I hadn’t intended to pick up any new TV shows this fall other than Ringer and The Secret Circle: Ringer because it’s Sarah Michelle Gellar and she’s Buffy so she has my allegiance, and The Secret Circle because I love The Vampire Diaries so much. Ringer is absurd but oddly entertaining. I’m a fan. The Secret Circle has unfortunately not lived up to the expectations created by The Vampire Diaries. I gave it six episodes to get going, but dropped it this week.

That was my intention. But I guess the lure of two fairy tale based shows turned out to be too much for me to resist, and I decided to tune in for the premieres of both Once Upon a Time (ABC) and Grimm (NBC) this week. Both shows have typical fantasy/hero story beginnings. Once Upon a Time is about Emma, a citizen of a reality much like ours, who discovers by way of Henry, the son she gave up for adoption at 18, that fairy tale creatures live in a town in Maine called Storybrooke, and that she is actually the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming. The Evil Queen has robbed the inhabitants of fairy tale world of their happy endings by cursing them to live in our world, and the only way they can get back to the fairy tale world is if Emma comes back and saves them. Grimm is about Nick, a citizen of a reality much like ours, who discovers by way of Marie, the dying aunt who adopted him after his parents died, that fairy tale creatures live among us, and that he is actually the latest in a line of creature hunters known as “Grimms.” Nick, who is a cop, now has to take up the family calling and use his newfound knowledge to solve crimes.

Once Upon a Time is very literal, for lack of a better word, with its fairy tale elements: we see flashbacks set in a Shrek-like magical kingdom where all the fairy tale creatures live together. Snow White lives in a castle and wears a princessy white dress; Prince Charming is an acual prince who carries a sword. In the curse reality, the Evil Queen, called Regina, is the Mayor of Storybrooke, and Snow White is a schoolteacher named Mary Margaret Blanchard — see what they did there with the names? Prince Charming, meanwhile, is known only as John Doe. That’s because he got stabbed right before the curse took hold, and now he’s lying comatose in a glass-walled hospital room, presumably in suspended animation until his true love remembers who he is and comes to wake him with a kiss. Grimm has no alternative fairy tale reality. Its setting is present day Portland, Oregon, and its fairy tale creatures here have evolved over time to fit in with modern society. This seems to be the key difference between the two shows: while Once Upon a Time‘s conceit is that the fairy tale creatures are here in the real world unnaturally, Grimm suggests that they were always there and, just like the rest of us, have merely changed as the world changes.

I didn’t care for Once Upon a Time. The dialogue was a bit grating, both the stilted, cheesy style of speech used in the flashbacks to fairyland (see: io9 on “kitsch,” which can usefully be applied to this show), and in the present, with Emma annoyingly calling Henry “kid” every second sentence. I guess this is supposed to contribute to her “tough” persona (she’s also a bail “bondsperson”). Visually, the show did not appeal to me at all. There is a lot of bad green screen involved, and the costumes and hairstyles in the flashbacks were totally ridiculous. I also take issue with the inclusion of characters from Pinocchio in the fairy tale universe. Pinocchio is not a fairy tale! Do I sense a bit of marketing for ABC’s parent corporation Disney here? Next week maybe they’ll introduce Quasimodo or The Incredible Hulk. One thing I did like about it was the parallel images of Snow White in her glass coffin and Prince Charming in his “glass coffin” that began and ended the episodes. That was clever, and it was probably enough to get me to watch at least one more episode.

Overall, I prefer Grimm‘s premise. The idea that fairy tale creatures would naturally change with the times makes a lot of sense to me; fairy tales are archetypes, and the things they reflect are always out there somewhere. Grimm also seems like a mix of various things I like. There’s a bit of the comic book series Fables here (there’s also a bit of Fables in Once Upon a Time), plus aspects of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (the best show ever): the Grimms are very much like Slayers, and Aunt Marie, a librarian with a trailer full of Grimm information, is Watcher-like. I also couldn’t help thinking of Harry Potter when Marie told Nick that his parents didn’t die in a car crash. Unlike Once Upon a Time, Grimm is pretty to look at. At least, I found the dark and colourful visual style of the show very attractive, and I always like a Pacific Northwest setting for a sci-fi or fantasy show. The giant trees and overcast weather just lend themselves to that slightly weird, scary tone. The pilot episode took the story of Little Red Riding Hood and turned the Big Bad Wolf into a serial killer of girls in red sweatshirts, which sounds a bit silly, but a scene showing the Wolf’s collection of red hoodies was genuinely creepy.

I will watch Grimm again next week (though I will not watch it live because I’m sorry but I have to watch Fringe at that time) in the hope that it lives up to its potential, and that if it does, NBC might give it time to develop. The fact that they’ve put it in the Friday night death slot, against two shows that probably share a similar target audience (Supernatural and the aforementioned and awesome Fringe), following low-rated and already-cancelled Chuck, makes me think they’re not planning on having it stick around for long.

The first time I heard about The Night Circus (2011, Doubleday) by Erin Morgenstern, it was being compared to Harry Potter. My love of Harry Potter is well-established, so it shouldn’t be surprising that I decided to investigate The Night Circus further. The reviews made it sound like something I would enjoy, and indeed, I did enjoy it quite a lot. However, now that I’ve read it, I have no idea why it’s being compared to Harry Potter. It does have magic in it, true, but it’s not a similar story at all, and it’s certainly not aimed at the same age group. The Potter comparison made me expect it to be a children’s or young adult book. Nope! My first clue to the fact that this might be aimed at older readers came on page 10, when a character uses some colourful language. In this way, it reminded me a little of Neil Gaiman’s Stardust, which also quickly dispels any notion that it might be a children’s book with a well-placed expletive.

The Night Circus, which takes place around the turn of the 20th century, is the story of a magical contest between Celia and Marco, both apprentices to older illusionists who’ve made a game for years out of forcing their students to compete, apparently in order to determine which of their teaching methods is superior. The venue for the duel is Le Cirque des Rêves, an arena of wonders designed completely in black, white, and grey, which opens only after dark and features not just the usual circus performers — acrobats, a contortionist, big (and small) cats, fortune tellers, and Celia, the illusionist — but also elaborate exhibits such as a garden made completely of ice, a carousel that is part mechanical and part magical, and a vertical labyrinth made of clouds. The novel tells the story of the creation and early years of the circus, weaving in many characters such as: Chandresh Christophe Lefèvre, the perfectionist promoter; Mr. Barris, the architect; Tsukiko, a mysterious contortonist; Poppet and Widget, twins who were born on the circus’ opening night; Herr Friedrick Thiessen, the clockmaker who designs the circus’ centrepiece clock; and Bailey, who visits the circus as a young boy and forms a bond with Poppet. It soon becomes apparent that all of these people are being affected in unforeseen ways by the circus’ unbreakable link to Celia and Marco’s duel.

The story itself, while engrossing at times and generally strong enough to keep the reader interested, is not outstanding; it runs out of steam in the final act. But it almost doesn’t matter, because The Night Circus works extremely well as a sort of verbal scrapbook, a collection of memories of an enchanting time and place — much like the accounts of the circus compiled by Herr Thiessen in the novel. Through these published writings, “excerpts” of which appear throughout the book, Thiessen becomes “the unofficial leader, the figurehead” of the “most ardent followers” of the circus. It is Herr Thiessen who starts the tradition among “rêveurs,” as these circus followers are known, of wearing a splash of red with the circus’ traditional greyscale colour scheme: the greyscale, he says, makes him feel as though he fits in, while the red reminds him that he is an outsider. Perhaps this position as external observer and chronicler is what makes Herr Thiessen one of the novel’s most memorable and likable characters. Morgenstern leaves the rules of the game in which Celia and Marco find themselves embroiled unclear through most of the novel; if this is a deliberate strategy to enhance the story’s drama, it backfires a bit by making it somewhat difficult for the audience to identify with a situation it has no hope of understanding. Herr Thiessen, by contrast, is just enjoying the wonders of the circus — something the audience can easily get behind.

It is Morgenstern’s vivid descriptions, not only of the circus, but also of the strange and beautiful artefects in the lives of all her characters, which make The Night Circus an outstanding read. The world of the novel is a magical environment full of people who own and design mysterious and wonderful things, such as the clock Herr Thiessen creates for the circus:

The face of the clock becomes a darker grey, and then black, with twinkling stars where the numbers had been previously. The body of the clock, which has been methodically turning itself inside out and expanding, is now entirely subtle shades of white and grey. And it is not just pieces, it is figures and objects, perfectly carved flowers and planets and tiny books with actual paper pages that turn. There is a silver dragon that curls around part of the now visible clockwork, a tiny princess in a carved tower who paces in distress, awaiting an absent prince. Teapots that pour into teacups and minuscule curls of steam that rise from them as the seconds tick. Wrapped presents open. Small cats chase small dogs. An entire game of chess is played. (p. 69)

Everything, from Marco’s intricate notebooks, filled with drawings of trees and arcane symbols, to Celia’s magically-changing gowns, to the incredible foods served at Chandresh’s midnight dinners, is painted with such skill that the reader can almost feel it — or taste it, or smell it, as the case may be. Like the circus itself, this is a book of marvels. The physical book itself is also beautifully designed, complementing the sensory aspect of Morgenstern’s writing.

While the story is somewhat flawed, The Night Circus is still a book to savour thanks to Erin Morgenstern’s masterful portrayal of an intriguing world of marvels. The Neil Gaiman comparison I made earlier is probably a good one; the concept seems like something that would appeal to Gaiman fans, and there’s a certain similarity in tone to his work as well. Certainly, it’s much more Neil Gaiman than Harry Potter.

I just finished reading The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood, which, as well as being possibly the most well-known novel by perhaps the greatest living Canadian writer, can also reasonably be called a science fiction classic. Released in 1985, it won the Governor General’s Award for English language fiction in Canada. It also won the Arthur C. Clarke Award, was nominated for the Booker Prize and a Nebula Award, and came in at number 22 on NPR’s recent reader’s choice list of the best science fiction and fantasy novels of all-time.

Despite all the book’s acclaim, I had somehow never read it before. Yes, despite the fact that I’m Canadian, I love Canadian literature, I have two literature degrees in pursuit of which I took multiple Canadian literature courses, and I’m a fan of dystopian novels, I still managed to avoid The Handmaid’s Tale. The first Atwood novel I read was Lady Oracle, and it didn’t make much of an impression on me. The result was that for years I thought I didn’t like Margaret Atwood. One day I picked up Alias Grace, which I knew my sister had enjoyed, at a used book sale. I thought it was excellent, so I decided I should give Atwood another go. Last month, I read and enjoyed The Robber Bride. I finished that one while I was in London, where I then picked up The Handmaid’s Tale at the British Library’s bookstore after visiting their excellent (but sadly now ended) Out of This World exhibit on the history of science fiction, which featured at least three or four of Atwood’s books and included her as a panel participant, though unfortunately not while I was there. (But I did get to see Neil Gaiman!) Given everything I knew about The Handmaid’s Tale and its status as a highly-regarded piece of Canadian science fiction, I was quite eager to get started on it and learn what the fuss was about.

The Handmaid’s Tale takes place in an imaginary future United States, now called the Republic of Gilead. Gilead is ruled by religion and is extremely patriarchal: women’s behaviour is strictly codified and monitored. The novel’s narrator is a member of a class of women whose sole function is to act as childbearers for upper class couples who can’t or don’t have their own children. These women wear prescribed clothing — the description made it sound something like a nun’s habit, except red — and are only allowed out of their rooms to run certain errands and take part in authorized rituals. The narrator is known only by the name “Offred.” That’s “of Fred,” Fred being the high-ranking official, called “The Commander,” to whom she now belongs. She tells her life story in non-chronological bits and pieces, describing both her monotonous life as a handmaid and her freer life in the pre-Gilead USA.

One of Atwood’s great strengths as a writer, in my opinion, is her ability to give her characters individual voices. In The Robber Bride, for instance, each of the three protagonists’ sections has a distinct tone that seems to flow perfectly with the way the characters think. In Alias Grace, too, Grace and the doctor’s voices could probably not be more dissimilar. The narrator’s voice in The Handmaid’s Tale is also extremely well-drawn. It is the voice of a woman who can’t quite believe the circumstance she finds herself in. Offred’s feelings of helplessness and desperation come across in every word.

This is, to put it mildly, not a cheerful book. Several passages are disturbing. A description of a funeral procession mourning a miscarried fetus stands out, as does a chilling scene at the handmaids’ training centre in which a young woman recounts how she was gang raped at age 14 while the other girls in the group chant that the incident was her fault. The ease and suddenness with which the new government of Gilead revokes women’s rights to property and employment is also frightening. In a very striking passage, the narrator tells of the immediate shift this change in status causes in her relationship with her husband:

But something had shifted, some balance. I felt shrunken, so that when he put his arms around me, gathering me up, I was small as a doll. I felt love going forward without me.

He doesn’t mind this, I thought. He doesn’t mind it at all. Maybe he even likes it. We are not each other’s, any more. Instead, I am his.

Unworthy, unjust, untrue. But that is what happened.

She’s gone from person to possession in one swift move, and something in her marriage breaks because of it. It is devastating.

I finished the book — which by the way I highly recommend, unless you want to read something happy — earlier today, less than 24 hours after reading that the United States Congress had passed a bill not-so-affectionately nicknamed the “Let Women Die” Act. One of the provisions in this bill allows hospitals to refuse to provide an abortion to a woman who needs it to save her life. Got that? A woman’s pregnancy might be killing her, but this bill would allow medical practitioners to let the mother die rather than aborting the fetus and saving the mother’s life. That the fetus would most likely die too in such a case seems to be irrelevant; what’s important is that the mother should die rather than survive without her unborn child. To me, this says that many American politicians apparently believe that a woman ceases to be a person once she becomes pregnant — heck, maybe just once she hits childbearing age! Her life on its own has absolutely no value; she is nothing more than a vessel, and if she cannot fulfil her biological destiny then she’d might as well die. It’s hard for me to read something like this without wondering whether parts of North America will actually be living The Handmaid’s Tale within my lifetime. As a woman, I’d rather not see this particular vision of the future come to pass.

A friend linked me to a blog post called Harry Potter: The Anti-Geek the other day. The author of the post argues that Harry Potter and his friends do not fit in with the “band of misfits” trope that commonly shows up in the fantasy genre; specifically, she cites the Scooby Gang from Buffy the Vampire Slayer as an example of the type of group of social outcasts which Harry and friends are not. Seeing as Buffy and Harry Potter are two of my favourite things and I love comparing them, I have some thoughts on this subject.

I can’t disagree with the main point the author makes about Harry himself: I wouldn’t call him a nerd or a geek. It’s true that Harry is a jock, and that his fame and wealth give him some social status in the wizarding world. Some of the author’s other arguments, however, are more debatable. For example:

Harry and Ron, on the other hand, are more stereotypical privileged young men who only put forward a C effort in school because they know they can coast into adulthood on their families’ reputation.

This, I think, is blatantly wrong. First of all, the suggestion that Ron can coast through life on the Weasley family reputation seems dubious at best. The Weasleys are pure-bloods, but they are also poor, and we learn that Bill, Charlie, and Percy all work for a living after they graduate from Hogwarts. Arthur Weasley, meanwhile, is viewed by the wizarding community as an oddball (perhaps even … a misfit) because of his interest in Muggles. There is some suggestion that his obsession has even held him back at work.

I also think it’s unfair to condemn Harry and Ron as slackers. Sure, they might sleep through History of Magic — to be fair, everyone except Hermione also sleeps through that class — and BS their way through Divination — a subject even Hermione thinks is a load of crap –  but they work hard in the classes they enjoy, and there are many instances in the books where we see the two of them working frantically at their schoolwork. Are they more likely to skip doing homework than Hermione is? Yes. Is almost everyone else at Hogwarts also more likely to skip doing homework than Hermione is? Well, yes. She’s Hermione. I will agree that Harry and Ron may not be the most academically-inclined people in the world, but then neither are their Scooby Gang counterparts, Buffy and Xander.

And what of Hermione? I would think someone who loves schoolwork and reading as much as she does must have some nerd cred, but according to the author Hermione “still doesn’t rise to the level of a true geek character” because she’s beautiful and she dates Viktor Krum. This is a stretch. Hermione might grow up to be attractive, but she is explicitly described as being quite mousy in the first few books. The reaction from other Hogwarts students when she shows up at the Yule Ball looking pretty borders on cruel: Parvati gapes at her in “unflattering disbelief” that that’s Hermione Granger. As for Viktor Krum, while he’s certainly dashing on a broomstick, Harry notes that he’s much less impressive with his feet on the ground. It is possible that Krum himself is a bit of a misfit who just happens to be a world famous Quidditch player, too. At any rate: if the Scooby Gang is the standard by which all bands of misfits are to be judged, then I must admit that I’m struggling to see much of a difference in this respect between Hermione and her Scooby equivalent, Willow, who dates (ye gads!) a musician.

Regarding Harry himself: as several commenters on the original post pointed out, it’s worth noting that he spends significant parts of the series being shunned because many of his classmates suspect him of being evil (Chamber of Secrets), wildly egotistical (Goblet of Fire), or deranged (Order of the Phoenix). Clearly, the special status Harry gains from being “the boy who lived” is not always a positive thing: just like Buffy, whose gifts make her a social outcast, Harry often feels like a freak. Think about how many times he faints or has a Voldemort-related seizure in public over the course of the series. That’s got to be more than a little embarrassing for a teenager. Before he came to the wizarding world, too, Harry was most definitely a misfit: he was forced to wear Dudley’s hand-me-downs and was constantly bullied by Dudley and his friends, who made sure that Harry had no friends of his own. It’s this aspect of Harry’s background that I think defines how he perceives himself, much more than his new status in the wizarding world as a star athlete and celebrity.

Aside from all that, what really made me react to this blog post is that I have always considered the wider social circles within which the Scooby trio and the Potter trio move to be extremely similar precisely because the two heroes share an ability to look past a misfit-like exterior and see an individual’s true value. Neville is probably the nerdiest kid in Gryffindor and Luna is, let’s face it, a total weirdo, but they both become valued and well-liked friends to the trio. Anya may be a strangely literal ex-demon with little understanding of human customs, but she’s on Buffy’s team. Faith and Andrew are both former villains who find a place in the group.

This ability to be accepting of difference extends to looking past the conventional wisdom on the supposedly innate characteristics of various magical or supernatural creatures. For Buffy, this means taking Angel, a vampire, as an ally. The rest of the Scooby Gang is (mostly) comfortable with having Angel on the team, but Kendra can’t understand this at all: to her, all vampires are just plain evil and should always be killed. In season four, a similar situation arises when Riley finds out that Oz is a werewolf. His Initiative training makes him question why Buffy would associate with such a creature, but Buffy and the others know Oz as a person and ultimately Riley comes around. There is an obvious Potter parallel to this in Prisoner of Azkaban when Professor Lupin is revealed to be a werewolf: Ron, raised with the belief that werewolves are evil, is initially repulsed when he learns the truth, but in the end Lupin remains a trusted friend to the group. Harry, Ron, and Hermione also understand that although Hagrid is half giant, he is a kind and goodhearted person; that Dobby is not merely a slave, but an ally and friend who deserves the respect of a proper burial. Griphook, used to being treated as a lower life form, is obviously struck by Harry’s behaviour, commenting that his actions in Dobby’s case mark him as a very “unusual” wizard. Spike, meanwhile, who is despised and rejected by almost everyone, tells Buffy: “I know that I’m a monster, but you treat me like a man.”

To my mind, the fact that Harry and Buffy’s evil-fighting social circles are inclusive, taking in the social outcasts and misfits others might perceive as having no value, is one of the things that makes them so similar as characters.

With the final Harry Potter movie being released this week, there’s been lots of looking back on the series and trying to express what it has meant: to the publishing and film industries (cash money), to the actors (so tiny when we first met them!), and to the fans.

I’m over 30, so I can’t say I grew up with Harry Potter like some people who read the first book as children can, but it suddenly came over me today just how significant a role the series has played in my life. I became a fan in 2000, when I signed up for an undergraduate course at Carleton on Harry Potter in the context of other children’s fantasy novels. We read the first four Potter books (the only ones that existed at the time) as well as The Hobbit, the Chronicles of Narnia, the Earthsea books, and The Dark Is Rising series. I enjoyed that class immensely. In particular, I loved the Harry Potter books. When the professor selected three students to present their papers at the Children’s Literature Association Conference that year, my friend Helen and I were two of them. It was the first academic conference I ever went to: a pretty major experience. Plus, free trip to Buffalo! (Yay?)

Somehow, Helen and I became very slightly famous for all this. I think it was the combination of undergraduate students presenting at a conference and the novelty of a university course about Harry Potter. Our picture was in the Ottawa Citizen. We even got interviewed by CBC Radio! We had gone to Montreal to see U2 on the Elevation Tour, and we were staying with our friend (and fellow Potter fan) Caitlin. The CBC called us at Caitlin’s place to do the interview. We were both on the phone in Caitlin’s room, and she sat eating a snack, listening while we talked to the radio guy. Maybe you had to be there, but it seemed hilarious at the time. Also: the U2 concerts (I went to both shows) were great.

That summer, I graduated from Carleton. For my graduation gift, my grandparents gave me a lamp shaped like a Golden Snitch. My current apartment is decorated with a few choice pieces of Potter memorabilia: the lamp, a Quidditch mobile, a small statue of Dumbledore, and a framed poster advertising the first film, which shows an owl delivering a letter to Mr. H. Potter, The Cupboard Under the Stairs, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.

The next year, I went back to Carleton to start my Master’s. Barbara Garner, the professor who taught the Harry Potter course, became my advisor. When the Citizen called Prof. Garner soliciting a few articles about the series, I submitted a short piece which was published. That remains the only time anyone has ever paid for anything I’ve written. What did I write my final paper on? Harry Potter — obviously! I compared the books to Buffy the Vampire Slayer, noting all the similarities between Buffy and Harry as heroes. I loved spending all that time thinking about two of my very favourite things, and I think my paper has held up pretty well: nothing that happened in the books that were published later contradicted any of my ideas, at least.

Since then, I haven’t done any academic work on Harry Potter, but I’ve kept reading and loving the books. I ordered Order of the Phoenix from Amazon and sat outside all release day waiting for the mailman. When he finally drove up, he saw me sitting there, smiled, and said “Are you waiting for me?” I remember he told me it was the same all over the neighbourhood; he seemed not-at-all annoyed at having been asked to work on Saturday that week. For books six and seven, my sister and I went to midnight release parties at Mrs. Tiggy Winkle’s. We collected our pre-ordered books and ran back to the car, rushing to get home and start reading.

I wanted to reread the first six books before the seventh came out, but I’d intended to do a reread before book six, too, and completely failed. So, I decided to count the number of chapters in the books, and start my reread that exact number of days before book seven’s release. I figured if I assigned myself a chapter each day, I would probably make it. I did! And then I read book seven the day it came out, and then I read it again starting the next day, one chapter per day. That was the summer of 2007, the year I moved to Vancouver, and I had my copy of Deathly Hallows with me as I drove across Canada.

From that rereading success came the idea for Harry Potter and the Ultimate Reread, which has been a wonderful experience. We’re just finishing up now with The Tales of Beedle the Bard. The tales and the commentary by “Dumbledore” have only increased my admiration for J.K. Rowling. She is, quite simply, a genius, and her storytelling ability is astounding. Her work has given me not only countless hours of pleasure, but also some truly great memories.

So, on Friday, I will wear my Gryffindor House Quidditch Team shirt in tribute to the Boy Who Lived and his creator, and I will think about all these things and remember.

Thanks for everything, J.K.R.

This weekend I saw Terrence Malick’s latest film, The Tree of Life. I knew the response to this movie had been quite polarized, with glowing reviews on the one hand, and people walking out of screenings and demanding refunds on the other. The only other Malick film I’ve seen is The Thin Red Line, which I liked but wasn’t blown away by, but I think that plus the reaction from others probably gave me a pretty good idea of what to expect this time: something not very linear, kind of long, and likely rather meditative. And that is indeed essentially what I got. I enjoyed it very much, but I also completely understand why so many people have hated it.

Surface impressions: The Tree of Life is a very beautiful film. The images on screen may at times seem random, but they are almost always visually stunning. The music, too, is gorgeous, both Alexandre Desplat’s score and the numerous classical pieces used throughout.

But now to go a little deeper and tackle the big question: what is it all about, anyway? I don’t know what Malick intended, but I can tell you what I took from it. The movie opens with an epigraph, a quotation from the Bible’s Book of Job. I’m no biblical scholar, but I know Job is about a good man who suffers greatly. The main event that drives the story (okay, “story” may not be the right word here) of The Tree of Life is the death of the main character’s brother at age 19; although it’s never explicitly stated, it seems reasonable to assume that the boy was killed in Vietnam, given the time period. The entire film, I believe, is the main character, Jack, played as an adult by Sean Penn (although it seemed to me Penn only appeared in the film for about 20 minutes, and all he did was walk around … I don’t think there’s an Oscar nomination in the cards this year), meditating on the Book of Job’s central question: why do bad things happen to good people? The film is Jack’s stream of consciousness on this subject. In considering that question, his thoughts take him all the way back to the creation of the universe — yes, there are dinosaurs. It is bizarre, to be sure, that a movie which is about a family living in Texas in the 1950s includes a sequence involving dinosaurs, but it also makes sense. We humans do occasionally think about these big ideas; the train of thought goes to some strange places sometimes, and I can well imagine that a man angry at God for taking his brother’s young life, wondering what it all means, might end up in contemplation of the cosmos. Jack also remembers incidents from his own childhood, including a longish sequence in which he remembers the sins he committed as he started coming of age, perhaps wondering if his bad behaviour somehow led to his brother’s death. The reference to Eden in the movie’s title also seems linked to this idea: Adam and Eve, of course, are banned from Eden and denied the bounty of the tree of life after they sin by eating from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Yet, even those who do not sin, like Job, may suffer.

Jack’s parents, played by Brad Pitt and Jessica Chastain, are presented as embodying the two different ways of life outlined at the beginning of the movie: the way of nature (the father) and the way of grace (the mother). Grace, according to the mother’s voiceover, “doesn’t try to please itself. Accepts being slighted, forgotten, disliked. Accepts insults and injuries.” Nature, meanwhile, “only wants to please itself. Get others to please it too. Likes to lord it over them. To have its own way. It finds reasons to be unhappy when all the world is shining around it.” Jay Michaelson has an interesting analysis of nature and grace in The Tree of Life at Religion Dispatches. (I’m sure there’s probably room for a more complete analysis of the Book of Job and The Tree of Life in this context, but I’m also sure I’m not the person to do it.) I’m not 100% on board with this nature vs. grace dichotomy, partly because I think the mother is closely associated with nature and wildness, while the father seems intent on civilizing it: for example, he’s strangely obsessed with having a perfectly neat front lawn. Then again, I suppose this could be his way of lording over nature itself, and we are shown in the film that there is sometimes grace in the natural world. I’m still not quite sure I buy the nature vs. grace argument as it’s presented, but this may be because I think of civilization as nature’s true opposite and I just can’t wrap my head around what Malick is trying to say.

Come to think of it, that last thing seems very likely. The Tree of Life: I have no idea what it really means, but it was beautiful and oddly powerful. To celebrate it, here is a piece by Bedrich Smetana called “My Country – Vltava (The Moldau)” — it’s a very grand piece of music that plays toward the middle of the film. Enjoy!

We have an independent theatre in Ottawa called the Mayfair. Its website bills it as “Ottawa’s home of stuff you won’t see anywhere else,” which is pretty accurate. The Mayfair is both a second-run theatre, showing the occasional movie that was playing in the big chains a couple of months earlier, and a repertory theatre with a focus on classic and cult movies old (they show Rocky Horror monthly) and new (they’re also showing The Room monthly these days). A few months ago they had a Martin Scorsese showcase, this month they’re doing Alfred Hitchcock, and next month it’s a “Cornu-Coppola” as the work of Francis Ford Coppola is revisited. Basically, if you like interesting and/or old movies, it’s excellent to live within a convenient distance of the Mayfair.

Today’s show was a double feature of Steven Spielberg’s two most toothsome thrillers: Jaws — which was released 36 years ago tomorrow! — and Jurassic Park. A staff member explained before the show started that they were showing an old 35mm print of Jaws. The film had obviously not been restored in any way, and the colours in some sections had taken on a pinkish-red tone. I don’t know the technical reason for this, but I’ll have to read up on it. Film preservation is something I’d be interested to learn more about! Jurassic Park was presented with its original DTS sound disc, and it was amazing to hear the difference between that and Jaws‘ older sound technology.

I’d only seen Jaws once before, but I have a lot of love for Jurassic Park and I couldn’t resist what seemed to be a perfectly-matched double feature. Indeed, these two extreme “man vs. huge, terrifying creature with gigantic nasty pointy teeth” stories did go very well together. I have shark fear, so to me just the concept of Jaws is frightening. Spielberg pulls it off so well that I think I’d probably place it in the top five scariest movies I’ve ever seen. At one point while watching today, I literally jumped off my seat — like, I vaulted myself a few inches into the air and didn’t realize it till I felt my butt hit the chair on the way back down. Jurassic Park is also incredibly scary, especially the scene with the T. Rex and the kids in the car. I’ve always thought that was an outstanding sequence, masterfully put together for maximum terror, and watching it today re-confirmed how absolutely petrifying it is. Both movies build a sense of dread from the helplessness of humans facing off against these ancient-seeming creatures — because there’s undoubtedly something about sharks that seems prehistoric — that are huge, smart, pure predators. There’s also a feeling of invasion involved, as though the creatures have violated human space and time: the shark shouldn’t be in the waters near Amity; the dinosaurs, of course, shouldn’t exist at all.

But in Jurassic Park it’s man’s own arrogance that brings the dinosaurs to life. I love a good Frankenstein story and Jurassic Park definitely is one. Jeff Goldblum’s character asks: “What is so great about discovery? It is a violent, penetrative act that scars what it explores. What you call discovery, I call the rape of the natural world.” This recalls Victor Frankenstein’s description of himself as “always having been embued with a fervent longing to penetrate the secrets of nature.” Both Frankenstein and John Hammond violate the natural order, and the consequences of their actions are horrific.

One other thing I appreciated about Jurassic Park on watching it again today: the female characters, paleo-botanist Ellie and pre-teen computer nerd hacker Lex, are kind of great. It’s really been bothering me lately how many movies there are where the woman is just a prop there to be rescued by the guy. I know this has been going on forever, but I’ve found it even more annoying ever since I saw Kick-Ass, with its highly unsatisfying ending where SPOILER! super competent, awesome Hit Girl is deprived of her revenge. Ugh! Repeated exposure to the the trailer for the new Transformers movie — in which the female lead (I assume) never even speaks, but is only shown looking scared — probably hasn’t helped either. I think it’s fair to say Sam Neill’s character is the hero in Jurassic Park, but Ellie and Lex both have moments of excellence. When Lex manages to make the doors lock and prevent them all from being eaten by raptors, it’s a fantastic, empowering moment for a young girl who’s spent much of the movie scared out of her wits, but still manages to think on her feet in a difficult situation.

It’s been interesting reading what people are saying online today about last night’s episode of HBO’s Game of Thrones.  The episode, entitled “Baelor,” is the penultimate episode of Thrones‘ season, and featured the death of a major character. (Don’t worry: I’ll warn you before I spoil anything more than that.) Reactions are passionate and very mixed, ranging from “It was absolutely brilliant! This is the best show on TV!” to “I’ll never watch that show again and also, I’ve cancelled HBO.”

All this fuss about the death of a character brings to my mind Joss Whedon’s famous line about the writer’s duty to give the audience the story it needs, as opposed to the story it wants, or thinks it wants. Talking about how his fans’ reactions to his work affect him, Whedon said:

It always affects me. At the same time, I need to give them what they need, not what they want. They need to have their hearts broken. They need to see change. They hated Oz, and then they hated that he left. These things are inevitable. If people are freaking out, I’m good. If people are going, “Hmmm…well, that was fine,” I’m fucked. (Source.)

There’s no doubt here that Joss Whedon is a master at breaking fans’ hearts. I remember watching the first season of Angel and being absolutely devastated by Doyle’s death, so much so that I think I even stopped watching the show at that point. (I picked it up again during season three.) Doyle was in the opening credits, and was positioned as a main character on the show. He was featured in all the promotional material. He was given backstory. Most of all, he was a nice guy and the audience liked him. And then, in episode nine, he died. People were not happy: this article published at the time that sums up the reactions to Doyle’s death.

You could basically take that article, switch out “Doyle” for the name of the deceased Game of Thrones character, and get an accurate recap of the reactions to this most recent TV death. It seems that not much has changed in the 11 years since Joss Whedon killed off Doyle. (Sidenote: I can’t believe it’s been that long.) To paraphrase Zap2it’s TV Gal (Amy Amatangelo), you don’t kill people who are in the opening credits! It just isn’t done! TV Gal wrote this in reference to the shocking death of a major character in the first season of 24:

Didn’t they know the rules? People in the opening credits aren’t supposed to die. We now take it for granted that those who come in contact with Jack Bauer often don’t live to tell the tale. But in the show’s first season, it was a brave and risky move that proved no one is safe in Jack’s world and there would never be such a thing as job security on the popular FOX series. (Source.)

Looking at the anger the producers of Angel and Game of Thrones have faced over killing off major characters … well, yeah. Apparently axing an important and well-liked cast member is just about the bravest and riskiest thing a TV showrunner can do.

I understand being distraught and/or enraged about the death of a favourite character, but I’m no longer inclined to stop watching something just because a person I liked died, as I did back in the day with Angel. I don’t mind a little darkness in my stories. I don’t expect everyone to live happily ever after. Sometimes character death pushes a story forward in really fascinating ways. Angel (a different death), Six Feet Under, and Dexter come to mind. Having read the novel on which Game of Thrones is based, I know for sure that last night’s death was necessary.

WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD! Behind the jump, the name of the character who died on last night’s Game of Thrones is revealed.

Read the rest of this entry »

Big Love, a show I’ve watched and enjoyed on HBO for five seasons, aired its final episode on Sunday night. I can’t say that Big Love is one of my favourite shows, but I’ve always found it entertaining. The best thing about it for me is the huge number of non-stereotypical female characters it presents. Bill Henrickson’s three wives — Barb (played by Jeanne Tripplehorn), Nicki (Chloe Sevigny), and Margene (Ginnifer Goodwin) — are the three main women on the show, and the most fully-developed. But plenty of other intriguing women have shared the stage with them, notably: Sarah (Amanda Seyfried), Bill and Barb’s teenaged daughter; Bill’s mother Lois (Grace Zabriskie) and Nicki’s mother Adaleen (Mary Kay Place), both of whom were brought up at the polygamist compound, Juniper Creek; other compound-raised women including problem child Rhonda, Nicki’s daughter Cara Lynn, Bill’s unstable sister-in-law Wanda, twins Kathy and Jodeen, the androgynous Selma Greene, and Alby’s wife Laura; and regular Mormon women like Barb’s mother (played by Ellen Burstyn!) and sister, Sarah’s friend Heather,  and the Henricksons’ neighbour Pam. Basically, Big Love was overrun with female characters, most of whom didn’t quite fit into any of the normal roles for women on TV.

The show placed all these women in a highly repressive, male-dominated society, and yet they were the ones who shone; they were, at least in my opinion, generally far more likeable (with a few notable exceptions *cough* Rhonda *cough*) and almost always much more intriguing than their male counterparts. Series creators Mark Olsen and Will Scheffer said in an interview for TVLine that it was always their intention to make the show about the women:

Scheffer: The show has always been a feminist show, which I think people didn’t always understand. And some people were put off by the fact that these women were quote-unquote under the thumb of a patriarchal jerk. But it’s always been a show about the bonds between women, about the way that women subvert power when they’re in [oppressive] situations.

I thought last night’s finale, entitled “Where Men and Mountains Meet,” did an excellent job of bringing this fact home. In the process, it made a few very interesting statements about its lead male character, Bill Henrickson (played by Bill Paxton), and his role in the world and his family. It was a solid finale: less spectacular than many shows’ final episodes (for me, Angel and Six Feet Under are the standard bearers for TV endings), but satisfying nonetheless. I felt the writers succeeded at wrapping up most of the many ongoing story arcs — which is pretty impressive, because after the penultimate episode I couldn’t imagine how they’d possibly tie up the seemingly endless different plot threads in just one episode — and left viewers with some ideas to ponder. The more I think about “Where Men and Mountains Meet,” the more I like it.

For a few of my thoughts on the episode, follow the jump.

Read the rest of this entry »

It seems quite a few people are planning to join in the Harry Potter reread I proposed on this blog a couple of weeks ago. I had 226 new emails informing me of new followers on the @HPreread Twitter account today. (And since I’ve been typing this post, I’ve received five more. Wow!) I’m not completely sure how word is getting around, but I think it’s mostly through Tumblr. One rereader and Tumblr-er, Alijandra, even created a fantastic poster featuring the reread schedule.

This amount of participation is awesome! I hope everyone will have fun doing the reread, and I hope we’ll generate lots of discussion and Potter-related activity. I’ve had a couple of people ask me if I intend to set up any kind of HP reread forum or chat. The answer to that is: no, not really! I view this entire project as something readers can participate in however they choose. My role will be mostly to share information, which means tweeting the chapter title for each day and also providing links to any other content that shows up — that would include message board threads, open chats, blog and Tumblr posts, tweets … anything you want to do and share with others. I also encourage anyone with something to share to post to Twitter with the hashtag #hpreread so we can all follow along with the whole group.

I hope that all sounds good! Less than a week to go before we start reading. Personally, I can’t wait to get back to Hogwarts.