lost love in the presence of the orphans, suggesting that the two storylines will become more deeply intertwined.

Staying in the Squalor penthouse is a curious experience for the children. Their rooms are quite comfortable in spite of the fact that, rather than the items Jerome planned to purchase based on the children’s interests, they are given oversized pinstripe suits, leaving Violet a tool bench with no tools, Klaus a library with nothing but books listing in items over the years, and Sunny an assortment of stuffed animals entirely too soft for her to sink her teeth into. They have a glorious view of the city, and Jerome is perfectly happy to take them on excursions to their favorite places. But Esme is dismissive of them and subjects them to unpleasant food just because it’s the in thing. Don McLean has a song in which he declares, “I hate fashion; I hate it with a passion.” I’m sure the orphans must feel the same way. Additionally, the elevator remains unfashionable, so the children are forced to make the excruciating climb up and down the stairs day after day. Most of all, however, the orphans have Count Olaf to worry about, especially when he shows up in the guise of Gunther, the auctioneer of the upcoming In Auction, which benefits Esme’s already substantial bank account. They have twice the reason to worry now because they know their friends Duncan and Isadora are in his clutches. In fact, this book presents them with several opportunities to escape their dire circumstances, but they cannot in good conscience follow through because they are the only hope for their beleaguered comrades.

Snicket is rather obsessed with imparting lessons in vocabulary, and I confess I was stymied as to the meaning of the word “ersatz.” Several chapters in, I could contain my curiosity no longer, and I investigated the word to discover its meaning. As it turns out, “ersatz” means none of the things I thought it might, but learning the definition gave me early insight into a major plot twist. Therefore, I would suggest refraining from peeking as I did. Rather, have patience and wait until Snicket reveals, in his own good time, the meaning of the word. (If you just can’t stand the suspense, check out page 129.)

As is his wont, Snicket manages to inject a most harrowing situation with healthy doses of humor. Oddly enough, probably my single favorite line in the book occurs, just as in The Wide Window, in a restaurant. “There is nothing particularly wrong with salmon, of course, but like caramel candy, strawberry yogurt, and liquid carpet cleaner, if you eat too much of it you are not going to enjoy your meal.” In addition to fashion, anxiety, and uncertainty, another recurring theme in this book is darkness, and Snicket finds all sorts of interesting ways to depict it. For instance: “It was darker than a pitch-black panther, covered in tar, eating black licorice at the very bottom of the deepest part of the black sea.” His most effective demonstration of darkness, however, is considerably less verbose.

The Ersatz Elevator is the most complex volume in the series thus far, dangling tantalizing threads of story in front of readers before yanking them away. We are left with very few answers but many more questions as we depart from yet another hyperbolic manifestation of the author’s sense of reality. (Incidentally, I would gather that Snicket hasn’t much time for fashion, as he takes care to wholly expose its ludicrous nature in this book.) There can be little doubt that the Baudelaires will encounter some of these characters again, and unquestionably they face a future rendez-vous with one of them, though he will not look or sound quite the same at that later date. Will the calamitous misfortunes of this upstanding trio ever end? As devoted readers, do we actually want them to?

Elementary, My Dear Olaf! School, That Is...

After nearly a month of being too busy to pick up a book, I decided to resume my reading activities last week with the fifth book in the Series of Unfortunate Events. I was drawn in right away by what seemed to me a blaring tip of the hat to C.S. Lewis. Perhaps it was no such thing. But as I read the first line of The Austere Academy – “If you were going to give a gold medal to the least delightful person on Earth, you would have to give that medal to a person named Carmelita Spats, and if you didn’t give it to her, Carmelita Spats was the sort of person who would snatch it from your hands anyway" – I was forcefully reminded of another fifth book in a series. Well, I knew it as the third book, but most kids reading it now will know it as the fifth. I refer to Voyage of the Dawn Treader, one of the seven Chronicles of Narnia. That book has one of the best opening lines I have ever encountered: “There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it.” Anyway, whether or not it was intentional, anything that reminds me of C. S. Lewis is automatically at an advantage. I can’t help but think there was some small degree of influence there, as Voyage of the Dawn Treader launches a small assault on the state of current schooling that is amplified in The Silver Chair, while The Austere Academy provides an exaggerated vision of the worst boarding school has to offer.

Of course, exaggeration is expected on any book bearing the name Lemony Snicket. His macabre tales are skewered just enough that we can heave a sigh of relief that this probably couldn’t happen in contemporary society. Of course, if contemporary society had their way, I suspect the Baudelaires would be separated and sent to three foster homes, and I can’t imagine a more unfortunate event than that. Nonetheless, the intrepid orphans’ troubles are far from over when they reach Prufrock Preparatory School, which is headed by a narcissistic Vice Principal (curiously, no mention of a Principal is made) whose passion for the violin is only matched by his lack of talent for playing it. This ponytailed, sarcastic Vice Principal is so unreasonable that he forces Violet, Klaus and Sunny to reside in the “orphans’ shack,” a dilapidated residence whose ceiling leaks fungus and whose floor is infested with crabs. What’s more, he enlists Sunny as his administrative assistant and forces her to make her own staples when his office supplies run out. Additionally, he enforces a number of ludicrous rules, the violation of which usually involves the revoking of certain lunch privileges, such as being allowed silverware. Missing one of his interminable concerts carries the especially harsh penalty of being forced to buy him a large bag of candy and watch him eat it. I couldn’t help but be reminded a bit of Chalie’s teacher in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and a lot of Miss Trunchbull in Matilda when I observed this administrator’s antics, and the more I think of it, the more echoes of Roald Dahl I find in Snicket’s work.

As unpleasant as the orphans’ lot is at Prufrock Prep, it doesn’t get truly grim until the arrival of the new gym teacher, a turbaned fellow who insists that the Baudelaires possess unique athletic abilities and promptly enlists them in the Special Orphans Running Exercises, the acronym of which describes how they feel after they are forced to participate. It doesn’t help that there is something very familiar about this particular instructor… But there are bright spots in all this misery. Along with the children’s own interminable optimism, they soon acquire a much more solid morale booster: friends. Although their first encounter with their classmates was negative – due to the aforementioned Carmelita Spats – they soon find solace with Duncan and Isadora Quagmire, children as compatible as possible with the Baudelaires, not only in terms of temperament and interests but also because of their own incredible misfortune. Now instead of three, there are five working together to uncover the next sinister plot of the greedy and omnipresent Count Olaf.

I enjoyed this book a great deal. In fact, it may be my favorite book in the series so far. Duncan and Isadora are welcome additions whom I hopefully suspect will return at some later point. In spite of Snicket’s descriptions to the contrary, I found Mrs. Bass and Mr. Remora, Klaus and Violet’s teachers, to be quite sympathetic characters, if admittedly rather dull. Four relatively pleasant new people in one book is the highest count so far, and it probably contributed to the lighter feel of this volume, especially after the exceedingly dark Miserable Mill. Snicket slathers on the one-off oddities here, too, which is again a welcome relief. Examples: “Klaus had known for all twelve of his years that his older sister found a hand on her shoulder comforting – as long as the hand was attached to an arm, of course.” “Each morning, she would walk into Room Two carrying a bag full of ordinary objects – a frying pan, a picture frame, the skeleton of a cat…” “Assumptions are dangerous things to make, and like all dangerous things to make – bombs, for instance, or strawberry shortcake – if you make even the tiniest mistake you can find yourself in terrible trouble.”

The delectable berries may signal trouble to the deluded mind of Lemony Snicket, but I’m sure that if the Baudelaires could “remember the taste of strawberries,” they might draw some small comfort from that, and from the hope that they might one day have the privilege of enjoying the pleasures of life again. For the time being, all they have is each other, but that is just enough to keep them going as they venture uneasily towards their next inevitably unfortunate escapade.

Most Miserable Baudelaire Book Yet

If one studies the titles in the Series of Unfortunate Events up to the point at which I am currently stopped, an interesting pattern emerges. While Lemony Snicket makes full use of his alliterative license in each of the first four titles, only two of the titles contain an adjective that could be construed as negative. In spite of the doom and gloom that prevailed in the second and third volumes – including the demise of two characters, one of which was particularly beloved – the orphans at least were in the care of guardians who were benevolent, if a bit too trusting (Uncle Monty) and a bit too paranoid (Aunt Josephine). One of the signs that the guardian in The Miserable Mill will be different is that there is no “uncle” attached to his moniker. We never even learn his name. Like the mysterious first name of Spock, the character in possession of it merely brushes it aside as unpronounceable. What’s more, we do not see his face. The new caretaker for Violet, Klaus and Sunny Baudelaire has a face that is forever wreathed in cigar smoke. His contact with the children is minimal, and they only know him as “Sir.”

All this would perhaps be of little consequence if only the orphans were in suitable living conditions. But the perpetually unlucky waifs go from a house teetering on the edge of a cliff to a small bunk bed in a room full of mill workers. Moreover, they are forced to work in the lumber mill themselves, performing tasks far more difficult and dull than are appropriate for minors. Trapped in this manual labor, they have no leisure to invent or read or bite things, and the noise of the machinery renders them unable to talk to one another. All of this is quite dreadful, but Snicket really takes the agony up a notch with one of the greatest of possible childhood calamities: a pair of busted glasses. I’m almost surprised this didn’t happen to Klaus before, since it certainly takes him out of the picture for a while. And that is perhaps the scariest thing of all: the prospect of these Three Musketeers being separated. In fact, this is the most likely tragedy to befall any given set of contemporary orphans. Few will be hounded by evil men after their fortune or dragged from one bizarre locale after another in search of a guardian who will not keel over or kick them out. But many are separated in the quest to place them in decent homes, and I would be surprised if at some point in the series the inept executor Mr. Poe does not try to separate the children from the only thing they have left in this world: each other.

Happily, though, it has not come to that yet. Still, I found this by far the darkest of the first four books. Klaus does find himself separated from his sisters for a time, with disastrous results. Each orphan must learn to think outside his or her normal range of expertise in order to save the day when a sibling more suited to the task is incapacitated. The fact that they have been unable to exercise their ingenuity since their arrival at the mill can’t help either. The days at the mill are dull and hopeless, not to mention exhausting. Even living with Count Olaf was better than this – except, of course, that Sir does not have any intention of killing them. That doesn’t make him any more pleasant a character.

It’s up to more minor folks to help maintain the orphans’ faith in the human race. Though their guardian is cruel and unreasonable, the orphans find an ally in his partner, Charles, a gentle man who agrees that it is unfair to force youngsters to work in a mill. Unfortunately, Charles is a pushover, completely unable to uphold his end of an argument against his fierce cohort. Little better is Phil, the first person they meet upon entering the dormitory at the outset of their stay. Snicket patiently explains that Phil is an optimist, and as one can surmise, someone with such an unconditionally cheery disposition really is out of place in the midst of so much misery. Though he tries to sympathize with the orphans’ plight, he can’t help but try to look on the bright side. Sadly, Violet, Klaus and Sunny know all too well that “bright side” is often still very dim indeed.

Snicket makes the orphans’ latest home so unpleasant that we almost don’t miss Count Olaf when he fails to show up early in the book. But he makes sure to remind us that the devious fellow is always hot on the trail, and eventually he does make an appearance, this time as a receptionist named Shirley (as in “Surely you don’t expect anyone to fall for that get-up, Count Olaf!”). His henchman actually plays a much larger role that is not revealed until very late in the novel.

I didn’t find The Miserable Mill nearly as funny as The Wide Window. I rarely caught myself laughing aloud, and none of the metaphors or definitions struck me as particularly brilliant or witty. I did find it interesting, however, how often Snicket referred to his own adventures in this volume. I suspect that if I read his Unauthorized Autobiography right now, it would make a lot more sense. There are plenty of references to exceedingly odd things that happened to him, and he brushes them off so nonchalantly as part of his educational endeavors that the reader might be inclined to do a double-take, wondering about the statement’s plausibility. What kind of life does this guy lead? It becomes clearer and clearer that the narrator is a dynamic character in and of himself, perhaps even more fully formed than the young protagonists. Also of interest is the enigmatic Beatrice, the love of Snicket’s life to whom every book thus far has been dedicated, in spite of the fact imparted in this book that she dumped him before her death. Does this woman have a real-life counterpart whose memory drives Daniel Handler to write these stories, or is she just as artificial as the Count and the Baudelaires?

I didn’t enjoy The Miserable Mill quite as much as the others thus far, mainly because I felt grim was overtaking silly to an uncomfortable level. I’m hoping there is a bit more levity in the fifth book, which I suspect I will be starting very soon. Nonetheless, the fourth book is a fine installment, most of which is certainly deserving of the label “unfortunate.”

Third Snicket Book Offers Wide Window Into Author's Demented Mind

When I learned that the film A Series of Unfortunate Events covered not just the first volume in Lemony Snicket’s ingenious series but the second and third as well, I decided it was high time I got around to reading the second and third books. I did not want to go to that movie without having read them. I fulfilled half of my ambition, but it was only this week that I finally purchased and breezed through The Wide Window. I couldn’t resist the lure of seeing Count Olaf on the big screen, even if I had not yet encountered the scheme he would try on the poor Baudelaire orphans in the third book.

I was worried, as I opened the third book in the series to the first thick page, that knowing the gist of the plot might detract from my enjoyment, but I needn’t have been concerned. In the delectable transition between the second and third paragraph, I was caught with a chortle in my throat, and I never looked back. As I read, I was just all the more aware of the fact that while Snicket is wildly inventive with his landscapes, characters and sticky situations, it is his distinctive narrative style, both demure and deranged, that truly captures my fancy. A part of me thinks I really shouldn’t find such horrible events so fiendishly entertaining. But his tone is so tantalizing I can’t help myself.

The fun begins on the back cover, where the author sees fit to place a warning that includes several items that may well steer the reader of gentle constitution away from his woeful chronicles. Now, I can buy that leeches, a villain, a hurricane and even cold cucumber soup are rather pernicious elements to include in a children’s tale, but what is so alarming about a signaling device and a doll named Pretty Penny? Only the stout of heart dare attempt to find out. From the outset of the book, we know the orphans are in for an especially dreary time. Not only are they in close proximity to such morose landmarks as Lake Lachrymose and Damocles Dock, but they are sent to live in a creaky house teetering at the top of a cliff and occupied by the most paranoid woman on the planet.

While this new guardian is not sinister like Count Olaf, the distant relation whom they know as Aunt Josephine is hardly the ideal companion that Uncle Monty was. I miss the jolly Scotsman with his wide array of snakes. Now we are stuck with an antiseptic old lady who fears doorknobs, phones, welcome mats, ovens and, above all, realtors. Aside from her panphobia, her most notable trait is her passion for the proper use of the English language. On a recent trip to my old elementary school, my esteemed middle school English teacher confided that she’d overheard a student refer to her as a “Grammar Nazi.” While I certainly don’t think that is a phrase fairly applied to my beloved instructor, it might just fit Aunt Josephine, who is so obsessed that she insists on pointing out that every word the infant Sunny says is grammatically incorrect.

As dreary as their lives with their new guardian are, inventive Violet, studious Klaus and teething Sunny are managing fairly well until the inevitable occurs. Count Olaf shows up in yet another disguise. I admit to finding a certain charm in the crusty sea captain – the appropriately named Captain Sham – though knowing right off the bat who he really is holds that attraction at bay. It is easy to see, however, how a miserable old sea widow could be taken in by a flattering old fellow whose leg was apparently eaten by the very leeches that took her husband’s life. Most of the adults in this series are laughably incompetent, particularly Mr. Poe, the executor of the Baudelaire estate. Though he’s kind-hearted enough, he is utterly blind when it comes to detecting the Count’s schemes. It’s a good thing that the orphans are both precocious and industrious. It’s an even better thing that in spite of all the misfortune that comes their way, the three children have one another, which makes even the grimmest situations somewhat bearable.

I’m conflicted as to the time frame of this series. The design of the books, from the hardcover format with uneven pages to the gothic line drawings, seems old-fashioned, as do the children themselves. The girls wear dresses; Klaus wears a suit. They do not speak like contemporary children, and I am curious to see whether other children will show any more signs of modernity when I finally encounter them in the fifth book. The presence of cars places the series firmly in the twentieth century, while the distasteful neon lights at the Anxious Clown restaurant indicate a time even closer to the present. I get the sense the time period is meant to be ambiguous, while allowing for the possibility that such fantastic – a word which here means “fantastically awful” – adventures can indeed occur in modern society.

One of the most distinctive things about Snicket’s books are their overt didacticism. He constantly addresses the audience, issuing warnings, unleashing unlikely metaphors and, most frequently, delivering practical vocabulary lessons. Sometimes he allows one of the characters to do the defining for him, as in this amusing exchange in the first chapter that recalls Airplane:
Mr. Poe: It didn’t seem polite to ask how she became a dowager. Well, let’s put you in a taxi.
Violet: What does that word mean?
Mr. Poe: (raising eyebrows) I’m surprised at you, Violet. A girl of your age should know that a taxi is a car which will drive you someplace for a fee...
Klaus: (whispered to Violet) Dowager is a fancy word for ‘widow.’
Mostly, however, he just sticks the meanings in himself, either providing a general, all-purpose definition or furnishing one specific to the occasion. Occasionally he steps aside to attack an idiom, giving an interesting etymological lesson and a bit of foreshadowing all rolled into one.

In this book, there is even more education than usual, as every other sentence out of Aunt Josephine’s mouth is some sort of grammar lesson. Of course, this is intended not so much to be useful as to demonstrate that even helpful things like grammar can become destructive if they are obsessed over to excess. This is a lesson in itself, however, and a very practical one at that. It is selfish to be more concerned about punctuation than the welfare of orphans, and it is foolish to correct the grammar of one who holds your life in his hands. While reading The Wide Window might be a worthwhile exercise for someone eager to get a head start on studying for the English portion of the SAT, this is not the only subject in which a reader might find himself educated. Violet’s fascination with inventions and Klaus’ love of reading combine to make for many opportunities for scientific epiphanies. The most notable of such discoveries in this tome involves the aforementioned signaling device. Moreover, there are historical facts to be garnered, and Snicket makes mention of such notable figures as Alexander the Great and Archduke Ferdinand.

My favorite examples of Snicket’s attempts to impart knowledge, however, are in his metaphors and explanatory illustrations, which range from ludicrously obvious to patently bizarre. These are the moments that most often cause me to chuckle. I suspect certain passages affect particular readers differently, and each reader must make his or her own search for those gems of sentences that especially stand out. As for me, I cannot resist sharing the two that made me laugh loudest and longest:
If you are allergic to a thing, it is best not to put that thing in your mouth, particularly if the thing is cats. (p. 102)
Stealing is not excusable if, for instance, you are in a museum and you decide that a certain painting would look better in your house, and you simply grab the painting and take it there. But if you were very, very hungry, and you had no way of obtaining money, it might be excusable to grab the painting, take it to your house, and eat it. (p. 136-7)

While The Reptile Room was particularly enjoyable for me thanks to the warmth of kindly Uncle Monty, The Wide Window, whose overall tone was gloomier, did a better job of tickling my funny bone, and that was mostly due to random narratorial comments such as those listed above. The Baudelaire orphans may be unreasonably unfortunate to be subject to so much misery, but we are extremely fortunate to have Lemony Snicket so astutely chronicling their adventures.

Not Too Unfortunate of an Adaptation

The end of 2004 marked the first holiday movie season after Lord of the Rings, which meant that there couldn’t possibly be a film that would create the same level of anticipation in me. Still, there were several movies in which I had at least a moderate interest, and so far I’ve managed to see most of them. A glaring exception is Finding Neverland, which never even made it to a theater in Erie. For shame.

A couple weeks ago, my dad noticed that A Series of Unfortunate Events had hit the dollar theater, and he offered to take me to see it that weekend. We went, though Dad didn’t have a very clear idea of what he was in for. He certainly didn’t expect the first unfortunate event, a glitch that resulted in his seeing a trailer for Pooh’s Heffalump Movie upside-down and backwards. I was getting popcorn at the time and was spared the opportunity to search for Satanic messages in the trailer that was so benign the right way around.

But to the film. I applaud the creativity of the opening and closing. The animated bits that persist through the end of the credits reward those few who actually bother to stick around until the screen switches back to its intermediary line-up of trivia and Coke ads. Meanwhile, the beginning sequence, presenting in an obnoxiously bright and cheerful manner the adventures of a happy little elf, calls to mind the fake cover so graciously provided to readers of Lemony Snicket’s Unauthorized Autobiography.

These are potentially the most self-referential stories I’ve ever read, and the film goes to just as much trouble as the books to warn us of impending danger and offer a more palatable alternative. Jude Law, hunched over an antiquated typewriter, provides the doleful, sympathetic voice of Lemony Snicket himself. That narratorial presence is my favorite part of the books, and Law inhabits the role naturally, his vocal timbre a perfect match for Snicket’s warnings and foreshadowing.

The other most impressive on-screen presence is, of course, Jim Carrey. As the film was
promoted, Count Olaf was about the only part of the movie anyone seemed to care about. Carrey camps it up as much as he can, making Olaf a little less sinister and a little more ludicrous. I saw Carrey promoting the movie on Letterman, and he explained that his take on Olaf was a wannabe actor who is very bad at what he does. All of his characterizations are over-the-top and easy to see through; though he reappears in several different guises, the unfortunate Baudelaire orphans recognize him immediately each time (though their incompetent legal representative, Mr. Poe (Timothy Spall) can never see it until it is too late). As in the Austin Powers films, the villain is the most comical character. Of his later incarnations, I find Stefano, the man who comes to assist the reptile-loving Uncle Monty (Billy Connolly), quite irritating, but I love his role as the crusty old sea captain who woos paranoid Aunt Josephine (Meryl Streep). This is fortunate for me, since I adore Uncle Monty but find Aunt Josephine extremely grating.

The orphans, particularly Violet (Emily Browning) and Klaus (Liam Aiken), spend most of the film looking quite somber. Infant Sunny (Kara and Shelby Hoffman) seems to take a brighter view of things, adopting a disposition to match her name. Violet and Klaus are fine, but Sunny gets on my nerves, mainly because of her sarcastic comments (which appear in subtitles as she can only make a series of babyish sounds). The younger members of the audience found this very amusing, but I thought the remarks were stupid and very out of keeping with the style of the book. Snicket does frequently provide possible translations for Sunny’s gurgling, but these speculative bits of dialogue are droll and worth a chuckle. In the film, they’re just going for cheap laughs, and it degrades the integrity of Snicket’s idiosyncratic linguistic usage.

As I mentioned before, Uncle Monty, the affectionate, eccentric snake collector, is a character I hold in high regard. When I read the book, I fell in love with him after some trepidation, initially fearing that he might be as untrustworthy as Count Olaf. He soon became my favorite character in the series up to that point, so I was pleased to see him make the transition to film so well. I did not pick up on his being Scottish in the book, so that was a nice surprise as well. The lilting melody he sings to the orphans with the aid of one of his favorite snakes was one of the film’s high points for me.

Several high-profile actors put in an appearance in the film, most oddly Dustin Hoffman in a very brief role as a theater critic and Gilbert Gottfried uttering just one squawk as a very familiar-looking duck. It’s not so much the actors, though, as the set design that captures the attention. The film is gorgeously grotesque, and every set piece (with the exception of those used in the opening sequence) has a bit of a gothic feel to it.

The film combines the first three books and takes considerable liberties with the material. We still wind up with the ending from the first book, though it is considerably altered to make for a more acceptably dramatic movie climax. While the conclusion is rather dreary and certainly open-ended enough to allow for a sequel, Law’s narration prevents it from seeming like a true unhappy ending. In fact, the film’s last words are “In that sense, they were very fortunate indeed.” Well, I guess a little thread of warm and fuzzy running through all that darkness can’t hurt.

The movie is not as good as the books, but it’s a pretty good adaptation, especially in visual terms. Fans of the books should check it out. And if they can get past the inherent oddity of the movie, as my dad eventually did, the unindoctrinated may just be inspired to pick up one of Mr. Snicket’s books themselves.

Very Unfortunate Events Very Good Reading

I had some time to kill after work today, so I decided to stop by the mall library and see if I could plop down with a good book for a couple of hours. Several years ago, my aunt introduced me to the deliciously dry wit of Lemony Snicket, and after reading the first installment of The Series of Unfortunate Events I vowed the rest would soon follow. Alas, though I continued to identify myself as a fan of the series, I never got around to reading the second book, let alone the remainder of the volumes. What I did read, inappropriately as I soon discovered, was the Unauthorized Autobiography. After an introductory chapter that, along with the cover, had me shaking with laughter, I found I had no idea what was going on. The book made no sense whatsoever and I decided I would have to give it a shot again once I’d read considerably further into the series. Because the library happened to have the second chronicle, The Reptile Room, handy, I am now on my way.

This second installment is as quick and enjoyable a read as the first. Well, perhaps not quite as enjoyable, since Snicket has to go and introduce us to the cuddly bundle of fun that is Dr. Montgomery Montgomery (aka Uncle Monty), only to kill him off halfway through the book. This tragic incident comes as no surprise, as nearly every time Uncle Monty appears in the book the narrator reminds the reader of his untimely demise, but it is still most unfortunate when it happens as he is the most likable character to grace the series thus far. Delightfully eccentric and boundlessly kind, he provides the children with an all-too-brief oasis in their vast desert of doom.

The Baudelaire orphans behave precisely the same in this novel as they did in A Bad Beginning. Violet thinks up inventions, tying up her hair in a ribbon every time she must think especially hard. Klaus reads books, quickly becoming an expert on the subject of snakes and Peruvian terrain. And Sunny bites things. She also, in this novel, makes the acquaintance of the Incredibly Deadly Viper, who turns out to be almost as interesting a character in his own way as Uncle Monty. Rounding out the cast are Mr. Poe, the well-meaning but useless manager of the Baudelaires’ affairs; Stephano, Uncle Monty’s new assistant who the children immediately discover to be Count Olaf; and Dr. Lucafont, the somewhat unsettling doctor who arrives to perform an autopsy on Uncle Monty.

Although my brother has a tendency to dislike novels, I think I’ll keep this one around for him as he shares the same fondness Uncle Monty does for reptiles, particularly snakes. The Reptile Room itself is a glorious collection of reptiles, most of which do not actually exist but are wonderfully imaginative. In addition, he loves Snicket’s skewered sense of humor. As much as I enjoy the exploits of the orphans, I attribute the success of the series to the amalgamation of Snicket’s dry wit and etymological obsession. I find it hard to imagine that the movies can truly capture the essence of these books when the best part is the author commentary, which is not only amusing but educational as well. I walked away with a couple of new words myself, including “brummagem,” a lovely term for “fake.” I also was afforded a reminder of C. S. Lewis’ admonitions about shutting oneself in a wardrobe when I read Snicket’s shockingly accentuated warning against fooling around with electrical sockets.

Although I was very disappointed to see such a wonderful character as Uncle Monty disappear so quickly, such is the way of this series, and I’ve got the bug to read the rest in the near future. Then maybe I can tackle that autobiography again…

Three Charming Children and an Abominable Uncle

Violet, Klaus, and Sunny Baudelaire are three very happy children. They live in a gorgeous mansion overlooking the ocean with their devoted parents. One day, however, their idyllic life takes a tragic turn. While playing on the beach, the children are distressed to discover that their home has gone up in flames with their parents inside. Now, after a brief stay with a friend of the family who has very disagreeable children, the Baudelaires are off to live with an uncle whom they have never met. Perhaps he will be a very pleasant person who lives in a lovely house and loves children. Or, perhaps not.

Author Lemony Snicket warns his readers time and again that if they are looking for a happy story, this is not the place to find it. He inserts his admonishments in a most amusing fashion, and the reader cannot help but tread the further pages with trepidation. The children have landed themselves into the icy fingers of a repulsive man who calls himself a Count and lives in a broken-down home that feels like a dungeon. The three youngsters are forced to share one bed and are given a pile of rocks to play with. Some fun.

We soon learn that Violet has a passion for inventing things, Klaus has a passion for reading things, and the infant, Sunny, has a passion for biting things. Her baby comments are translated with much wit throughout the book. Lemony Snicket clearly has a passion for words, and it seems that every other page contains a definition of one type or another, sometimes provided by the narration, sometimes by the educated Klaus. These asides are quite often amusing as well as educational.

It turns out the the children's uncle wants nothing more than to inherit their fortune, which is currently unavailable to them. As he forces the children to slave away on difficult household tasks, he concocts a plan to realize his dream. The clever children soon realize that the schemer is up to something, but what? The gears in their brains are operating on high gear as they seek reprieve in the house of their kindly neighbor, seeking answers in her library. Will they figure out how to outsmart their captor in time, or will the first book end in tragedy for the Baudelaire children?

This book is only the first in A Series of Unfortunate Events, so I guess it's safe to reveal that they survive. But has anything really changed for the better? This book is a series of twists and turns, presented in a hardbound edition with thick, uneven pages, which gives it a very antique feel. The book can be read in a couple of hours, and it costs about ten dollars. It's a sound investment for a book sure to bring enjoyment again and again.