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The Moldy West — Jonah Hex

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While superheroes have always been the bread and butter of comic books, other subgenres have had their day in the sun. Two of the most popular have been Westerns and horror.

The 1970s saw a revival of the horror genre—Tomb of Dracula, Man-Thing, Swamp Thing, Ghost Rider, The Spectre, etc.—and in 1972, John Albano and Tony DeZuniga created Jonah Hex for DC’s All-Star Western, which was soon renamed Weird Western Tales. Hex mixed the ever-popular Western with the equally popular horror to provide tales of a scarred bounty hunter who dealt with monsters both human and supernatural.

Hex’s background involves an extended period living in an Apache village (and being caught in The Inevitable Love Triangle), serving as a Confederate soldier in the Civil War before having a change of heart over slavery and switching loyalties, and being given a “demon brand” that scarred half his face and left him blind in his right eye.

Hex waned a bit in popularity after the ’70s horror boom abated, and his title was canceled in 1985 during DC’s Crisis on Infinite Earths housecleaning miniseries event. For a brief period, he was sent to an apocalyptic future in the Hex series.

The character was revived in the 1990s thanks to three miniseries published by Vertigo—that DC imprint pretty much revived horror comics twenty-five years ago—which were written by the great Joe R. Lansdale.

In 2000, Akiva Goldsman signed up to produce a Jonah Hex TV series. That fell through, but it soon modulated into a feature film, with Neveldine/Taylor tapped to write and direct. The duo quit over creative differences (though their script remained the basis for the film) and went off to direct Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance instead. Animator Jimmy Hayward replaced the duo, his first live-action feature film directing credit.

The basics of Hex’s story were used here, with only a few changes. The most significant of those was to give Hex an actual super power. In the comics, the closest Hex comes to superhuman abilities is his marksmanship, which is superlative despite being blind in one eye. In the movie, for some reason he’s given the ability to temporarily animate the dead and talk to them as long as he retains physical contact.

Josh Brolin was cast in the title role, the first of many comic book characters Brolin would play on screen; he’ll also play the younger version of Agent K in Men in Black 3, Dwight McCarthy in Sin City: A Dame to Kill For, Thanos in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, and Cable in Deadpool 2. Other comic book movie stalwarts appearing in this movie include John Malkovitch (Red), Michael Fassbender (several X-Men movies), Megan Fox (the 2010s Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movies), Michael Shannon (Man of Steel), Will Arnett (the recent TMNT films and Teen Titans Go! To the Movies), Wes Bentley (Ghost Rider), and an uncredited Jeffrey Dean Morgan (Watchmen). We’ve also got Aidan Quinn as President Ulysses S. Grant, Tom Wopat as Colonel Slocum, and the great Lance Reddick as Smith.

The movie could charitably be called a flop. It made back less than a quarter of its budget, and is practically forgotten eight years later. The character has since appeared on screen in DC’s Legends of Tomorrow on television, played by Johnathon Schaech, and is still popular in four-color form, at least, despite the drag effect of this turkey.

 

“War and me took to each other real well”

Jonah Hex
Written by William Farmer and Neveldine/Taylor
Directed by Jimmy Hayward
Produced by Akiva Goldsman and Andrew Lazar
Original release date: June 18, 2010

Jonah Hex narrates his life as a Civil War soldier, fighting for the Confederate Army. Rather than obey an order by General Quentin Turnbull to torch a hospital filled with civilians (including children), Hex shoots his best friend, Jeb, Turnbull’s son and also under the general’s command. In revenge, Turnbull makes Hex watch as his henchman Burke torches Hex’s house with his wife and son inside. Then Turnbull brands Hex and leaves him hanging from a tree.

An inexplicably animated sequence then shows how Hex was rescued by members of the Crow tribe, who were able to bring him back to life mystically. However, he was so close to death that he now has the ability to resurrect the dead by touching them. He uses a hot knife to melt the brand, further disfiguring the right side of his face.

When he hears that Turnbull died in a hotel fire, Hex decides to take up as a bounty hunter. We first see him bringing three bodies, dragged by his horse, and a head in a burlap sack to a sheriff. (The head is due to the fourth criminal being “too fat for my horse.”) The sheriff refuses to pay and punctuates this refusal with an ambush. Hex takes out the ambushers and burns down most of the town, giving the sheriff’s badge to a random survivor.

Turnbull turns out to be alive. He orchestrates a robbery of a train that contains components of an experimental superweapon developed by Eli Whitney. President Ulysses S. Grant, fearing that Turnbull will use the weapon to attack the U.S. centennial on July 4, 1876, sends the Army to recruit Hex.

The Army did capture one of the thieves, but he died under interrogation without revealing anything. Hex revives him long enough to learn that he was hired by Colonel Slocum. Slocum now runs a fighting arena, and Hex questions him. Slocum says he doesn’t know where Turnbull is, and taunts him that he should ask Jeb. After tossing Slocum into the ring to be killed by his own fighters and then setting fire to the arena (Hex tends not to leave a place without burning it to the ground), he heads to the cemetery where Jeb is buried and digs him up.

It takes a while for them to have a conversation, as Jeb wakes up, hits Hex, Hex is forced to let go, and Jeb is dead again. They do this dance a few times before Jeb settles down enough to talk. Jeb reveals that his father is at Fort Resurrection (appropriately enough) and that from where Jeb sits in the afterlife, there’s no difference between Turnbull and Hex.

Turnbull has, with the help of a corrupt politician, acquired the remaining parts needed for Whitney’s superweapon, which is an incendiary device of unbelievable power that can be launched from a distance. Turnbull later shoots that politician in the head for reasons that are never adequately explained, except maybe to show that Turnbull’s evil? I guess? (Apparently burning people alive wasn’t enough…)

Hex attacks Fort Resurrection, and manages to kill a lot of Turnbull’s soldiers, but Burke manages to shoot him. Hex gets away, and is again rescued by the Crow tribe, who again bring him back to life.

Turnbull orders Burke to take something Hex loves, and the only person who qualifies is Lilah, a resourceful prostitute with whom Hex has something resembling a relationship. Burke takes her, and when Hex rides to Independence Harbor to stop Turnbull’s attack on the centennial celebration, he’s brought up short by the threat to Lilah’s life. They’re both tied up rather than simply shot (because Turnbull apparently hasn’t read the Evil Overlord Rules), and Lilah is able to escape the bonds and free them both. Hex kills Burke, then resurrects him so he can kill him again. Then Hex confronts Turnbull in the engine room, overpowering him and securing him in the rigging while using the superweapon against him.

Hex and Lilah escape just before the ship blows up (seriously, every place he leaves is on fire!). President Grant offers Hex a job as sheriff of the country (um, okay), which Hex declines, but says he’ll help if he’s needed again.

 

“Jonah Hex doesn’t know how to die; he’ll have to be educated”

It is, I suppose, an impressive accomplishment for a Jonah Hex movie to, at once, add a significant supernatural element to Hex’s character (the ability to resurrect the dead by touching them, a power unique to this film), and yet not nearly embrace the supernatural enough.

The best Jonah Hex comics stories were written by Michael Fleisher—known for his seminal work in the 1970s writing, not just Hex, but also the Spectre and the Phantom Stranger for DC and Ghost Rider and Man-Thing for Marvel—and Joe R. Lansdale. Both those writers utterly embraced the gonzo horror that was all the rage in the swingin’ ’70s, and which Lansdale was part of the vanguard of for the horror boom of the ’90s.

But this movie not only doesn’t embrace the crazy, it isn’t even willing to give it a handshake. The addition of Hex’s supernatural ability is there mostly just to move the plot along. (It also gives us the Jeb-Hex conversation in the graveyard, which is the only really watchable scene in the entire movie, mostly due to the usual magnificence of Jeffrey Dean Morgan.) At the very end, the fight between Hex and Turnbull keeps cutting back and forth to a fight in the spirit world that is presented with no context, though at least the spirit world is better lit than the engine room of Turnbull’s boat.

Nothing that happens in this movie makes any sense. Grant recruiting Hex is incomprehensible, especially since he doesn’t actually know about Hex’s superpowers, the reasons for the Crow helping Hex out (twice!) are never adequately explained, nor is how the Crow are able to do any of this. The existence of the superweapon is problematic, as I don’t see how it would never be used after this, since the plans exist. Why wasn’t this used in World War I? For that matter, Hex gets a mess of steampunk weapons from Smith—another Magical Negro Q like Lucius Fox in Batman Begins, this one played by Lance Reddick—for no compellingly good reason except it’s 2010 and there should be steampunky things.

Both the lack of explanation of the Natives and the presence of Reddick’s Smith are particularly problematic, as I have no patience, none, with a 21st-century Western that a) has a 90% white cast (Smith and his two sons are the only black folks we see anywhere in this movie) and b) super-mystical mysterious Natives with strange powers beyond those of white people. They’re absurd clichés that 20th-century Westerns propagated and that have been so thoroughly debunked that to see them in a movie this recent is just embarrassing and pathetic.

This movie has a remarkably good cast, who almost all give remarkably bad performances. Morgan is superb, as I said, and Reddick also does very well with the dry Smith. But that’s it. Josh Brolin deadpans his way through the role sounding like a fourth-rate Clint Eastwood, his snottiness having none of the bite we’d expect from Hex. Michael Fassbender is relying on his bowler hat and his comedy Irish accent to do his acting for him. Aidan Quinn may be the worst casting of Ulysses Grant ever, neither Michael Shannon nor Will Arnett are actually on screen enough to have any impact, John Malkovich is pretty much phoning it in, and Megan Fox can’t even find the damn phone.

They can’t even get Hex’s scarring right. There’s the strip of melted skin crossing the right side of his mouth, but the rest of it is pretty minor compared to how the character is drawn in the comics. Just two years earlier, they did a more Hex-looking makeup job on Aaron Eckart as Two-Face in The Dark Knight than they did on Brolin here.

The nicest thing I can say about this movie is that, at eighty minutes, it’s over quickly. But it’s about as exciting as watching the paint used for this painstakingly paint-by-numbers plot dry.

 

We’ll be off next week for the Thanksgiving holiday, then return on the 30th with Ryan Reynolds putting on Green Lantern’s ring.

Keith R.A. DeCandido hopes everyone has a wonderful Thanksgiving. He himself is thankful for all the readers of this rewatch who have continued to keep the conversations going (and also keep the conversations civil) for the last year-and-a-bit. You’re all wonderful.


A Knight’s Tale is the Best Medieval Film (No, Really)

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If you’ve been following this column at all, you know that I enjoy teaching folks about the history of the real Middle Ages by pointing out the real issues with the reel Middle Ages.

This often leads to the misconceptions that I don’t “get” that many movies are meant to be “just fantasy” or that I hate most medieval movies. To such keen criticisms, I would reply that I totally get that fantasies aren’t meant to be historically accurate (though they clearly utilize that history and, fantasy or not, “teach” audiences about it), and oh my god I totally enjoy most medieval movies.

No. Scratch that. I adore most medieval movies — even the ones that cause me to roll my eyes at their historical inaccuracies.

When I’m asked what my favorite medieval movie is, though, my answer is always the same: A Knight’s Tale (dir. Brian Helgeland, 2001). Largely — and I’m gonna try to make this make sense, I swear — my undying love for this film is because of its perfect historical inaccuracies.

I first saw A Knight’s Tale in theaters. I was just finishing up my first Masters degree (in Medieval Studies, natch), and I went with a good medievalist friend of mine (Hi, Keith!) to check the movie out for, um, research purposes. It took us about five minutes for us to fall in love with it.

All these years later, I still love it.

Honestly, those first five minutes of the film exemplify almost everything that’s great about the movie. After a standard title-card historical synopsis that explains how jousting was a sport of the noble class in the Middle Ages, we meet three young men: William Thatcher (played by the late Heath Ledger), Roland (Mark Addy), and Wat Valhurst (Alan Tudyk). I love them all.

The three young fellows are squires to Sir Ector, and they’re in a bind. Sir Ector has been competing in a minor jousting tournament, and he’s been doing quite well: he only needs to ride once more through the jousting lane without being unhorsed, and he’ll be victorious. He’ll get winnings, and his squires — who haven’t eaten in three days — will get a square meal. The only problem, as the young lads have just discovered, is that Sir Ector Has ceased to be, shuffled off this mortal coil, and gone to meet his maker. He is an ex-knight.

Wat: What do you mean, dead?

Roland: The spark of his life is smothered in shite. His spirit is gone but his stench remains. Does that answer your question?

Within these few minutes, we see the personalities of all three of these squires, and they’re fantastic. Roland is the oldest, most experienced, and most sensible. When he sees that Ector is dead, his immediate response is to think about fetching a priest. Wat isn’t of the same mind. His reaction is to “rouse” the dead knight by kicking and beating him, taking out his frustrations in the most physical manner possible. And then there’s William, who is a deft middle ground of passions and practicality. Heath Ledger gives him a perfect balance of personality: he’s hungry, he’s angry, but he’s also resourceful and pragmatically idealistic. If he puts on Sir Ector’s armor, he muses, no one will know he’s not a noble. They can get the money, they can eat, and they can deal with the dead man later. It’s not like Ector is going anywhere, after all.

William: I’ve waited my whole life for this moment.

Wat: “You’ve waited your whole life for Sir Ector to shite himself to death?”

The scene now shifts to opening credits that unfold over scenes of the tournament and its crowd … all set to the tune of Queen’s “We Will Rock You.”

A lot of critics were thrown at this point: they complained that using a soundtrack of classic rock for a movie that is set in the 1370s is tremendously anachronistic.

They’re quite right. The music of Queen is about six centuries off the mark for the movie’s setting. At the same time, as the director himself rightly pointed out, a traditional symphonic score would also be pretty damn anachronistic, even if we don’t think of it that way. There were no symphonies in the fourteenth century, after all.

The anachronism is just getting started, though, and how it happens shows that there’s something important at work here: before we know what’s happening, Queen isn’t just the background soundtrack for the audience: it’s what the tournament crowd itself is singing. And they’re singing it while doing the wave, eating turkey legs, and waving banners in support of one knight or another. Not one bit of it is accurate to history, yet it’s oh so perfectly historical.

This is a complex idea, and it’ll take some unpacking. My medievalist friend with whom I watched the movie in the theater would go on to write a wonderful and oft-cited essay about the unfair standards against which academics judge medieval films. It’s a rebuke, in many ways, of the kind of naysaying that I sometimes do in this column. Along the way, Dr Kelly (Hi, Keith!) utilizes A Knight’s Tale to make his point (I told you we both loved this film):

From a post-modern perspective, this film challenges the ideas of a medieval past as being so very different from the present. Spectators singing a rock and roll song by Queen at a medieval joust certainly raise the eyebrow of many, but the song certainly strikes a more familiar chord with a modern audience than the strumming of a lute. Does the modern song convey the enthusiasm and pageantry of such events to a modern audience more successfully than an authentic tune would have done? A Geoffrey Chaucer — thin, energetic and young — who cavorts before the nobles and composes caustic and humorous rhyme, while not the Geoffrey found in the Ellesmere manuscript, certainly conveys the poet’s style (or at least a particular view of that style) in a modern sense.

In other words, there is a truth of historical reality, and then there is a truth of historical relationship — a difference between knowing the actual physical feel of the past and the relative emotional feel of it. This is not to say that anything goes and facts are no longer facts. As I’ve noted before, that’s pretty much my idea of Hell. Rather, facts have contexts, and that context drives our emotional responses to the facts.

Because we don’t live in the fourteenth century, we don’t have the same context for a historically accurate jousting as a person would have had back then. A tournament back in the day was like the Super Bowl, but a wholly accurate representation of the event would not give us that same sense. Rather than pulling us into the moment, the full truth would push us out of it: rather than fostering the connection between the present and the past, it would have emphasized the separation. So Helgeland split the difference: he included tons of historical accuracies with non-historical familiarities.

It’s brilliant and delightful fun.

As good a job as that opening scene does in establishing this framework, though, my favorite example of how A Knight’s Tale uses these twin presentations of truth is later in the film, when William — now jousting in disguise as Sir Ulrich von Liechtenstein — goes to a dance. The dance begins by being truthful to historical reality: medieval instruments making simple sounds as the dancers go through formalized movements. It all seems quite stilted and unexciting to us now, but such a dance would have been quite the party in the fourteenth century.

So how does the film convey this? By having the musicians seamlessly slip their lute-strumming into a familiar tune that evolves into David Bowie’s “Golden Years” … at the very same time that the dancers devolve their formalized organization into the unbridled joy and chaos of a modern dance floor.

Oh hell yeah.

(If you’re interested, composer Carter Burwell has written about the difficulties of getting the music to work through this sequence.)

The filmmakers even took this same balance into their costuming and design. The hairstyles and garb of love-interest Jocelyn (Shannyn Sossamon) and her lady-in-waiting, Christiana (Berenice Bejo), are particularly fascinating in this regard.

The modern meets the medieval.

Still, I don’t want to give you the impression that Helgeland just tossed real historical truth out the window. There’s a lot of medieval truth in this film. Roland’s concern about the implications of the number 13, for instance, or the fascination with the symbology of the phoenix. Or having patents of nobility with wax seals attached to them.

Ulrich von Lichtenstein was a real knight (though dead for about 100 years by the time of the movie’s action, and he’s most well-known for writing about what it means to be a knight. The film splices the inspiration of this idea with Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales (thus Simon the Summoner and Peter the Pardoner) and legends of the life of William Marshall with a subplot involving the Free Companies via Adhemar, count of Anjou (Rufus Sewell) and his squire Germaine (Scott Handy).

And oh yes, Chaucer is literally a character in this film. Played by Paul Bettany, he steals scenes left and right. Hell, his first appearance in the film is his naked ass striding across the frame and on down the road, interrupting our lads in their journey:

William: Oi sir, what are you doing?

Chaucer: Uh… trudging. [pause] You know, trudging? To trudge: the slow, weary, depressing yet determined walk of a man who has nothing left in life except the impulse to simply soldier on.

William: Uhhh… were you robbed?

Chaucer: [laughs] Interesting question, actually. Yes, but at the same time a huge resounding no. It’s more sort of an… involuntary vow of poverty… really.

But you know on the brighter side trudging does represent pride. Pride, resolve, and faith in the good lord almighty … please, Christ, rescue me from my current tribula —

[Steps on a thorn and uses his teeth to bite it out of his foot]

— tions.

Roland: Who are you?

Chaucer: The lilium inter spinus, the lily among thorns. Geoffrey Chaucer’s the name, writing’s the game.

[Turns away, turns back]

Chaucer: Chaucer? Geoffrey Chaucer, the writer?

Wat: A what?

Chaucer: A wha- a what? A writer. You know, I write, with ink and parchment. For a penny, I’ll scribble you anything you want. From summons, decrees, edicts, warrants, patents of nobility. I’ve even been know to jot down a poem or two, if the muse descends. You’ve probably read my book? The Book of the Duchess?

[They look at each other, shake their heads]

Chaucer: Fine. Well, it was allegorical.

Roland: Well, we won’t hold that against you, that’s for every man to decide for himself.

I’m a Chaucer fanboy, obviously, but damnit that’s funny.

Look, I don’t want to give too much away, because if you haven’t seen this film you NEED TO DO SO RIGHT NOW OH MY GOD WHY ARE YOU STILL READING THIS AND NOT WATCHING IT … but I will say this:

This movie has the best push into a flashback that I’ve ever seen. It features a medieval training montage to the tune of “Low Rider.” The acting is consistently fantastic, even from relatively “minor” characters like Kate the badass blacksmith (Laura Fraser) and Sir Thomas Colville (James Purefoy). And so many lines are so very quotable.

Plus, you know, slow-motion jousting with exploding lances is awesome.

Mike’s Medieval Ratings

Authenticity: 6 out of 10 Jocelyn sunbonnets
Just Plain Fun: 20 out of 10 gardens of his turbulence

Seriously, follow your feet and go check this one out. Change your stars.

Originally published in December 2017.

Michael Livingston is a Professor of Medieval Culture at The Citadel who has written extensively both on medieval history and on modern medievalism. His historical fantasy trilogy set in Ancient Rome, The Shards of Heaven, The Gates of Hell, and The Realms of God, is available from Tor Books.

Try Homemade Butterbeer for Your Next Holiday Feast!

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We set out on a dangerous mission: to build a better butterbeer. We searched through recipes! We gleaned truths from the Wizarding World of Harry Potter! We scoffed at cream soda! And finally, just in time for a slew of winter holidays, we created and tested four drinks that just might set a new bar for fantasy-based beverages. But perhaps the truth can only be known once each and every one of you has created and tested these recipes? Click through for four of the yummiest—dare we say…magical?—concoctions we could hope to imbibe.

Only one thing is certain.

WE BLAME J.K. ROWLING FOR THE SUGAR HANGOVER WE STILL HAVE.

Now read on, gentle traveler, and join us for some serious DIY Hogsmeade shenanigans.

 

Butterbeer Beer

Experiment by Emily Asher-Perrin:

There is more than one type of butterbeer in the Harry Potter series, and one of them comes in bottles and is clearly fizzy. Cream soda versions are not really my style, and I thought that the butterscotch flavor that butterbeer is meant to have would stand up just as well to… well, beer. I normally make a darker butterscotch for eggnog, but I found this recipe for a topping-style sauce from David Lebovitz and thought I’d try that one out because of the increase in cream, which would make the beer richer and more comforting.

I’m gluten-free due to a wheat allergy, so I had a gluten-free blonde ale for my initial run. But I wanted to see if the flavor would stand up to different types of beer on both the light and dark sides of the spectrum, so I got a non-gf one (Bell’s porter, if you’re curious) and had everyone try both. It works incredibly well as a butterbeer recipe, not terribly complicated and not oversweet either. The biggest problem is that it’s compulsively drinkable and can lead to downing more butterscotch than you intended in the long run.

Recipe

1 batch of David Lebovitz’s butterscotch sauce
1 bottle of beer (light ales or dark beers go best)

Instructions

Put 2-3 tablespoons of butterscotch sauce into a glass. Pour 6 ounces (half the bottle) into the glass. Mix them together with spoon until both components are thoroughly blended and a fluffy head forms on the beer. Drink to celebrate post-Quidditch win. Repour when glass is empty.

Reactions

I straight-up said “This one’s MINE” about the porter version as soon as I tasted it. I’ve still got butterscotch sauce left over from my own recipe and I see no reason not to drink these for dessert for the next few weeks. —Molly

I haaaaate beer, yet I couldn’t stop drinking this? I want it every day? And I can’t imagine a better beverage to drink during a Quidditch match! —Leah

Definitely my favorite of the group for sheer resemblance and the fact that it lightened up the porter, which I’m not usually a fan of. Perfect for the winter, but I could also see it being a refreshing treat sitting outside in the summer. —Natalie

 

Vietnamese-style Butterbeer Macchiato

Butterbeer Macchiato

Experiment by Leah Schnelbach:

Of all the glorious foods in this world, if I had to choose a favorite it would be some form of coffee. Coffee ice cream, café au lait, coffee, black—I know it goes against the deep British-ness of Harry Potter to say so, but I’ll take coffee over ever other beverage, even a tea. So when we were concocting butterbeer recipes, my first thought was: is there a way I can make this…coffee? What I came up with is a sweet drink that can work either hot or cold: Vietnamese-style butterbeer coffee!

Recipe

1 Tbsp Smitten Kitchen butterscotch recipe (significantly modified—see below!)
1-2 shots of Espresso
Generous scoop of whipped cream if desired

Instructions

Create your butterscotch by melting 6 tablespoons of butter in a saucepan, and adding ¼ cup of brown sugar, stirring to make your base. Ask your (fairly-compensated) house elf to slowly pour half a cup of sweetened condensed milk into the base while you stir. Once those three elements are combined, add salt to taste—personally, I used about ¼ teaspoon of large salt flakes because I prefer the complexity the salt adds.

Brew espresso (in whichever way you prefer—I used a stovetop Moka pot) and pour 1-2 shots into a glass.

Finally, if you want to top your macchiato with whipped cream combine 1 cup of whipping cream, 1 tablespoon of powdered sugar, and 1 teaspoon vanilla, then whip them up into soft peaks. (Because the butterscotch mixture is so sweet, I used slightly less sugar and vanilla that the recipe called for, and it worked well.)

Once all of your elements are ready, pour a heaping tablespoon of the condensed butterscotch into the shot of espresso. Now is where you have to make a choice: you can add whipped cream to the top, and then sip the drink so you can appreciate all three flavors separately. Or you can do what I did and stir the butterscotch mixture into the espresso to make the entire drink sweeter. I also chose to drink it hot, but you could allow it to cool slightly, and then pour over ice, if you prefer a cold drink.

Reactions

Obviously there should be butterbeer coffee. Why didn’t anyone give me this before? With the sweetened condensed milk butterscotch, it’s kind of like Thai coffee and butterbeer had a baby. So tasty. —Emily

Finally, an answer for how to actually use up an entire can of condensed milk! I couldn’t stop sneaking swipes of this dulce de leche on its own, but combined with the coffee, it’s such a tasty mix of opposites. —Natalie

Caramel macchiatos were already my weakness. I’m doomed. —Molly

 

Butterbeer Cocktail

Experiment by Molly Templeton:

Despite having a wicked sweet tooth, I’m not huge on sugary drinks (excepting the occasional coffee-that’s-basically-candy, fine, yes, I have a small problem). And though Potterverse butterbeer is supposed to have just a teensy bit of alcohol, I figured the quickest way to get around the OMG SUGAR! aspect of a lot of the existing recipes I found was to turn it into a cocktail. I gave myself three rules: no butterscotch schnapps, no flavored vodka, and no cream soda.

As it turned out, I had just the thing for the beer part: a bottle of Pur Geist bierbrand, which is distilled from beer. This bottle has been on my liquor shelf for so long that it appears the manufacturer no longer offers it; now they offer hop-flavored whiskey, which would also do the trick. But this recipe is malleable in many ways: you could make it with any old whiskey, or with rum; you can add more or less butterscotch, to suit your own personal sweet tooth; you might add a bit of chile liqueur to give it a kick.

Recipe

1 ½ ounces beer liqueur (or strong spirit of your choice)
¼ ounce St. Elizabeth Allspice Dram
a generous dollop of Smitten Kitchen’s butterscotch sauce*
¼ ounce lemon juice
1 egg white

*This stuff is thick and troublesome to measure; I used a heaping regular (not measuring) tablespoon, and drizzled as much as I could into the shaker.

Instructions

Combine all ingredients in a shaker and shake vigorously, without ice, for as long as you can stand. (You want those eggs to foam up good.) Add a few ice cubes and shake until cold; strain into a coupe or the glass of your choice. Savor, and adjust the recipe for round two to suit your particular tastes.

Reactions

Perfect holiday drink. Rich, creamy, full of interesting flavor combinations. That beer liqueur really comes through in a surprising way, and the egg white makes the whole thing nice and dense the way you expect butterbeer to be. —Emily

Finally, a holiday alternative to egg nog that’s delightfully geeky. The complexity of this blew me away, especially because the way it comes together is so simple and sweet. —Natalie

I WANT EIGHT OF THESE IMMEDIATELY. Seriously, this drink alone could launch an entire trend of speakeasy-style cocktail lounges in the wizarding world. —Leah

 

Butterbeer Cocoa

Experiment by Natalie Zutter:

In giving myself the challenge of making hot butterbeer that’s stomach-warming and feels-inducing without alcohol, I figured I had it set by turning to the corner of the Internet that would get that: mom blogs. But while I loved the idea of this recipe that incorporates butterscotch pudding, the execution left a lot to be desired. Maybe I missed a step or my ratios were off, but the pudding component wound up way too watery to stand up to the other flavors. So, I decided to use it as a springboard to reimagine comforting hot cocoa, but with butterscotch!

Recipe

whole milk (however many mugs’ worth you’d like to make)
2 Tbsp butterscotch (I nabbed some of the Smitten Kitchen one that Molly had made, above!)
1 Tbsp maple syrup
½ tsp cinnamon*
½ tsp ground ginger*
¼ tsp cardamom*
¼ tsp salt
⅛ tsp cayenne pepper
½ tsp vanilla extract
whipped cream for garnish

*If you want to cut corners—if, like us, your local grocery store is charging $15/bottle for ground ginger—you can substitute pumpkin spice for these.

Instructions

Steam milk in a saucepan at medium-low heat so it doesn’t scald. Mix in butterscotch, maple syrup, cinnamon, ginger, cardamom, salt, cayenne, and vanilla extract.

Stir until mixed and until it’s the desired warmth, then ladle into your favorite Potter- or book-themed mug. Top with whipped cream and drizzle some extra butterscotch over. Then go sit in your favorite chair, curl your legs under you, and take a big sip.

Reactions

Butterbeer cocoa, without the cocoa! This drink was made to be sipped in front of a roaring fire with a well-worn novel in your other hand, and, if at all possible, a cat sleeping on your lap. —Leah

The most coziest. Just looking at it feels like fuzzy socks and roaring fire. —Molly

Amazing for when you feel like stepping up your winter hot cocoa game and doing something unexpected. The whipped cream topping is essential for making the whole drink feel like butterbeer. This one is more comforting than all the others. —Emily

 

 

There you go—four different ways to enjoy butterbeer this holiday season!

Photos by Sylas K Barrett
Originally published in Novemeber 2017

The Systems Aren’t the Problem: Doctor Who, “Kerblam!”

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Doctor Who, Kerblam!

Doctor Who could have taken a rest after the stunning “Demons of the Punjab,” but that doesn’t seem to be the Thirteenth Doctor’s style. “Kerblam!” could have been the title of a game show on Nickelodeon in the 90s, but Doctor Who instead decided to use the name to explore themes of automation, obsolescence, and the value of human labor.

Summary

The Doctor receives a package from “Kerblam!” a giant shipping company, and her packing slip reads “HELP ME.” She, Yas, Ryan, and Graham head to Kerblam’s warehouse, situated on an Kandoka’s moon, to find out what’s up. Kerblam! is only a ten percent human workforce, the rest done by automation and robots, and the group meets first with Judy Maddox (Julie Hesmondhalgh) to see about work. They fake credentials and get jobs, but the Doctor trades places with Graham to work in the packaging center with Ryan, hoping to find out who slipped her the note. They meet a sweet young woman named Kira Arlo (Claudia Jessie), who hasn’t seen much kindness in her life. Graham ends up working maintenance with a young man named Charlie Duffy (Leo Flanagan), who clearly likes Kira. Yas works in the warehouse, collecting items for shipment, where she meets Dan Cooper (Lee Mack), who is working to put away money for his daughter. Dan insists on going to get one of Yas’s packages from a tricky area of the warehouse, since the last worker he saw go down there never came back.

Dan is attacked by mailman robots in that section of the warehouse, and when Yas goes down to find him, she is confronted by three mailman robots as well, only narrowly escaping. The Doctor, Yas, and Ryan confront the manager Jarvin Slade (Callum Dixon) and Judy to find out what they know about the missing people, but they claim to be clueless on the matter. Graham gets Charlie to help him get a schematic of the warehouse, so they can learn the layout, and there’s another power outage; Charlie is attacked by one of the robots. The Doctor reactivates one of Kerblam’s first delivery robots named Twirly, so he can tap into the base code of the company’s system and find out what’s going on. Robots take Kira to receive “a present” and lock her in a room with a package addressed to her. Ryan, Yas, and Charlie take the package chute down to Dispatch, but the Doctor finds a faster way, realizing that you can get down there using the robots’s teleport systems. Charlie, Yas, and Ryan witness Kira’s death when she opens her box and pops one bubble in the bubble wrap of the package.

Doctor Who, Kerblam!

The Doctor arrives and they find all the Dispatch mail robots waiting in the warehouse with packages; they’re being held there so that they all deliver at once. With Twirly’s help, the Doctor has learned that the Kerblam! system itself is what called her for help—because Charlie has programmed the mail robots to deliver packages with the explosive bubble wrap. He plans to cause so many deaths that humans call for an end to automation, and he killed coworkers to make certain his plan would work. The Kerblam! computer systems killed Kira to try and make Charlie understand what it would feel like to lose a loved one, but he’s determined to see his plan through. The Doctor reprograms the robots to deliver the packages to the warehouse and pop the bubble wrap themselves. She gives Charlie a chance to escape with everyone else, but he refuses. After the explosion, the warehouse is shut down, and Judy tells the Doctor that she plans to fight to make Kerblam! a human focused company.

Commentary

I’ve wanted more science fiction stories that tackled the theme of technology and automation alongside the cost of human labor, and Peter McTighe’s first Who episode has managed it fabulously. Kerblam! is a company name that fits perfectly alongside all the names we see today—Fandango, Jet, Google, and more—and the environment of the Kerblam! warehouses are taken straight from the Amazon playbook, including the unforgiving hours, lack of breaks, inhumane conditions.

The show has been on an incredible topical streak that is hitting with uncanny accuracy: This episode is airing not even two weeks after mega-corp Amazon announced their new HQ would be split between Virginia, and Long Island City in Queens, New York. Despite the promise to bring jobs to the area, NYC’s response has been far from thrilled, by and large. There’s good reason for that, and those reasons are exemplified in this episode via the atmosphere at Kerblam! Humans had to fight to make the company even ten percent a human work force, and everyone there talks of how lucky they are to be employed at all, even while they’re being belittled and abused by their employer. The robots watch the human employees, capable of logging every second they spend chatting or zoning out, and bothering them to get back to work if they see any laxness. While Judy is supposed to be in charge of human welfare, she does very little to ensure that the work environment is enjoyable, safe, or stimulating.

Doctor Who, Kerblam!

The Doctor makes a point that has been on humanity’s mind as technology displaces more and more jobs; everything the people at Kerblam! are doing could be done by robots, and that should be a good thing… but people still need the jobs, the money. The story doesn’t gloss over the twofold problem of an automated world; people at the company may claim that work gives them purpose, but in reality, these jobs only let them survive. So the problem isn’t simply that automation is wrong; people shouldn’t have to spend their lives doing meaningless busywork. But if the world doesn’t provide for them, if there are no systems in place to help them pursue their passions and remain fed and clothed and sheltered, then they are relegated to jobs like these, and robots are standing in the way of their ability to live at all. They shouldn’t, but a system that doesn’t provide for everyone creates those inequalities… and not coincidentally encourages mass consumerism on a grand scale.

There’s a clear critique of consumerism onto this, at least as it pertains to thoughtless consumption or the belief that things can lead to happiness. Kira tells Ryan and the Doctor that to make her job less boring she remembers how exciting it was the only time in her life that she ever received a package (it was from work). She thinks of how happy people will be to receive the items in their boxes, and that helps make her job bearable. And while it’s certainly a nice thought, and it’s also true that there’s nothing fundamentally wrong with a person enjoying a present or an item that provides them with entertainment or other value, the idea that another human being can only expect to putter away their life in unfulfilling tedium in order to make that experience possible for others is horrifying. And it should be.

Doctor Who, Kerblam!

What’s more, the moral of the episode is one that’s coming more and more clear the more we rely on technology as a species. Charlie plans to commit mass murder because he’s decided that the system must be destroyed in order to fix anything, but the Doctor disagrees, saying, “The systems aren’t the problem. How people use and exploit the system, that’s the problem.” It makes perfect sense coming from our engineer Doctor, someone who understands full well that technology isn’t inherently evil of itself—it’s all in what we choose to do with it. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been hoping for an episode with this exact moral, as it’s an issue that’s incredibly important to me, being a person who works on the internet. Though there’s always room for more exploration, Doctor Who pretty much nailed it on this one.

What’s less happy-making is the fact that every guest star this week was white for some reason. This season has been great about representative casting, so it was sort of jarring to note that Ryan and Yas were the only people of color in this episode.

Ryan and Yas were extra flipping cute in this episode, and they make an excellent adventure team. Yas is also really coming into her own as the one in the companion trio who really goes out of her way to get into trouble, and puts thought into what she can do for the people they encounter. (Her tearful request that they return the necklace that Dan’s daughter made for him was heart-rending in the loveliest way, as was the Doctor’s clear sympathy when she saw how affected Yas was by it.)

Doctor Who, Kerblam!

The dynamics of Team TARDIS are solidifying every episode, and they only get more enjoyable as their bonds strengthen. It was particularly fun to watch the Doctor give one of her Don’t Mess With Me speeches, only to turn around for this exchange—

The Doctor: Too bombastic?
Yas: Felt about right…
Ryan: I kinda liked it!
The Doctor: Thanks.

It’s also fun when companions get to rib the Doctor for forcing them to do the sort of things they left home to escape; Ryan’s complaints due to time he’s already spent working the warehouse at SportStack were particularly amusing on that account, as was learning that he sprained his ankle jumping down a dispatch chute back then. But the episode’s end was oddly ambiguous; while it’s good to know that Judy is going to do her best to make Kerblam! a more people-focused employer, it really remains to be seen if that can work to everyone’s benefit. After all, they were only able to get their employees two weeks paid leave because their warehouse literally exploded… perhaps that means this isn’t the last we’ve seen of Kerblam!

Doctor Who, Kerblam!

Asides and fun for this episode:

  • The Doctor mentions her adventure with Agatha Christie (“The Unicorn and the Wasp”) when Yas brings up wasps.
  • We get mention of the Doctor’s two hearts in this episode. By the look on Graham’s face, that’s never come up before.
  • Kerblam! delivers a fez to the Doctor, which was Eleven’s preferred chapeau. It seems as though he ordered for himself; it’s not hard to imagine Eleven doing some late night tipsy online shopping. Also the Doctor’s excitement over seeing the Kerblam! Man was one of her cutest moments yet.
  • The aikido move from “The Ghost Monument” is back again.
  • Psychic paper again! This time it claims that they’re all related to the “First Lady,” whoever that may be at this point in time.
  • The Doctor tries for slang again, departing Slade’s office with “laterz,” then muttering “Not doing that again. Sticking to ‘bye.'”

Emily Asher-Perrin would really appreciate it if Amazon HQ stayed away from New York, thanks. You can bug him on Twitter and Tumblr, and read more of her work here and elsewhere.

Under Neon and Starlight: Revealing the Table of Contents for The Outcast Hours

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The Outcast Hours is only our second anthology, but it is fair to say we already have a bit of a shtick: we like diverse thinking on universal themes.

With The Djinn Falls in Love, it was, well—djinn. One of the few truly global ‘creatures’ of lore. With The Outcast Hours, we wanted something that was equally relevant: something that every culture experiences. Rather than raid the bestiary again, we went higher concept—not to a particular myth, but to the source of myths. Something that everyone, everywhere, shares: the night. We all experience it; it affects everyone, everywhere, in every culture.

So that’s half the shtick: the universal theme.

The other half is where the real work comes in. To us, there’s no point in reading the same story two dozen times. The joy of something universal is that everyone approaches it from a different angle. To capture the breadth, the depth, the vastness that is the ‘night’, we needed wildly different perspectives. The Table of Contents represents our best efforts to capture this range.

The Outcast Hours’ authors come from over a dozen different countries; writers with award-winning careers that span fantasy, science fiction, literary fiction, crime and romance. It also contains short stories from journalists, film-makers, comedians, comic book writers, poets, and artists. Everyone is united in a single challenge—trying to capture the experience of life after dark—but each contributor tackles it in their own unique way.

The results are as wide-ranging as you might expect. The Outcast Hours contains monsters and mobsters, of course. But also pop stars and puppies, runaways and DJs, bartenders, ghosts, lovers, serial killers, and even the Tooth Fairy. If it goes bump in the night—or simply takes the night bus—it lurks somewhere in this volume.

As with any anthology, not every story will be for everyone. The dark side (excuse the pun) of our shtick is that our approach is especially high-risk / high-reward. There’s no sameness; no certainty. In The Outcast Hours, we have gambled on the unexpected: there are no cozy evenings inside. Instead, we want every reader to find a story or two that they can be deeply passionately about—to experience the night of their lives.

(Just to note, although only our second book, we’ve been working together for years, including our lengthy war against the Dragon Highlords!)

 

Table of Contents

  • Introduction, Mahvesh Murad and Jared Shurin
  • This Book Will Find You, Sam Beckbessinger, Lauren Beukes and Dale Halvorsen
  • It Was a Different Time, Will Hill
  • Ambulance Service, Sami Shah
  • Blind Eye, Frances Hardinge
  • Sleep Walker, Silvia Moreno-Garcia
  • Bag Man, Lavie Tidhar
  • Gatsby, Maha Khan Phillips
  • Swipe Left, Daniel Polansky
  • MiDNIghT MaRAuDERS, M. Suddain
  • Everyone Knows That They’re Dead. Do You? Genevieve Valentine
  • The Collector, Sally Partridge
  • The Patron Saint of Night Puppers, Indrapramit Das
  • Tilt, Karen Onojaife
  • In the Blink of a Light, Amira Salah-Ahmed
  • The Dental Gig, S. L. Grey
  • One Gram, Leah Moore
  • This Place of Thorns, Marina Warner
  • Not Just Ivy, Celeste Baker
  • Dark Matters, Cecilia Ekbäck
  • Above the Light, Jesse Bullington
  • Welcome to the Haunted House, Yukimi Ogawa
  • Rain, Streaming, Omar Robert Hamilton
  • Lock-In, William Boyle
  • The Night Mountain, Jeffrey Alan Love
  • A Partial Beginner’s Guide to The Lucy Temerlin Home for Broken Shapeshifters, Kuzhali Manickavel
  • And also including 9 microstories by China Miéville

The Outcast Hours publishes with Rebellion in February 2019. You can pre-order from the publisher here, or from the retailers below!

Celebrating 50 Years of Peter S. Beagle’s The Last Unicorn

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I’m honestly not sure what I can say about The Last Unicorn that hasn’t been said before—folks were proclaiming the book a classic almost as soon as it was published, and certainly before I was born. Ursula K. Le Guin paid glowing tribute to Peter S. Beagle’s “particular magic,” Madeleine L’Engle described him as “one of my favorite writers,” and countless other readers, writers, and reviewers have heaped such a formidable mountain of praise at his door that it almost seems futile to approach, from down in the valley, and try to carve out some new flourish or clamber conveniently onto some hitherto unexplored perspective.

But even great monuments have their road signs, billboards, and tourist brochures, their aggressively fluorescent arrows pointing helpfully toward sites that absolutely should not be missed. So consider this post a roadside marker, a glossy pamphlet, a helpful map to a well-worn path that’s much-travelled for a reason: the world of The Last Unicorn is always worth visiting, and revisiting, even if you think you’ve seen it all before.

Note: Spoilers for the plot and ending of The Last Unicorn below.

For no particular reason that I can think of, looking back, I didn’t actually read the novel until I was in my late teens, although I’d been obsessed with the animated movie version well before I could read. As faithful as the movie is (Beagle himself adapted the screenplay, and I’ve discussed the film at length in a separate essay), I’ve always felt that the experience of reading the novel is markedly different from that of watching the film. As a devoted and unapologetic fan of both versions, I don’t necessarily privilege one above the other, but the movie embroiders upon the simple elegance of the original story with its spectacular animation, its cast of well-known actors, its memorable soundtrack—it’s a tale well and richly told, and captures much of what makes the book so beloved. The elements that resist translation from page to screen are what might be termed the literary angels’ share—the subtlety of writing that continuously loops in on itself and turns the reader into an unconscious co-conspirator, an acolyte (and, every so often, a comedic straight man).

The plot itself is a relatively straightforward quest narrative. It begins with the unicorn, alone in her lilac wood, spending the long years of her immortal existence in quiet, untroubled solitude until one day she overhears a pair of hunters debating the existence of unicorns. Shocked at their assertion that she is the last of her kind, she sets out in search of the others, finding the world much changed after so many years apart from it. The people she encounters have a longing for magic, miracles, and legends of the past, but are no longer capable of recognizing true magic when it appears, preferring cheap trickery and illusions.

Out on the road, the unicorn is mistaken for a horse by men and sees no signs of her lost kin until she crosses paths with a rapturous, half-mad butterfly who recognizes her and names her, between reciting frantic snippets of songs, poetry, and jingles. In a fleeting moment of clarity, he tells her that her people have been chased down by a creature called the Red Bull, and so she sets out again, only to find herself recognized and captured by a seedy hedge witch. Outfitted with a false horn (so that she may be seen by uncomprehending crowds of customers for what she truly is), the unicorn is put on display as part of Mommy Fortuna’s Midnight Carnival, a shabby collection of counterfeit monsters and one other true immortal creature: the harpy, Celaeno.

Finding an ally in the carnival’s would-be sorcerer, Schmendrick, the unicorn escapes (in one of the most harrowing and starkly, sadly beautiful passages in the novel) and returns to the road. Schmendrick tells her of the blighted country of King Haggard, where the monstrous Red Bull is rumored to dwell. He asks to join the quest, and—owing him her freedom—the unicorn agrees, although she already feels the cost of keeping company with a mortal, “the first spidery touch of sorrow on the inside of her skin.” The unicorn is not immune to human emotion or human weaknesses, although they are not natural to her, having kept herself apart from the world for so long, keeping solitary watch over her forest and its creatures… In many ways, this is the heart of the story, beginning with this first shiver of sadness: how the unicorn changes once out in the world, no longer aloof and apart. It is not a straightforward lesson, and there is no glib, simplistic take-away moral at the end of the tale.

While there is a certain element of sadness and loss in the journey, however, it is counterbalanced with humor and liveliness—the tone of the book itself tends to veer between the heartbreakingly lyrical, disconcertingly insightful, and irreverently funny (much like the manic, poetry-spouting butterfly who sets the quest in motion—I’ve always thought of him as kind of a mascot for the novel as a whole).

As Schmendrick and the unicorn set out for Haggard’s kingdom, for example, we get a brief glimpse into the kooky marital problems of a pair of squabbling blue jays, right before Schmendrick gets drunk, offends the mayor of a nearby town with some unfortunate magical slapstick, and ends up kidnapped by a band of wanna-be, low-rent Merry Men under the dubious command of the self-aggrandizing Captain Cully, which is all pretty amusing. There’s something about Beagle’s use of offbeat, often anachronistic humor that strikes me as somehow intimate, a way of affectionately tweaking the reader’s attention for just a moment—it produces the same effect as, say, Groucho Marx turning to raise his eyebrows and address the audience, inviting you in on the joke.

As an extension of this humor, Beagle constantly plays with the reader’s sense of time and place in a hundred small ways. In spite of the quasi-medieval setting of the tale with its peasants, knights, and kings living in stony, witch-raised castles, he sprinkles in the oddest details: Haggard’s men-at-arms wear homemade armor sewn with bottle caps; elsewhere, a bored princeling flips through a magazine; Mommy Fortuna talks about her act as “show business,” and Cully invites Schmendrick to sit at his camp fire and “[h]ave a taco.” Moments like these don’t jolt you out of the story—they’re more like a gentle nudge in the ribs, reminding you that there’s much more going on under the cover of the classic quest narrative driving things forward.

It’s all part of the novel’s repeated questioning of what qualifies as “real” and what is legend or fantasy, and whether those categories are mutually exclusive. Part of the humor comes from the characters’ own awareness of the conventions of myth and folktales: you get the definite impression that these characters know their Joseph Campbell, especially when delivering lines like, “I know the birth of a hero when I see it….[h]ad it not been for the cats, I would have chanced the child, but they made it so obvious, so mythological.” Captain Cully—whose fondest dream is to have songs of his derring-do “field-recorded” and included in the Child Ballads—is something of an expert on the subject of myths, declaring Robin Hood to be “a classic example of the heroic folk heroes synthesized out of need. John Henry is another.” He is a mercenary fraud as a would-be folk hero, but he hopes to provide the tiny grain of reality around which a legend can grow, regardless of authenticity.

His companion, Molly Grue, argues that Cully has it backward, and only legends like Robin and Marion are truly real. A disappointed dreamer, Molly is world-weary, but not cynical enough that she cannot recognize the unicorn immediately for what she is—and as the embodiment of a hope that she had long ago given up on. Slipping away from Cully and his band of brigands, Molly joins the questing party (much to Schmendrick’s dismay) and begins to mellow and blossom in the presence of the unicorn as they venture into Haggard’s lands.

They soon reach the strangely prosperous town of Hagsgate, and learn that both the king and the townspeople have been cursed by the witch who built Haggard’s castle, towering at the edge of a cliff above the sea. While the castle stands, the town will thrive, and only a child of the town can destroy it—they suspect Haggard’s adopted heir, Prince Lír, of being the hero born to bring the witch’s curse to fruition (according to the usual signs and portents, of course), and try to bribe Schmendrick to murder the prince. Molly is horrified by the fact that the townfolk tried to murder Lír as a baby, to which Schmendrick characteristically replies:

Well, if they hadn’t, he couldn’t have grown up to be a prince. Haven’t you ever been in a fairy tale before? […] The hero has to make a prophecy come true, and the villain is the one who has to stop him—though in another kind of story, it’s more often the other way around. And a hero has to be in trouble from the moment of his birth, or he’s not a real hero. It’s a great relief to find out about Prince Lír. I’ve been waiting for this tale to turn up a leading man.

Leaving the town behind, our heroes encounter the Red Bull at last. The unicorn finds herself utterly powerless against the Bull, who drives her relentlessly toward Haggard’s castle. In an attempt to save her, Schmendrick is able to summon up true magic, although he cannot control it, and the unicorn awakes in the body of a young, mortal girl—a body she can immediately feel dying all around her. In spite of the trauma, the three continue on to the castle and meet Haggard, grim and mistrustful, and Lír, who is soft, puppyish, and instantly infatuated with the strange young girl hastily introduced as the Lady Amalthea, Schmendrick’s, um, niece. (I do love that Schmendrick has a handy knowledge of Greek mythology to fall back on even when fumbling for a believable explanation for the presence of his suspiciously ethereal, newly-minted mortal companion…)

Both Haggard and Lír are instantly transfixed by Amalthea—Haggard suspects something of her unicorn nature, while Lír attempts every heroic deed in the book, from ogre-fighting to dragon-slaying to damsel-rescuing, in an attempt to get her attention. He turns himself into a mighty knight, but she does not notice him at all, too lost and confused in her new human body. Time passes, Molly and Schmendrick are no closer to discovering the whereabouts of the Bull or the missing unicorns, and Amalthea is so distraught and plagued by nightmares that she finally turns to Lír, falls in love, and begins to grow more and more human, gradually forgetting herself and her quest.

But of course, as Lír eventually points out, “Things must happen when it is time for them to happen. Quests may not be simply abandoned; prophecies must not be left to rot like unpicked fruit; unicorns may go unrescued for a long time, but not forever. The happy ending cannot come in the middle of the story.” Molly gets a tip from a talking cat, Schmendrick performs a bit of trickery with some wine and a gossip-y skull, and suddenly everyone is running through the tunnels under the castle, toward the Bull’s lair.

Amalthea pleads with Schmendrick, telling him that she wants to stay mortal and marry Lír… but Lír knows that he has become a true hero, and as a hero he must see the quest through. And so the story plays out: the hero sacrifices himself for love, and his sacrifice changes everything. The magician finally comes into his own, one curse is broken, a prophecy is finally fulfilled, the Bull is defeated, Haggard falls, and the unicorns of the world are freed, streaming out of the sea and back to their forests, leaving only the last behind.

The unicorn stays for a moment: she revives Lír and then leaves him with Molly and Schmendrick on the beach, looking back only once. Their part in her story has ended, or vice versa, and Schmendrick insists that they must let her go: Lír is now a king with great deeds in need of doing, and Molly and Schmendrick have their own story to follow. Is it a happy ending? Yes, but like everything else in this story, “happy” is neither clear-cut or simplistic—there has been death, and loss, and the unicorn will never be the same again, having learned love and then regret. Happy doesn’t mean that everyone gets everything they want, in the end, but their shared farewell means the start of other stories…life goes on, spring has returned to the cursed lands, and we get the definite sense that there will ups and downs ahead and plenty of good humor to see people through both.

After all the talk of myth and stories and what’s real and what’s not real, you feel somehow that in the end, you’ve been given something remarkably honest—a story that’s not about what’s true or not true, but one that accepts that there’s some truth scattered through almost everything, glinting beneath the deadly serious as well as the completely ridiculous, the patterns of literary conventions and the randomness of real life. This is in large part thanks to the metafictional playfulness of characters who gleefully deconstruct their own stories in the telling: Captain Cully, with his oddly academic approach to being a merry outlaw and his overtly practical approach to personal mythmaking, and certainly Schmendrick and Lír, with their canny awareness of the fairy tale unfolding beneath their feet, and their own respective roles to play. Just as they humanize the unicorn in the story, changing her, they transform her story itself, stretching out the stiff material of the lofty quest narrative into something more comfortable and familiar, loved and lived-in, but still beautiful and strange.

Over the course of my most recent reread of the novel, I’ve been thinking that it’s well and good to call a book a classic and give it a place of pride on your shelves and pick it up now and again when the mood strikes you, but there are certain books that should be shared and talked about far more often than they are. The Last Unicorn is not a difficult book—it is as smooth and graceful as its mythical protagonist, satisfying, resonant, self-contained, with hidden depths. It is a pleasure to read, even in its most bittersweet moments, and I wonder if, in some strange way, it gets overlooked at times because of its pleasurable nature.

Readers (and perhaps fantasy and science fiction readers more than most) love to discuss and champion challenging and complicated works—the hulking epics, the novels and series that require charts and glossaries and intricate timelines and family trees delineating generation upon generation’s worth of characters and world-building. I certainly do, at least—give me some decent intrigue and an impossibly large cast of characters and I’ll go swinging through fictional family trees like some kind of deranged literary Tarzan, gleefully penciling in notes along the way. I’m not suggesting that less is more, or that simpler fictions are innately superior to more complicated ones (or vise versa), but I do think that it can be easier to overlook a profound story told in simpler form.

A book like The Last Unicorn is not less significant because it is a pleasure—there is nothing remotely fluff-like about it, and if you read it closely and pay attention, you’ll be rewarded with the revelation of just how perfectly and subtly its form fits its meaning. It is a story about stories, the nature of reality, and how things can be both more and less than they seem, and as you read along you’ll find that its questions have become your own, that every choice that you make about how to feel and react and interpret is a part of the overall tale—not the simple quest that drives the plot, but the underlying story of what kind of world we live in, and what kind of people we really are.

So while I’m not sure I have anything new to say about the book, I still feel that it’s important to say this much, and to continue rereading and recommending it—for the journey, and because it is a thing of beauty, and poses the kind of questions that are always worth meditating upon.

An earlier version of this essay was originally published in January 2014.

Bridget McGovern is the managing editor of Tor.com, and this remains one of her favorite books of all time. She also thinks that somebody should take a cue from Lír and start a “Baby Heroes Rescued By Cats” Tumblr right away—the internet will not be able to resist.

Learning Empathy From Robots: How MST3K Helped Explain My Parents

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This week marks a milestone for all of humanity—Saturday marks the 30th anniversary of the first broadcast of Mystery Science Theater 3000. The first ever episode, “The Green Slime” was shown on a small Minneapolis cable-access channel called KTMA on November 24, 1988.

There are many things to say about MST3K, (and eventually I plan to say all of them) but since this is Thanksgiving week I wanted to thank the show’s writers for helping me with a very specific issue I had as a kid.

My parents had me late in life, and their parents were also a bit older when they had them—both sets of grandparents were too busy surviving the Depression to get married right away. Because of this I had a slightly larger cultural gap with my family than most of my friends did, and I was confused by their volatile relationship with their own childhoods. For me, it was easy: I liked nerdy things, I wanted to be a Jedi, and I didn’t care too much whether I fit in with the kids at school or not. My parents really cared about how other people saw them. They worried about not being Catholic enough. They went through phases of strict morality, but then punctured them by showing me Monty Python and telling me jokes about priests.

The thing that helped me understand this was my discovery of MST3K. Specifically, it was the shorts the guys occasionally riffed that helped me understand my parents’ childhoods. The shorts themselves are bite-sized propaganda with titles like “The Home Economics Story,” “Appreciating Our Parents,” “Body Care and Grooming,” and, probably best of all, “A Date With your Family.” They gave me a unique window into the culture and mindset of the 1950s and 1960s, because they’re pure social engineering, there is no aspiration to art, or even commerce—what they’re selling is a way of (white, middle-class) life which was only imaginable in the years after WWII. Without the veneer of fiction or glossy actors, the naked desires of the 1950s are exposed, and they turn out to mostly be a desire for libidos to be “starched and pressed” and for people to remain as pleasant and surface-level as possible.

In this world, social survival must be bought by rigid conformity to a cultural standard. You do what you’re told, you respect authority in all of its forms, and you absolutely perm or oil your hair, respective of gender, exactly the way your peers perm or oil their hair. The uniformity of these shorts gave me a concentrated dose of mid-century American life—there is no irony, no self-reflection, no winking: this is what mainstream America wanted to look like. Or, more importantly, this is the ideal they wanted their children to make reality.

This is what my parents were raised to want to be.

And it’s fucking terrifying.

Naturally, being my parents, and very intelligent, they’ve spent their whole lives arguing with these ideals. And, thanks to the MSTies, I learned how to, too. The whole “no irony, no winking” thing? That extreme seriousness allowed the MST3K writers to create some of their darkest jokes and some of their most memorable riffs. With no characters or plot to worry about, they were free to focus on pure social critique. Many of the shorts turn into a battle between the Bots and the stern male narrators of the films. Crow particularly takes on the voice of the Narrator to subvert his insistence on conformity.

The shorts tend to focus on family life, cleanliness, and morality, but most of them have a solid throughline of guilt and shame. “Appreciating Your Parents” seems OK at first—a little boy realizes that his parents work hard, so he starts cleaning his room and helping with the dishes. So far, so good. But then you think about the fact that at the age of 7 this kid is saving his allowance because he’s worried about the family’s savings, and it becomes a much darker story. How much guilt has this kid internalized? Why are his parents letting him think that his weekly quarter is going to land them in debtor’s prison? Should an elementary school boy be hoarding money in Eisenhower’s America, or has Khrushchev already won?

Then there’s “A Date With Your Family.” This short takes the innocuous idea that families should try to sit and eat meals together, and turns it into a Lynchian nightmare of secrets and repressed sexuality.

The Narrator (Leave it to Beaver’s own Hugh Beaumont!) is especially angry. I had already watched this short many times, but this week I noticed something truly frightening: every emotion is qualified with the word “seems.” For instance:

Narrator: They speak with their dad as though they are genuinely glad to see him.

Crow [as Narrator]: They’re not, of course…”

I mean, seriously, would it have been so hard for the kids to just be glad to see their father? Then there’s this:

Narrator: They converse pleasantly while Dad serves.

Mike [as Daughter]: No, I—I’ll just have Saltines.

Narrator: I said “pleasantly,” for that is the keynote at dinnertime. It is not only good manners, but good sense.

Crow [as Narrator]: Emotions are for ethnic people.

Narrator: Pleasant, unemotional conversation helps digestion.

Servo [as Narrator]: I can’t stress “unemotional” enough.

“Dinner Don’ts” are illustrated, for instance when “Daughter” talks animatedly to her family for a few minutes.

This infuriates her father.

Narrator: Don’t monopolize the conversation and go on and on without stopping. Nothing destroys the charm of a meal more quickly.

Mike [as Narrator]: …than having a personality.

Meanwhile, the shorts that I group as Grooming = Morality are fanatical, and promote a basic Calvinist worldview that the better your exterior looks, the better your interior must be. The connection between being “neat” and “looking exactly like everyone else” is blatant in these films, but the shorts are so committed to shaming their actors for individuality that when the ‘bots play up the religious aspects in one like “Body Care and Grooming” it feels like they’re just reading between the lines:

Narrator: Clothes are important. Besides fitting well and looking well, the clothes should be appropriate for the occasion. Wearing inappropriate clothes, like these shoes—

Servo [as the Narrator]: —is immoral

Narrator: —is a sure way to make yourself uncomfortable… and conspicuous.

Crow: Expressing individualism is just plain wrong.

Then you hit the straight up Morality shorts like “Cheating.” In “Cheating”—Johnny lives in a perpetually dark home, where he sits beside a ticking Bergmanesque clock, with the faces of those he’s wronged floating before him.

I’m not kidding:

That’s ’cause he cheated on a math test. Really. That’s it. He didn’t murder his landlady, or participate in a genocide. He got a 92 on a math test instead of like an 80 or something. He gets kicked off the student council, and the kid who tells him the news seems actively happy.

This is the unforgiving world my parents grew up in, and that’s before you get to all the Pre-Vatican II Catholicism they had layered on top.

It’s obvious to say that by exaggerating the seriousness of the films, the MSTies point out their absurdity, but for me it was more that by making the shorts the subject of their strongest critique they show the hypocrisy of this worldview. This is the MSTies best use of talking back to the screen, to Dad, to Authority in general—and by highlighting the distance between my essential worldview (do what thou will under snark… and love, I guess) and the one my parents had been raised with, I was able to create a better language for talking with them.

Now, do you want to talk about women? We can’t even talk about race, because there are only white people in the universe of these short films—they’ve imagined a Wonder Bread-white world that completely ignores any of the actual social upheaval of their time. But we can talk about the fact that the gender relations in these things… well, they leave a bit to be desired. There’s the ordinary sexism on “A Date With Your Family”:

Narrator: The women of this family seem to feel that they owe it to the men of the family to look relaxed, rested, and attractive at dinnertime.

It gets worse. In “Body Care and Grooming,” we’re introduced to a boy who is studying in public.

The Narrator wants to distract him with romance for some reason, and hopes that a pretty girl will walk by. When she does, she’s making the classic blunder of thinking in public, reading and taking notes while she walks. She is shamed by the narrator for having uneven socks.

Body Care and Grooming

Look at this freak with her book and her thoughts. Disgusting.

Narrator: Sorry, Miss! We’re trying to a film about proper appearance, and, well, you’re not exactly the kind to make this guy behave like a human being!

Joel: [bitterly] You know, make him want to grope you and paw at you!

Once she is shamed into combing her hair and not carrying those dirty books around everywhere, she’s presented as an ideal:

“The Home Economics Story” is the worst offender, though. It was produced by Iowa State College to encourage girls to go on to higher education, which in 1951 was still pretty revolutionary. But it’s all undercut by the fact that any pure learning that is offered to the girls, like physics class, has to be justified with the disclaimer that girls will need the information to be better homemakers. The longest sequences in the short focus on childcare.

The tone is pretty well summed up at the end:

Narrator: Jean and Louise were leaving for their jobs in the city, so you all drove down to the train station to see them all.

Servo: And to re-enact the last scene from Anna Karenina.

My mom didn’t go for Home Ec; she did the secretarial track, and ended up being a very highly regarded key punch operator in Pittsburgh. But it’s good to know that her society condemned her for wanting to be financially stable.

One of the weird things with MST3K is that unlike a lot of humor, it’s all about empathy (especially in the Joel years) and one of their tropes was staying on the side of the downtrodden characters. This emphasis on empathy in turn informed my dealings with my parents, even when they were at their most Eisenhowerian. So thank you MST3K, for helping me understand my family a little better! It may sound silly, but watching these shorts made me waaay more patient when my parents worried about my dating habits and utter lack of interest in conformity, girl clothes, marriage, etc. And I think that, with a little bit of guidance from me, my parents have mostly recovered from being exposed to these films at an impressionable age.

And what about you, viewers at home? Are there any pieces of pop culture you wish to thank?

An earlier version of this article was published in November 2013 for MST3K’s 25th anniversary.

Leah Schnelbach has a lot more pieces of pop culture to thank, actually. But MST3K always wins. She’s also thankful for Twitter!

Good Omens, Part Five: Witchfinder Army, Assemble!

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Hello and welcome again to the Good Omens reread! This Monday, we’re tackling Friday. Pour yourself some coffee and strap in—here’s where things really start to go off the rails!

Summary

We begin with Famine and his vast empire of not-foods. He’s proud of his work—and, if we can be honest, he’s somewhat ahead of his time vis-à-vis the vast array of deadly diet foods he produces. It’s an incredible and lucrative feat. He stops to inspect a fast food restaurant he owns and is met by a delivery man who has something special for him: a nifty tool he’ll need for when the world truly begins to end. Delighted, Famine tips him well and heads directly to England.

Adam holds court with the Them, explaining all the exciting things he’s learned in the magazines Anathema has lent him. The Them are skeptical at first since all the New Age stuff doesn’t sound half as cool as it should. Aliens in UFOs should go around destroying planets, not bringing messages of peace and hope. That’s no fun at all. Adam coaxes them around to the idea in the end… and imparts information about Atlantis as well. Not bad for a day’s work.

Returning to Anathema, she’s back to pouring over maps and checking her ley lines in Tadfield. Something is going on here. She can feel it in her bones. As she works, the radio has a breaking news story about a nuclear power plant that has somehow lost its reactor. It’s a bizarre story but Anathema barely notices it. Her maps all point to something big happening in Tadfield. She’s so close to a breakthrough.

We next come to a small interlude concerning a private ship. It has run aground on a new bit of recently risen land covered in buildings shaped like pyramids; men in togas and diving helmets come aboard to visit. Thankfully, the International Maritime Codes book has a signal to communicate that you’ve just stumbled upon the lost city of Atlantis. Very handy.

Adam and his friends continue to wrestle with big, unwieldy ideas—a process which continues to produce consequences they have no idea about. Trying to bring them around to the idea of a Hollow Earth fails, but they all light up at the idea of secret tunnels full of Tibetan wise men.

And…here they come, finally! The Witchfinders make their glorious entrance into the story. Can’t have a story about a witch with no witchfinders, after all. They have an impressive, illustrious history but have since fallen on hard times. The Witchfinder army is vastly depleted and there are no more generals or admirals. There is only a Witchfinder Sargent and a poor, bored Witchfinder private. His name is Newt Pulsifer. He is more important than he could ever know. We meet both the marvelous Madame Tracy and Shadwell, Witchfinder Sargent extraordinaire. Shadwell drills Newt on the state of both his teeth and his soul, grumbles over the forces of evil, and we’re off to the races…

Aziraphale finally pulls himself away from Agnes’ book. It’s unusual for a seer to get this far. Usually Heaven throws up some misdirection, but Agnes seems to have flown entirely under their radar. Aziraphale is a smart angel who can put two and two together. One phone call later and he has the Antichrist’s location. Lower Tadfield. What a coincidence.

Joining the Witchfinders should have been exciting. Instead, Newt is stuck inside all day cutting out newspaper articles about suspicious goings on in England just in case. It’s boring, repetitive work. This isn’t quite what he had in mind when he joined, but, well, at this point he has to see it through. It’s part curiosity and part horrified interest. Despite himself, he likes Shadwell and feels for the old guy. What’s the harm in sticking around? It’s not like the world is going to end or anything. Witches don’t really exist. A call about Tadfield gives Newt the chance he needs to take a break from the newspapers and get some fresh air. He decides to head over on Saturday to check things out. It’s sure to be a nice, quiet day.

Commentary

We finally meet the Witchfinders! Shadwell is one of my favorite characters. He’s like something you would find in an old BBC comedy. I can imagine him so clearly in my mind, and can hear his accent clear as a bell. He springs fully formed off the page into your head. He’s fantastic. Madame Tracy is also wonderful. I love how she dotes on Shadwell even though he’s so surly to her. Newt is also an underrated charmer. He’s a little lost, a little oblivious, but he has heart. The three of them work perfectly together.

While the book was cowritten between Gaiman and Pratchett and we’ll never know for sure who is responsible for what, I can’t help but think that the Witchfinder army is all Pratchett. It just has his special brand of absurdity all over it; I could easily see them fitting into Discworld somehow. Imagine Granny Weatherwax going up against Shadwell! I’m sure it’s clear by now, but the Witchfinders are some of my favorite parts of the book. They’re just so goshdarn charming and hilarious. They’re the perfect comedic foil for the seriousness that’s just up ahead.

I also like the way the book gives us glimpses of what’s happening in the world due to Adam’s unwitting influence: just separate little vignettes of bizarre happenings tied in to whatever Adam and the Them happen to be talking about. The harder he tries to convince his friends that something is real, the more actually real it becomes. He has no idea what he’s doing and we actually starts to feel a kernel of curious dread growing, in spite of the humor. At some point he’s going to do something too big, too dangerous, and there will be hell to pay. Presumably. (Can you have heaven to pay?)

I’ve always found the Friday chapter to be the major turning point of the book. Now the pieces are well and truly coming together. We have all our characters assembled, and all signs are beginning to point to Tadfield. Aziraphale is now in the know about what’s happening and it’s only a matter of time until everything comes to a head. It’s impressive how the story balances its jovial, good-natured tone with the growing darkness and seriousness that’s beginning to seep through into the narrative. You can really see this with the Four Horsemen—every time one of them is on the page it’s sends chills up my spine. Think of the ramifications, in terms of what we’ve already seen: they’ve already racked up quite a body count, and they’re just getting started.

Gaiman and Pratchett are masters of their craft and their skill really comes to the fore in this chapter. Friday is the long, arduous journey to the top of the roller coaster. Now we’re perched on the highest arch of the hill, staring down at twists and loops we’re about to hurtle through at a breakneck pace. Right now there’s a moment of peace… but we can see what’s coming and we better brace ourselves.

Pun Corner

Despite being a slightly more serious chapter, there are still plenty of marvelous puns and jokes packed into every page. These are some of my favorites.

The Them nodded sagely. Of this at least they had no doubt. America was, to them, the place good people went to when they died. They were prepared to believe that just about anything could happen in America.

There’s a beautiful childlike innocence in this, especially since America’s number one export really seems to be pop culture. Hollywood has reached every corner of the globe and made America seem like a magical place. Funny how that works.

“All that lather comes up from the center of the Earth, where it’s all hot,” said Wensleydale. “I saw a program. It had David Attenborough, so it’s true.”

This is also how I think about David Attenborough. If he went into an empty glade in Scotland and said “here are the majestic Scottish unicorns, notice the difference in their hooves from the unicorns of Ireland” I’d believe him without a second thought.

“My granny used to put a glass against the wall,” said Brian. “She said it was disgustin’, the way she could hear everything that went on next door.”

I love Brian so much. This is just a perfect little sentence. It tells us so much with just a few words and I have to laugh every time I read it.

Even though it’s still Monday, we’re going to head into the weekend next! Saturday is a very long day so we’re breaking it up into manageable chunks. Read pages 189 to 230, ending on the sentence “It began to hail.” It’s going to be a wild ride, so buckle up!

Have a fantastic week and I will see you back here, same Bat-time, same Bat-channel for more Good Omens!

Meghan Ball is an avid reader, writer, and lifelong fan of science fiction and fantasy. When she isn’t losing to a video game or playing the guitar badly, she’s writing short fiction and spending way too much time on Twitter. You can find her there @EldritchGirl. She currently lives in a weird part of New Jersey.


The Crimes of The Crimes of Grindelwald

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Fantastic Beast: The Crimes of Grindelwald

The second of five Fantastic Beasts films has hit theaters, filling in gaps and corners of J.K. Rowling’s rebranded Wizarding World. But while the first outing charmed a fair number of viewers with Eddie Redmayne’s endearing turn as magical zoologist Newt Scamander (a portrayal that remains endearing throughout the sequel), The Crimes of Grindelwald fails to reproduce the fun of the original—and fills Rowling’s Potterverse with a slew of gaping holes.

These are the crimes of The Crimes of Grindelwald.

[Below contains SPOILERS for the entirety of Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald.]

 

First, some spoiler space, because we’re going off on this immediately.

 

 

Little more.

 

 

Oh hey here’s Dobby becoming a free elf. That was a great moment.

Dobby, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, sock

 

 

Alright. Let’s review some crimes of The Crimes of Grindelwald.

Crime #1: Queenie Goldstein Joins Wizard Fascism Because Jacob Won’t Marry Her?

Fantastic Beast: The Crimes of Grindelwald

Tina Goldstein’s sister, Queenie, shows up at Newt Scamander’s place at the start of the film to announce that she and Jacob Kowalski are getting married. Newt immediately notes that Queenie has placed a love enchantment on Jacob to force him to accompany her to London and agree to their engagement. He takes the enchantment off of Jacob, who proceeds to tell Queenie that he doesn’t think they should get married, and this precipitates Queenie’s fall to wizard fascism.

Wait, what?

Here’s Queenie’s arc as far as the film feels like explaining it to us; Jacob doesn’t want to get married because in the U.S. Queenie will be thrown in jail for marrying a No Maj; Jacob thinks the words “you’re crazy,” hurting Queenie’s feelings (remember, she can read thoughts), and she leaves; Queenie goes to the French Ministry to find her sister, but Tina’s not there; Queenie seems to have an anxiety attack at not being able to find her sister and hearing people’s thoughts as they pass her on the sidewalk; an agent of Grindelwald finds Queenie and takes her to their HQ; Grindelwald tells Queenie that he won’t hurt her, he just wants magic people to be free to live as they please; Queenie goes to his big meeting in the catacombs and Jacob finds her; she tells Jacob that they should just hear what Grindelwald has to say; after Grindelwald tells his followers his plan, he dismisses them to spread the word, and creates a ring of fire for true believers to walk through and join him; Queenie tells Jacob that they should join Grindelwald, but he emphatically disagrees; Queenie is broken-hearted, but joins Grindelwald alone.

What.

Look, it reads as though there’s a subtle theme around gaslighting here, or that was the intention, at least—Jacob first thinks, then outright says to Queenie, “You’re crazy,” which is a common diatribe from abusers when they’re trying to discredit victims and gaslight them into believing that they can’t trust their own faculties. There’s just one (no, several, there are several) problems here; Queenie started this tale by drugging her boyfriend in order to force him to marry her against his will.

That’s not cute, or even forgivable because she meant well. (Intent isn’t magic, even in the wizarding world.) Queenie took Jacob’s autonomy away because she disagreed with his decision that they shouldn’t get married; since they could get caught and she could get jailed. The answer to this situation is to a) continue to try and talk it out, b) decide that you’ll stay with your partner even if they won’t marry you, c) break up with your partner because you want different things, or d) start work in earnest to change the laws in your country around marriage. Drugging your boyfriend with a love enchantment appears nowhere on this list because it’s fucking immoral. Jacob is right and Queenie is wrong, and the fact that this character, who has previously only been depicted as sweet and caring, takes this rejection as a good enough reason to throw her lot in with Grindelwald is neither believable, nor sympathetic.

It’s a discredit to a character who was easily one of the most lovable in the previous film, and smacks of Rowling simply trying to create conflict among all characters. If Queenie is with Grindelwald, that gives Tina a more potent, personal reason to join the fight. But there were better ways to do this, and without completely dismantling how subversive Queenie managed to be from the start.

 

Crime #2: Leta Lestrange’s Entire Plot Arc is Painful and Insulting to the Audience

Fantastic Beast: The Crimes of Grindelwald

Where to begin with this? Because this is the part of the film that breaks my heart, and it’s hurtful all the way around. We were introduced to Leta Lestrange in the last film, a black woman who—as we know from the Potter books—is part of a family of soon-to-be Death Eaters. Newt loved her, but she was engaged to his brother. There was drama here, and questions that needed answering. They were answered.

And the answer was to let the audience know that Leta Lestrange was the result of brainwashing and rape—her mother was literally Imperiused and kidnapped away from her black husband and son because a white man wanted her. Leta was bullied and abused at Hogwarts, never able to find a support system or feel any form of belonging. Leta then makes the choice to die for the Scamander brothers in order to save them from Grindelwald. Why? Why would you take your only black female lead and toss her into an abyss so that the Scamander brothers can feel sad? This film is content to let all of its women go so that the stories of men can be uplifted; Leta is gone, so Newt can bond again with his brother in shared grief; Queenie is gone, so Jacob is now available to aid Newt in every scheme and mission he has going forward. 

There was a way to do this better, because the dynamics at work here could have served a larger scheme. Grindelwald believes that Leta will be eager to join him as an outcast, but to her, he’s just another white man who believes that he should possess anything he deems his own. She is too smart for that. She has suffered too much. In neglecting a larger part of Leta’s story, in refusing to show us more, and refusing to let her live, all of her potential is wasted. Here is a woman who has survived so much more than the majority of wizard-kind can fathom. And she disintegrated in magical fire because… because what? Because Theseus or Newt Scamander mattered more? Because they didn’t, frankly. Any woman who is keen to stand up to Albus Dumbledore’s willingness to turn a blind eye while students are tormented by their peers is a woman who I want to know better.

But for some unfathomable reason, Leta Lestrange was not deemed important enough to survive. And the movie is a wreck for her death. The only thing made less complex for her absence are Newt’s feelings for Tina Goldstein, as there’s no longer another person on earth who holds his heart. The filmmakers did wrong by their audience, and no amount of heroism going forward can fix the mistake.

 

Crime #3: Nagini’s Background is Ill-Considered and Underused

Fantastic Beast: The Crimes of Grindelwald

It was revealed in the lead up to the film that we would glean the background of Nagini, better known as Voldemort’s beloved snake pal and final horcrux of the Potter series. The reception of this piece of news was understandably negative overall, particularly for the realization that Nagini was not simply a powerful snake, but actually a Maledictus, a woman who is eventually trapped forever in a snake body. The problem is that the film is uninterested in answering any questions about Nagini, and what we do learn suggests that she would never be comfortable around someone like Voldemort (she is plainly nervous around pureblooded wizards, for one, which is a thing that Voldemort is super into). It is cruel to assign another woman of color to a position that guarantees her endless suffering, and that’s without ever even bringing Voldemort into the picture.

What’s worse is that Nagini only seems interested in the welfare of Credence Barebone throughout the film, as he’s the only person who ever seems to have been kind to her. As is, Nagini doesn’t belong in this narrative at all; she doesn’t contribute anything to the plot besides giving Credence someone to bounce off of. At the very least, she could have been given clear desires of her own, and a stake in the story, instead of trailing after someone else.

 

Crime #4: This Movie is So Damn Slow, Please, Please Just Make Something Happen

Fantastic Beast: The Crimes of Grindelwald

Very little actually happens in this film. It’s stuffed with things, with visuals and locations, to make you believe that things are happening. But they’re not. This movie never does in seconds what it can do in minutes. If you only considered the basic plot of the movie, it’s a miracle that it clocks in at more than 90 minutes. A film this long should be packed with so much more worldbuilding and character development. But it’s not. Even the dialogue pacing suffers for this. I found myself muttering at characters to talk faster, as all the obvious reveals were built up with unrelenting pauses that did nothing to increase tension so much as irritation.

 

Crime #5: Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald Suddenly Have a Blood Pact That Never Existed Before

Fantastic Beast: The Crimes of Grindelwald

Um, this is HUGE. And we really need to talk about how huge it is.

This alteration is a sizable retcon to the Potterverse that Rowling has seemingly chosen to ignore; at the end of the film, we find out that the commingled drops of Albus and Gellert’s blood that Grindelwald has been carrying around is a “blood pact” that they made in their youth to never fight each other. This pact is meant to be binding, as in, it’s the reason Dumbledore won’t fight his boyhood crush—he effectively can’t. There’s just a tiny problem with this:

Dumbledore and Grindelwald have already fought post-pact.

The last time Albus and Gellert saw one another was in the fight that resulted in the death of Ariana Dumbledore, Albus’s sister. There is no way that the two would have made a blood pact after that fight because Albus was completely distraught at the death of his sister, blaming himself for her loss for the rest of his life. This means that the blood pact occurred before Ariana’s death—but the fight that led to her demise was a three-way duel between Grindelwald, and Albus and Aberforth Dumbledore. So unless Rowling means to heavily retcon her own narrative (which she could disappointingly choose to do), Albus and Gellert have already dueled and this blood pact didn’t stop them.

Moreover, there’s only one reason to introduce this blood pact in the first place; it would seem that Rowling feels she needs to give a better reason as to why Albus avoided fighting Gellert for so many years. In the books, we know the reason why because he eventually tells Harry: He was afraid to face Grindelwald because it was a reminder of the death of his sister, a reminder that he might have dealt the killing blow, and fear that Grindelwald might be able to tell him if he’d truly done it. Subtextually, there’s another reason for Albus Dumbledore’s cowardice—he was in love with Grindelwald. Either of these reasons are not only understandable, they’re more compelling as character choices. The idea that Albus Dumbledore avoided his responsibility to stop one of the greatest fascists of the wizarding world out of fear and pain and love is far more interesting and frankly realistic than a ridiculous magical blood pact that never existed before.

But that’s what we’ve got to work with now. Hooray….

Crime #6: Albus Dumbledore Suddenly Has a Brother Who Never Existed Before

Credence Barebone has now been revealed as… Aurelius Dumbledore??? He has ostensibly been tending to the-phoenix-who-will-eventually-be-called-Fawkes for the entire film?

Folks, this is textbook bad retconning. Oh sure, there’s a secret Dumbledore brother that never existed before! That seems entirely plausible for us to never have heard about before even though a substantial portion of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows explores the history of Albus Dumbledore!

Of course, there’s every chance that Credence Barebone isn’t who Grindelwald says he is. (If nothing else, he seems far too young to be the brother of a nearly fifty-year-old Albus Dumbledore.) But if that turns out to be the case, he’s still probably related to someone else important in the series, and that reveal will only be more aggravating—oh, he’s Grindelwald’s son! He’s Newt lost twin! He’s a distant relative of the Potters! Just… stop. Please stop. All of these ideas are bad ideas. Credence has enough going for him on his own. We don’t need this.

Crime #7: Either Professor McGonagall Isn’t Professor McGonagall, or We Have a Huge Timeline Error

Fantastic Beast: The Crimes of Grindelwald

There are two moments in the film set at Hogwarts (one set in 1927, one in flashback when Newt Scamander was at school), when we see a teacher with a familiar Scottish accent who is named “Professor McGonagall” by Dumbledore. There’s just one problem; Minerva McGonagall—Transfiguration teacher, head of Gryffindor House, and eventually Hogwarts Headmistress—wasn’t born until 1935. She didn’t begin teaching at the school until the 1950s.

Oh, but it could be a relative! Yeah, but not likely. McGonagall gets her surname from her father, who was a Muggle. And her father was completely against Minerva’s mother using magic (this is part of Minerva’s tragic backstory, which is part of the explanation as to why she never married, I kid you not), so it’s extremely unlikely that she ever worked at Hogwarts under her married name. This is a gigantic, sloppy error that could easily have been rectified if anyone had cared to pay attention. Unless this turns out to be some weird time travel ploy—unlikely given its lack of importance in the plot—this is just a big gaping hole of “whoops, we didn’t double-check something that was really easy to double-check.”

Crime #8: Rowling Doesn’t Seem to Understand the Difference Between a Novel and a Film

Fantastic Beast: The Crimes of Grindelwald

Some writers can write both novels and screenplays—some cannot, or cannot reliably. And while J.K. Rowling has certain strengths that play into screenwriting (memorable dialogue, gorgeous visuals, strong sense of characters), there is one problem she has never been able to solve. And that’s—

—INFODUMPING THE ANSWER TO AN ENTIRE STORY’S WORTH OF MYSTERY IN THE SPACE OF THREE MINUTES WORTH OF DIALOGUE.

It works so well in the Prisoner of Azkaban novel. It works great in other Potter novels. It is unintelligible here. We get to the crypt and Leta Lestrange gets into her entire backstory and it’s way too much information to parse in the space of a few minutes. And then it gets cut off to bring the film to a hasty conclusion. In a book, the reader can pause. They can read sections over. They can write bullet journal entires that help them map out the plot. A movie is not a book. A movie requires slower exposition, and greater care toward how information is doled out. That is not what happens here, and the film suffers for it.

 

Crime #9: Nicolas Flamel Doesn’t Need to Be Here

Fantastic Beast: The Crimes of Grindelwald

I get the impetus to show us characters who will eventually be incredibly important to the Potter series because we know them, and it’s fun to see them. But Nicolas Flamel is the plot equivalent of a doorstop in this film. He’s just an elder statesman who helps other people figure out what to do and where to go, and not even in an interesting way. It’s disappointing.

Crime #10: Johnny Depp Needs to Stop

Fantastic Beast: The Crimes of Grindelwald

It’s aggravating having to get into this because every time you bring up what Depp’s situation is, you arouse vitriol from anyone who refuses to believe that the Hollywood former Golden Weird Boy is capable of making a mistake. But it doesn’t change the fact that he was accused of abuse by his ex-wife Amber Heard, had to settle the case, and that anyone can find evidence and accounts online that show that Depp continues to have an abuse problem. Warner Brothers, Yates, and Rowling stood by him nonetheless; they didn’t need to. They could have easily recast the part as they did for Dumbledore himself after Richard Harris passed away. Having to watch Depp manipulate people as Grindelwald into believing that he’s a good man was a pretty disgusting (and unintentional in the filmmaker’s minds) meta-commentary that no one should have to sit through.

Emily Asher-Perrin also doesn’t understand why Grindelwald needed such an anachronistic haircut, but what can we do. You can bug him on Twitter and Tumblr, and read more of her work here and elsewhere.

Racing the Wind with The Black Stallion

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Whenever the conversation turns toward horse movies, one of the first mentioned is always The Black Stallion. Everybody knows this one, and just about everybody loves it. It’s an icon.

Even horse people include it in their Best Of lists. Next to The Man From Snowy River, it’s an all time favorite. Many a horsekid imprinted on Arabians, and especially black Arabian stallions, because of this film.

It’s based on a book that’s just as beloved a classic, Walter Farley’s The Black Stallion. But it’s very much its own thing.

I was never a huge fan of it, though I acknowledged that it’s very pretty. The horse star, Cass Ole, is lovely, and Kelly Reno does an excellent job playing the seriously aged-down Alec. I have a low tolerance for Auteur Pretensions, and what felt like endless hours of swoopy music and dreamlike sequences on that beach made me wish he would just get on with it already.

But I’m a lousy spectator anyway. I’d far rather ride a horse than watch one being ridden. So I accept that I have this flaw in my character.

Rewatching it for SFF Equines was an interesting experience. All the rereading and film-watching I’ve been doing lately has given me a much larger immediate context, and since I saw it in the theater in 1979, closed captioning has become a thing. Not that it matters much at all in the first half of the film, since so much of it is without dialogue and the rest is mostly self-evident, but those extra bits of context do help.

What I hadn’t remembered from the last time I watched it somewhere back along on cable TV was how truly surreal the whole film is. I had it labeled in my head as “Beginning boooooring, end not so bad,” but the boring part is kind of eerily amazing if you watch it in the right frame of mind. Curled up on the couch on a very windy, chilly day, in between runs out to the barn to check on horses (wind chill is not a lot of fun for my very aged seniors, and let’s not even talk about the exploding shelter, the flapping blankets, the broken back door…), turned out to be just about perfect. I had completely forgotten the opening sequence on the ship, which has a distinct flavor of Raiders of the Lost Ark—two years before the latter film was released. It’s the image of the late Forties as dimly lit, smoky, and just barely legal, with unsubtle racist undertones, and groups of unsavory people gambling for high stakes in unusual settings.

Part of the loot that Alec’s dad wins is a clearly labeled and spotlighted Symbol, a stylized version of an ancient Greek votive horse. This comes complete with dad telling wide-eyed young Alec the story of his namesake Alexander and the wild back horse Bucephalus (or Boukephalas in the transliterated Greek) whom the king wanted to kill, but Alexander rode him and saved him and received him as a gift. (And continued to ride all across Asia, till he died at a grand age, about the same as my younger senior mare now I think of it, and was mourned with massive pomp, but that’s my geekery showing; the story never gets that far in the movie.)

Alec has a real-life horse to attach to the story: a furious stallion locked in the hold and guarded by a slimy Arab, who threatens Alec when he slips lumps of sugar to the horse through the tiny window of his shipping compartment. Then later, when the ship blows up and sinks, the slimy Arab mugs Alec and steals his life vest. Speaking of unsubtle racism.

And then the ship sinks and the horse tows Alec to a deserted beach, and we’re in for hours and hours and endless hours of dreamlike swimming, rock-clambering, fire-starting, and horse-bonding. With symbolic horse figurine nicely lined up in frame with the real horse who looks just like it.

The cinematography really is beautiful. Gorgeous. Breathtaking.

But man, as a horse person, I have questions.

Alec wakes up alone in the surf. In his pajamas. With handy pocket knife (more of the Significant Dad Loot) and horse figurine. It takes at least a day for him to sort himself out, and when he does, he finally finds the horse, tangled up in lines and spars, thrashing in the wet sand.

Which is very pretty and Alec saves him with handy pocket knife and yay, but man, if he’s been there for hours, he’s dead. He’s either broken a leg or his neck in his struggles or colicked fatally from stress or dehydration. And even supposing he’s a superhorse of iron constitution (as the vet at the end says about his leg) and he’s lasted this long without serious damage, there’s still the question of where he’s finding enough water to keep him going after he’s free, and what he’s eating, because they’re apparently there for weeks and he’s literally living on air.

Alec’s shell platter of wilted greens emphatically does not count. Horse stomachs are not made to deal with anything that’s “off” or fermented. One of the worst things you can feed them is lawn clippings, because once they start to wilt, they go toxic-to-horses. (Hay is a different proposition: it’s dried and cured before baling. Hay baled wet has similar problems to lawn clippings; mold and fermentation are bad, bad things for horses.) Alec has killed the horse.

Which is how I know the Auteur is not a horse person. He loves the aesthetics but he isn’t into the practical. A horse person would give the Black a hidden valley with enough grass and water to keep him going. Alec would bribe him with fresh grass.

It’s kind of amusing to see this horse, who is supposedly living on next to nothing, played by a glossy animal who is obviously very well fed. Cass Ole is extremely round and fat and sleek. He does get a few token tangles in that glorious mane, which is a good touch, but all that mane in the real world would be a hopeless mess of dreads and elflocks. Alec could keep himself occupied for days working out all the knots. And he’d be running back and forth endlessly with that shell, carrying water, unless the Black had found a spring (and grass or usable forage).

Once they’re off the island and into the suburban U.S., the action speeds up considerably, but the dreamlike tone persists. The Black shows up in the Ramsays’ backyard, to the great surprise of the neighbors, but he quickly escapes to a more suitable rural environment and the next phase of the story, with crusty old trainer Henry and his two weird friends like avatars of the Fates, and the old white horse Napoleon (who appears to be played by either another Arabian or an Andalusian—definitely not your basic street horse—and then there’s the symbolic significance of the white horse as spirit guide, which adds to the ambience).

The match race nicely takes care of the problem with racing “the fastest horse in the world” against more conventional racehorses. Here is a whole world of Arabian racing, but that’s not mentioned. The racehorses in the film are Thoroughbreds, and that means, apart from individual challenges like the one the Black party-crashes, no horse can enter a race without Jockey Club papers. Definitely no horse who is obviously not a Thoroughbred, papers or not.

The race being two miles long is a little bit wicked, because Thoroughbreds in general are milers. The longest Triple Crown race is a mile and a half, and that’s considered lengthy. Adding another half-mile puts it into longer distance territory, and that’s where the Arabian begins to claim his place.

The Arabian is the premier marathon runner of the horse world. Endurance races are dominated by Arabians. Twenty-five, fifty, a hundred miles—you want that legendary stamina and that slow burn of speed. The Quarter Horse is the sprinter, with his blazing speed over a quarter-mile, but he poops out quickly. The Thoroughbred is the champion of the mile and a bit, and he’s pretty damn good at steeplechases and eventing courses, too. But when the Thoroughbred is running out of steam, the Arabian has just barely started to run.

It’s a great movie race, with bonus stallion fight and nasty injury to the Black—who flat refuses to let Alec turn him around or stop him (good horseman, that kid is) and who runs his heart out from far behind and takes the race. Hence the comment which I sincerely appreciate, with the vet wrapping up the leg and declaring it’s made of iron. Somebody cared to include that scene, for all the horse people who would worry.

In the end, as I watched the credits roll, I realized that this is another great fantasy film disguised as a “realistic” story. It’s all about the dream of bonding with the wild horse, the beautiful black stallion who carries the helpless rider off wherever he pleases: the pooka, the kelpie, the creature of the Otherworld who comes into ours in order to capture a human. But the human meets him halfway and captures him just as securely.

When Alec is carried off from the island, protesting mightily at leaving the horse behind, the the Black makes a visibly difficult choice and follows. Their long, long sequence on the beach is about the bond, the love between horse and his chosen person. They tame each other. They dance together. The human learns to ride from the horse (with many falls and stumbles), until finally they fly together. And that’s how the match race ends: Alec drops the reins, spreads his arms, and lets the horse carry him, flying free.

It’s every horsekid’s fantasy. She knows the connection between horse and human, combining two separate minds and bodies into a single powerful being. She’s felt the wind of his speed in her face. She knows what it’s like to fly.

Judith Tarr is a lifelong horse person. She supports her habit by writing works of fantasy and science fiction as well as historical novels, many of which have been published as ebooks by Book View Cafe. She’s even written a primer for writers who want to write about horses: Writing Horses: The Fine Art of Getting It Right. Her most recent short novel, Dragons in the Earth, features a herd of magical horses, and her space opera, Forgotten Suns, features both terrestrial horses and an alien horselike species (and space whales!). She lives near Tucson, Arizona with a herd of Lipizzans, a clowder of cats, and a blue-eyed dog.

Rereading the Vorkosigan Saga: Captain Vorpatril’s Alliance, Chapters 10 and 11

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Possibly the most influential thing I read this week was this review of Netflix’s new holiday movie, The Princess Switch. I am no more likely to watch The Princess Switch than I was before I read the review—television takes a looooong time, ya’ll. I’ve got some pretty major commitments on the pie crust front this week before I get too busy celebrating the winter holidays to watch movies about other people who are also celebrating the winter holidays. But I strongly recommend the review which a) was a hoot and a half and b) made me a happier person.

Why is that here, in this blog post about Captain Vorpatril’s Alliance, a book that is not on Netflix, and is also not set at the winter holidays? Because holiday movies are made of tropes that make us feel warm and fuzzy, and Captain Vorpatril’s Alliance is also made of these tropes. We are very much in the section of the book where we roam from scene to scene feeling warm and fuzzy.

It’s not a surprise either! We had the hilarious first meeting where Ivan struck out with an ugly vase because statistics are not on his side. We had the kidnapping and the rescue. We had some scrumptious takeout while our young not-yet-lovers got to know each other. We had a surprise wedding, and a kind-of-sort-of honeymoon. We had dinner with Ivan’s mom, which was very nearly a second abduction—her driver, Christos, didn’t have an arrest warrant and appeared willing to lay siege to Ivan’s living room for however long it took. Chapter 10 opens with the makeover sequence, not that we get to see much of it—we’re just assured that Tej and Rish are properly dressed for Barrayar now. Lady Alys wasn’t directly personally involved because she had to work that morning, but she sent her personal secretary/dresser.

This section of the book starts to widen the circle into Ivan’s annoying, but relatively non-threatening friends and relations. We’re going beyond By—By has been around since the beginning of the book. Rish is dating him now. Dating By gives Rish an option other than Ivan’s couch. In her circumstances, I would also give By serious consideration. He’s guaranteed at least one dinner just for the chance to not awkwardly pretend to sleep in the living room while the newlyweds simultaneously consummate their union and plot their divorce.

In Chapter 10, Tej tells the whole story to Gregor. Since we, as readers, have just read the first ten chapters of the book, this is primarily a chance for us to catch up with Miles’s household. He’s currently holding steady at two babies plus Nikolai. Ekaterin got an amazing mural artist from the South Continent to re-do the front hall floor at Vorkosigan House—not because bug butter leaves permanent stains, but because the floor had some sad visual associations for Countess Vorkosigan. I can’t remember what those sad associations are. Um. Miles was injured there a few times? Negri died at Vorkosigan Surleau, so it wasn’t that. Anyway, the new floor is amazing—it features lots of plants. Some of the stones in the mural came from the Vorkosigan District. Little Sasha (Aral Alexander) is toddling, and has learned to take off all his clothes. Ivan finds this alarming. We don’t get to see Helen Natalia on this visit, because she’s sleeping. She is alleged to be more verbal than her brother. Nikki has a lot of homework. They’re all going to be decamping to Sergyar for a visit in the near future.

Gregor is in the library. He has a nice smile, and he and Laisa have jointly produced a few sons. This seems like an opportune moment to address the question of whether the Council of Counts would ever accept a female heir to the Imperium. In my opinion, which carries all the authority and weight of any opinion belonging to someone other than Lois McMaster Bujold, the answer is of course, eventually. I think they’ll need some time to get used to it, and several female heirs to countships first. The Counts are an inherently conservative body, but they have been willing to innovate when they feel it is in their best interests to do so. They didn’t really like confirming Rene and Dono. Since they did that, a number of other Barrayarans have been found who also have Cetagandan genes. The counts are starting to get used to the idea that a twenty year occupation left a genetic mark on Barrayar. Purging the Cetagandan element from Barrayaran society would be a dark and violent chapter in Barrayaran history, and they don’t seem to have a leader willing to call for that at this time.

Every now and then Barrayar surprises me.

The Counts weren’t happy confirming Dono either. They only did it to punish Richars for the crimes he tried to commit. The Counts of Barrayar took a vote and decided against political violence. They didn’t have to! But they did. Because they have decided they don’t like people making politics with a few quick slashes in a parking garage. I can think of a significant number of Barrayaran politicians who would have been happy to resolve their political conflicts with a few quick slashes in a parking garage. This is a really new generation of Barrayaran politicians. They think of themselves as conservative, but they value stability more than tradition. Sometime in the next twenty years, they will be forced to ask themselves which course best promotes stability: letting women succeed to countships, or seeing a number of people get sex change surgery in order to succeed to countships? They might not like either choice. But have you SEEN Barrayaran women? I think they’re going to push the point. Once there are a significant number of women in the Council of Counts, I anticipate changes to the laws of succession to eliminate male primogeniture as the default. If nothing else, the succession laws are a political bargaining chip that someone will want to use in pursuit of other goals. A Count who doesn’t want his title to pass to his oldest daughter will still be able to supersede primogeniture by confirming a different heir during his lifetime. Probably. I don’t know what they’ll come up with, but I suspect they’ll keep that.

None of that happens in this book. Instead, we get a Ma Kosti tea, delivered on a train of little trolleys. Ivan drools a little. Gregor has three miniature cream cakes. Oh, Gregor. Ekaterin offers the new Lady Vorpatril her support in finding her way in Barrayaran high society, and gives a tour of the dining room and garden. No one mentions butter bugs. Oh, and Tej’s brother is working with the Duronas. What a coincidence!

In Chapter 11, Ivan and Tej join Alys and Simon in making a memorial offering to Padma Vorpatril, who died the day Ivan was born, just shortly after the tea where Gregor’s mother drew the line at a third cream cake. Which demonstrates my point about the Barrayaran peace being sturdier these days. It doesn’t change the incontrovertible fact that Padma died of Barrayaran violence, though, or that Ivan’s birthday has always begun with an offering burned in the middle of the street. For thirty-five years. Ivan is older now than his father will ever be, and Tej is the same age Lady Vorpatril was when she became a mother and a widow. This scene makes me think of Romeo and Juliet. I realize that many readers—both of Shakespeare’s play and of Bujold’s books—might find this weird, but bear with me: Romeo and Juliet is a play about the impact that civil conflict has on young love, and there’s some pressure on Juliet to get married to promote her family’s political goals. Theoretically, there’s some pressure on Romeo too, but the play doesn’t have a scene where Romeo’s dad tells him to look hard at the nice lady he’s about to meet because his biological clock is ticking. That’s special for Juliet.

Alys went through blood and fire on the day that Ivan was born. She blames Padma. She says he went out not so much to find help for her, but to find relief for his own fear about what she was going through. If he had been braver and stayed with her, he wouldn’t have been caught, and they could have lived out the last days of the Pretendership safely in hiding. Alys has been angry ever since.

I notice no one is lauding Bothari’s skill as a midwife.

Alys is ready to let go. The bakery they used to go to afterwards has closed, and Alys and Ivan don’t even lament it. Ivan says it had gone downhill. Alys says his palate grew more educated. It doesn’t matter. The bakery, originally chosen for its convenience, has closed. Ivan has grown up. Alys has moved on.

Having attended to tradition with his mother, Ivan takes Tej and Rish to dinner with Duv and Delia in the evening. They talk about the first time Ivan was kidnapped. Also, Duv has written some chapters in a new Barrayaran history. He has a PhD, remember? He and Delia also have toddlers at home. Toddlers are very popular on Barrayar this season. I appreciate everyone’s restraint in not asking Ivan and Tej about their reproductive plans.

That’s the beginning of Chapter 12, but it seems like a good place to stop for the week. Best Thanksgiving wishes to readers in the US! Join me next week when Tej learns to drive!

Ellen Cheeseman-Meyer teaches history and reads a lot.

Reading the Wheel of Time: A Shepherd is Growing Up in Robert Jordan’s The Great Hunt (Part 17)

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Despite a fire that almost takes Hurin’s life, the pacing of Chapters 30 and 31 of The Great Hunt have a slightly slower feel to them, perhaps because they aren’t packed quite as full of new information as the few chapters previous. As a result, our characters have a bit of a chance to breathe and take stock of themselves, and since that pause is coinciding with the reunion of Loial, Hurin, and Rand, with the party they were so abruptly separated from back in Chapter 13, we get to see the interplay of a lot of relationships and observe, as Perrin does, how things are beginning to change for Rand. A lot of questions still remain to be answered, including how long Mat can go on without the dagger and what Verin is really after, but first let’s check in with Rand and the others after the harrowing ordeal in the Illuminator’s chapter house.

Chapter 30 finds Rand with Loial and Hurin in their room. Rand is concerned by Hurin’s growing formality, and tries to remind the sniffer that Hurin didn’t used to be so distant and formal with him, but Hurin won’t unbend, only repeating that they must show that they know how to be just as proper as the Cairhienin. A knock at the door interrupts their discussion, and Master Cuale presents Rand with two more invitations. Rand gets rid of him quickly and tosses the parchments aside, asking Loial if he thought that the innkeeper could have been listening at the door. Neither the Ogier nor Rand thinks that he could have heard anything he shouldn’t, but even wondering makes Rand realize that Hurin isn’t the only one who is starting to think more like a Cairhienin.

Hurin tries to draw Rand’s attention to the invitations, eventually getting through to him that these aren’t like the others; they are from Galldrian, the King, and from Lord Barthanes, a noble second only to the King in power. Burning them won’t work this time, and in fact has only worked with the others because everyone is waiting to see why Rand would dare do such a thing. Hurin tells him that even declining won’t work; if the other houses see that Rand isn’t allied with anyone, they will feel free to answer the insult of burning their invitations.

Loial offers the option of accepting both invitations, but Hurin shoots that idea down as well, telling them about the bitter rivalry between House Riatin and House Damodred. As soon as either gets wind that Rand has answered them both, or just their enemy, they will have him killed for sure. Rand considers the problem for a while, then decides that he will allow himself to be seen in the common room with both invitations, with the seals unbroken, to let the news get back to the Houses that he has not yet answered either one. That, he hopes, will buy him at least a few more days, and perhaps Ingtar will come in the meantime.

Rand and Loial leave the inn, after executing the little maneuver with the invitations, and begin discussing the thorny problem of how to leave the city if Ingtar doesn’t show up. They can’t leave with someone else, and Rand doesn’t believe they can fight off the Trollocs again, even though their numbers must be greatly reduced by now. Even trying to leave by boat seems impossible; Fain would risk the Trollocs being seen before he let them escape, and even if they survived their would be questions, and they definitely cannot let any of the Cairhienin see the chest. Loial muses that it is too bad they can’t reach Stedding Tsofu, as Trollocs would never enter a stedding.

They reach the same guardhouse they checked in at when they first arrived in the city, and Rand goes straight to the back to converse with a man at the desk. They proceed to have a conversation that Rand has clearly had many times before; the man at the desk manages to be deferential to the point of obsequiousness without being at all helpful. Rand asks whether Ingtar has arrived, and after the Lady Selene, and the man tells him that no foreigners have arrived in the city and that it is very difficult to locate someone without knowing their House. Rand catches sight of Captain Caldevwin out of the corner of his eye, but when he asks to speak to him, the man at the desk feigns ignorance. They leave, Rand frustrated, Loial resigned.

Rand remarks angrily to Loial that the man was lying, that Caldevwin was there and Ingtar could be as well, looking for them. Rand guesses that the clerk probably knows who Selene is, too.

Loial suggests that Daes Dae’mar might have something to do with the man’s deception, and Rand responds that he is tired of hearing about the Great Game, that he doesn’t want to play it or be any part of it. But Rand understands that they think he is a Lord, and in Cairhien, even outland lords are part of the Game. He wishes aloud that he’d never put on the red heron coat.

Rand grumpily thinks that it’s Moiraine’s fault, but then quickly has to admit that she can’t be blamed for what is happening to him. There was always a reason “to pretend to be what he was not,” first to comfort Hurin, then to impress Selene. Rand tells Loial that he thought things were going to be simple again, once Moiraine let him go, and Loial reminds him that he is ta’veren. Rand tries to brush that off, repeating that he just wants to give the dagger to Mat and the Horn to Ingtar, but in his head he remembers that there is still the issue of saidin, possibly going mad, and almost certainly dying.

And Rand doesn’t want to die. He mutters aloud that Owen almost made it, but when Loial asks what he said, Rand only responds that he wishes Ingtar would come. And Mat and Perrin.

They continue walking, Rand musing about Owen and the prospect of avoiding touching saidin, until Loial interrupts his musings to point out that there is a fire up ahead of them. Instantly Rand realizes that Hurin is in danger, and the two take off towards The Defender of the Dragon Wall. They find Cuale outside of the inn, directing men as they save furniture from the building while flames burst from the rooftop. Cuale distractedly admits that he hasn’t seen Hurin, and Loial points out to Rand that Hurin would not have left the inn without the chest.

Rand runs into the building, followed by Loial, and they find minimal smoke on the lower level. But the upstairs area is blazing, and although Rand tries to send Loial back outside to wait, the Ogier reminds Rand that he can’t possible carry Hurin and the chest by himself. Plus, he wants to save his books.

Keeping low under the worst of the smoke, they manage to make it to the door of Hurin’s room, which isn’t burning yet, although it is hot to the touch. Inside they find a mostly unconscious Hurin, who manages to vaguely communicate that he opened the door to what he thought were more invitations, before passing out in Rand’s arms. Loial discovers that the chest is gone, then decides that he must leave his books to burn in order to sling Hurin across his back so that they can crawl back out. Rand starts to follow the Ogier when he suddenly remembers the Dragon banner.

Let it burn, he thought, and an answering thought came as if he had heard Moiraine say it. Your life may depend on it. She’s still trying to use me. Your life may depend on it. Aes Sedai never lie.

With a groan, he rolled across the floor and kicked open the door to his room.

Rand manages to make his way through the burning room and find his saddlebags, still undamaged, the banner of the Dragon and the flute from Thom still nestled safely inside. He just manages to get out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the inn with the saddlebags, where he finds Loial and a woman with a damp cloth tending to the still-unconscious Hurin. Rand calls for a Wisdom, then, realizing no one in Cairhienin recognizes the word, offers various other titles he’s heard people use. The woman tending to Hurin answers that she is a Reader, but that she doesn’t know what to do for Hurin other than make him comfortable. She fears that “something is broken inside his head.”

Just then, Rand hears a familiar voice saying his name, and turns to see Mat approaching. Mat, and Perrin, and Ingtar too. He tells them, hysterically, that they came too late, and then sits down in the middle of the street and begins to laugh.

Verin appears, taking Rand’s face in her hands, and he feels the effects of her healing, like a cold tingle, and stops laughing. Rand watches her, suspicious, as she turns to tend to Hurin, while Mat demands to know where they went, how they just disappeared, and how they arrived at Cairhien so far ahead of them. He explains that a man at the gate took their names, and clearly recognized Ingtar’s, although he pretended not to. Verin showed him her Aes Sedai ring and then whispered something in his ear, which changed the man’s attitude entirely, and he told them everything.

Rand answers that it’s too long of a story to explain at the moment, noticing how gaunt and sick Mat seems, despite his grin. He asks after Uno and the other men—Mat answers that they are staying in the Foregate—and mentions that they need them. This leads Mat to ask why, and if Rand found “them.”

Conscious of all the people listening to and watching them, Rand answers carefully that he found the dagger and the other thing, but that the Darkfriends took it back. Ingtar turns away, angry enough to make some of the rubbernecking Cairhienin back off.

Mat chewed his lip, then shook his head. “I didn’t know it was found, so it isn’t as if I had lost it again. It is just still lost.” It was plain he was speaking of the dagger, not the Horn of Valere. “We’ll find it again. We have two sniffers, now. Perrin is one, too. He followed the trail all the way to the Foregate, after you vanished with Hurin and Loial. I thought you might have just run off… well, you know what I mean. Where did you go? I still don’t understand how you got so far ahead of us. That fellow said you have been here days.”

Rand glanced at Perrin—He’s a sniffer?and found Perrin studying him in return. He thought Perrin muttered something. Shadowkiller? I must have heard him wrong. Perrin’s yellow gaze held him for a moment, seeming to hold secrets about him. Telling himself he was having fancies—I’m not mad. Not yet.he pulled his eyes away.

Meanwhile, Verin is helping Hurin up. The sniffer declares he feels great, except for a little fatigue, and the Reader woman recognizes Verin as an Aes Sedai. That word travels through the crowd, causing Rand to fully notice all the attention they are getting. He asks if they have rooms yet, and Verin tells them of an inn she has stayed at before. Loial fetches their horses, and Rand, Hurin, and the Ogier fall in with the rest as Rand begins to question Hurin about the sniffer’s ability to find the trail of those who took the chest. Hurin believes that he can, and Rand begins to form a plan when he notices everyone looking at him and realizes that he has been acting like the leader of the party, even though Ingtar is back.

Embarrassed, Rand makes an apology to Ingtar.

“…. It’s just that I’ve become used to being in charge, I suppose. I’m not trying to take your place.”

Ingtar nodded slowly. “Moiraine chose well when she made Lord Agelmar name you my second. Perhaps it would have been better if the Amyrlin Seat had given you the charge.” The Shienaran barked a laugh. “At least you have actually managed to touch the Horn.”

After that they rode in silence.

They arrive at Verin’s inn, the Great tree, where the innkeeper knows Verin and welcomes her, clearly aware that she is Aes Sedai although she never says the title aloud. Rand is given a room and has a bath, musing on his suspicions of Verin and how he is certain she’s a tool that Moiraine sent to watch and manipulate him. In the bundle of his other clothes that had been left with the Sheinaran pack horses, he finds coats that are just as ornate as the one ruined in the fire; Rand chooses a black one with silver herons and silver rapids down the sleeves.

He finds the invitations in his pockets as well as Selene’s letters, and considers how ridiculous it is for him, a shepherd and male channeler, doomed to go mad after being used by the Aes Sedai, to be interested in a beautiful noblewoman.

“I am a shepherd,” he told the letters, “not a great man, and if I could marry anyone, it would be Egwene, but she wants to be Aes Sedai, and how can I marry any woman, love any woman, when I’ll go mad and maybe kill her?

Words could not lessen his memory of Selene’s beauty, though, or the way she made his blood go warm just by looking at him. It almost seemed to him that she was in the room with him, that he could smell her perfume, so much so that he looked around, and laughed to find himself alone.

“Having fancies like I’m addled already,” he muttered.

Rand abruptly puts the letters into a lamp’s flame and then drops them into the empty fireplace to watch them burn.

In a private dining room, Mat juggles boiled eggs and Perrin considers the fact that he knows Rand is the Shadowkiller of whom the wolves spoke, and wonders what is happening to all of them. Rand enters, sitting beside Verin, and Ingtar informs him that Hurin went to see if he could pick up the Darkfriend’s trail before inquiring if Rand would prefer to follow them in the morning or that very night. Rand again assures Ingtar that he wasn’t trying to assume command, but Ingtar doesn’t respond and Perrin notes that Rand doesn’t sound nearly as uncomfortable as he would have before.

Verin asks how Rand and the others vanished from the camp, mentioning that the clerk at the guardhouse told them that Rand had arrived a week before them, and for that to be true, he would have had to fly. Perrin finds himself coming to Rand’s defense, pointing out that obviously Rand didn’t fly, and that maybe he has more important things to tell them.

Rand gave him a grateful look, too, and Perrin grinned at him. He was not the old Rand—he seemed to have grown into that fancy coat; it looked right on him, now—but he was still the boy Perrin had grown up with. Shadowkiller. A man the wolves hold in awe. A man who can channel.

“I don’t mind,” Rand said, and told his tale simply.

Perrin finds himself gaping at the story, and when Mat asks if Selene brought them back by one of the Portal Stones, Rand answers that she must have, and continues to explain how they arrived ahead of Fain’s party and managed to steal back the chest before riding to take shelter in Cairhien and await the others’ arrival.

Perrin accidently says the name Shadowkiller aloud, although no one but Rand seems to hear him. He realizes that he wants to tell Rand about the wolves; he knows Rand’s secrets, and it is only fair that Rand should know Perrin’s. But Verin is there so Perrin keeps silent.

Verin is interrupted in her musings about Rand’s story by the arrival of dinner.

Perrin smelled lamb even before Mistress Tiedra led in a procession bearing trays of food. His mouth watered more for that than for the peas and squash, the carrots and cabbage that came with it, or the hot crusty rolls. He still found vegetables tasty, but sometimes, of late, he dreamed of red meat. Not even cooked, usually. It was disconcerting to find himself thinking that the nicely pink slices of lamb that the innkeeper carved were too well done. He firmly took helpings of everything. And two of the lamb.

It was a quiet meal, with everyone concentrating on his own thoughts. Perrin found it painful to watch Mat eat. Mat’s appetite was as healthy as ever, despite the feverish flush to his face, and the way he shoveled food into his mouth made it look like his last meal before dying. Perrin kept his eyes on his plate as much as possible, and wished they had never left Emond’s Field.

After they eat, Verin has them wait for Hurin’s return, in case he tells them that they need to move at once. Mat juggles while Rand and Loial read, and Perrin plays stones with Ingtar. He surprises the Shienaran by playing more quickly and aggressively than he normally does, impressing Ingtar. Then Hurin arrives and informs them that he followed the Darkfriends trail to “their lair” where he also found the scent of Trollocs, and that the hideout is Lord Barthanes’s new manor house.

Ingtar is shocked that someone like Lord Barthanes could be a Darkfriend, but Verin reminds him that the high as well as the low can be susceptible to the draw of the Shadow. They discuss possible plans for attacking the place, but it is too well guarded for their forces alone, and Mat’s suggestion of involving the King, Barthanes’s enemy, is deemed a good one except for the fact that Galldrian would definitely take the Horn for himself.

Verin suggests that, as an Aes Sedai, she might be able to obtain an invitation to Lord Barthanes’s new manor. At this, Hurin says that Rand already has such an invitation, and Rand silently hands it over.

Ingtar came to look wonderingly over her shoulder at the seals. “Barthanes, and…  And Galldrian! Rand, how did you come by these? What have you been doing?”

“Nothing,” Rand said. “I haven’t done anything. They just sent them to me.” Ingtar let out a long breath. Mat’s mouth was hanging open. “Well, they did just send them,” Rand said quietly. There was a dignity to him that Perrin did not remember; Rand was looking at the Aes Sedai and the Shienaran lord as equals.

Perrin shook his head. You are fitting that coat. We’re all changing.

“Lord Rand burned all the rest,” Hurin said. “Every day they came, and every day he burned them. Until these, of course. Every day from mightier Houses.” He sounded proud.

Verin remarks that sometimes the Pattern provides what you need even before you know you need it, and breaks the seal to read the invitation. After a moment she declares that it will do very well, but Rand is more concerned about how he could possibly pass for a Lord. He reminds them that he is just a farmer, but neither Hurin nor Ingtar looks very convinced, and Perrin notes that even Mat seems to recognize the change in Rand. Perrin tells Rand he believes in him.

Verin adds that people see what they expect to see, and tells Rand to look them in the eye and speak firmly… the way he has been speaking to her. Anything he says that is out of place can be attributed to the fact that he is an outlander, and that if he remembers how he conducted himself in front of the Amyrlin, that will help too. Arrogance always makes someone seem like a Lord.

One of the suggested dates in the invitation is the following night, and although Ingtar chafes at the delay, Verin calmly points out that they can keep watch in the meantime, and that the chest being moved would probably favor them rather than cause more problems.

“Perhaps so,” Ingtar agreed grudgingly. “I just do not like to wait, now that the Horn is almost in my hands. I will have it. I must! I must!”

Hurin stared at him. “But, Lord Ingtar, that isn’t the way. What happens, happens, and what is meant to be, will—” Ingtar’s glare cut him off, though he still muttered under his breath, “It isn’t the way, talking of ‘must.’ ”

Ingtar stiffens, but only turns to Verin to point out that if Rand doesn’t answer the invitation, it might be considered an affront that will deny them entry, while if he does, it could result in Fain finding out about it and setting a trap. Verin answers that they will surprise Barthanes, and that she is certain he will want to see Rand in any case. Then she mentions to Rand that the letter observes that Rand took an interest in one of the King’s projects—it takes Rand a minute before he remembers the giant statue.

Rand asks what it is, and Verin explains that it is a sa’angreal.

She sounded as if it were really not very important, but Perrin suddenly had the feeling the two of them had entered a private conversation, saying things no one else could hear. “One of a pair, the two largest ever made, that we know of. And an odd pair, as well. One, still buried on Tremalking, can only be used by a woman. This one can only be used by a man. They were made during the War of the Powers, to be a weapon, but if there is anything to be thankful for in the end of that Age or the Breaking of the World, it is that the end came before they could be used. Together, they might well be powerful enough to Break the World again, perhaps even worse than the first Breaking.”

Rand doesn’t let on, but Perrin can tell that he is scared, and Ingtar sounds alarmed and insists that Galldrian must be warned about what he is doing. But Verin doesn’t think it’s a problem; the two statues must be wielded in unison to break the World, and she can think of only a few women who are strong enough to survive the flow through the one at Tremalking—the Amyrlin, Moiraine, Elaida, maybe one or two others, and three still in training—and that Logain would have had all he could do just to not be burnt to a cinder. She tells Ingtar that he doesn’t need to worry, at least until the Dragon Reborn proclaims himself, and then they’ll all have more pressing matters to worry about.

Perrin and Mat can both tell that she is talking to Rand, and Perrin hopes desperately that Rand will not let her use him. Rand tells Verin simply that they will find the Horn and the dagger, and then it is done. But Verin’s answering smile gives Perrin a chill, and he thinks that Rand doesn’t know half of what he thinks he does.

 

I wonder if Rand’s ability to pick up skills so quickly is directly part of him being the Dragon Reborn, or if it’s just who he is outside of his reincarnated destiny. Because it isn’t only that he’s forgotten his reluctance to be in charge, he’s also gotten better at command, and pretty quickly, too. Just like turning his hand to flute playing, just like studying swordplay with Lan, Rand seems to learn very quickly when he needs to. And while the void technique is a quick way to increase his prowess with the sword, it’s not like he’s using that to figure out Daes Dae’mar, or to make choices about how long to wait for Ingtar, or to figure out how to keep the chest and dagger safe, or to become someone who knows how to use the skills of those who follow him to their best advantage. Rand hasn’t actually been away from Ingtar all that long, but the change is profound enough that even Mat is noticing the difference. And Rand is noticing it too.

It’s not just competency either. Rand is also starting to realize that it isn’t entirely Moiraine’s responsibility that he can’t escape this identity as a Lord and the responsibility that keeps coming with it. He doesn’t want to think about being ta’veren or about his ability to channel, but neither of those things are Moiriane’s fault any more than the accident of his name sounding like nobility to the Shienarans or the fact that Hurin and Loial needed his leadership. Rand doesn’t yet realize the full extent of how much fate is going to shape his life, but he’s already starting to accept that he can’t shove the blame for it onto other people. It’s a very mature realization to be coming to, and one that will serve him well as his role as leader continues to grow. His decision to go into the burning room for the Dragon banner might have been solely because of Moiriaine’s words to him, but I wouldn’t be surprised if some part of Rand is also beginning to change in his attitudes toward the possibility of his being the Dragon. Not consciously yet, I don’t think, but perhaps in subtle ways he is accepting some of the burden of that responsibility, just as he did for the command of Loial and Hurin, just as he did in stealing the Horn back from Fain. Rand doesn’t want to be the Dragon, and he doesn’t want to be a lord, but since the latter is beginning to come more easily to him, perhaps the former will as well, in time.

It’s even possible that  Hurin’s increased formality is also a response to the fact that Rand has begun to act more like a nobleman, and not solely from a need to impress the Cairhienin. When they met, Hurin saw Rand as a lord because of his name and clothing, but in their time together Rand has conducted himself more and more like the person Hurin takes him to be, assuming responsibility for their adventures, protecting his company, and providing a stability and guidance that Hurin clearly desires. Rand might not even realize the little ways in which he is approaching Hurin differently; true, he still wishes that Hurin would knock off the “my Lord” and the bowing, but he seems pretty unaware that he’s treating Verin and Ingtar as equals, and he may be giving off similar vibes to Hurin as well.

I was proud of Rand for burning Selene’s letters; it’s another sign of maturity on his part that he recognizes what effect her presence has on him and is choosing to try to take control of that. He isn’t even as suspicious of Selene as I am, but he still knows that he doesn’t always think clearly when she’s around, that she is pushing him to make choices he doesn’t want to make and to be a kind of person he doesn’t want to be. The relative ease with which he accepted her leaving them in the chapter house foreshadowed this choice, I think; she was very dismissive of him in that adventure, too, and maybe Rand noticed. He’s a smart guy, I think he can figure out that a woman who wants him to fundamentally change himself to be with her isn’t actually a woman worth having. And good on him for knowing the difference between lust and love.

Perrin has also matured in his perspectives, although he’s not quite ready to stop blaming Moiraine for taking them from Emond’s Field. And perhaps that is fair of him—Rand’s ability as a channeler would have shown up eventually no matter what Moiraine did, but Mat would never been exposed to the dagger, and without Elyas, Perrin might never have learned of his own gift. He can’t be certain of that, though, and if it had manifested itself in the Two Rivers, he might have been rather worse off than he is now. But besides the resentment towards Moiraine and the Aes Sedai, Perrin has an ability to recognize interpersonal dynamics in this chapter that, I think, shows that he has grown in shrewdness, maybe even as much as Rand has. I was also proud of him for wanting to share his secret with Rand; he thinks that it’s only fair, but I also believe that Perrin has realized that it is easier when you aren’t carrying such a secret alone. He knows what it did to their relationship when Rand kept his abilities a secret from Perrin and Mat, and perhaps Perrin has also found a little relief in telling Ingtar the truth of his ability. After all, Ingtar took it in stride and it has been useful in helping the party track Fain and the Trollocs—maybe that is helping Perrin feel a little less like a monster.

I would really like it if Perrin shared his secret with Rand, although I imagine he won’t get a chance for a while, yet.

Meanwhile, Ingtar sure is getting pretty worked up. I was surprised when Hurin told him off; it doesn’t seem much like Hurin at all. Even when he talks to Rand about not burning all the invitations he remains pretty respectful, but something about Ingtar’s insistence that “he” personally has to find the Horn has struck Hurin differently. I guess since Hurin and most of the others don’t know that the Darkfriends could use the Horn themselves if they wanted to, maybe Ingtar’s urgency doesn’t make as much sense to him. And focusing on “I must find it” rather than “we must” doesn’t sound very Shienaran. Actually, Ingtar here reminds me a lot of the Ingtar we met in The Eye of The World and how sour he was because he was going to miss out on the honor of dying in battle with everyone else. Ingtar knows how important the Horn is, but maybe his own pride is getting the better of him a bit here, as well. He seemed off in the last chapter, as well. Maybe there is more going on for him than we know about.

Then again, Hurin has also become very attached to Rand, so perhaps his loyalty is shifting, and he’s more able to notice flaws in his old commander. Maybe he even resents Ingtar’s use of the personal pronoun after it was Rand who recovered the chest and he and Loial and Hurin who sacrificed and protected it all this time. Rand might not be the only one who is starting to see himself as the leader in this quest. Even Ingtar begrudgingly says that perhaps it should have always been Rand in charge.

And then of course there’s Verin. I think Rand is right to be suspicious of her; if Moiraine sent her as she claimed, it might mean that Moiraine wasn’t entirely honest about letting Rand go, and if she somehow wasn’t being truthful about being sent by Moiraine, it’s an even worse problem. Not that Rand knows why Verin is there, but we the readers do, and whatever the truth is, I know that there is more to Verin than she is letting on. She is an Aes Sedai, after all.

And finally we come to Mat. He’s not doing so hot, and Perrin’s right to be worried. But I’m mostly interested in what Mat’s deteriorating state means for the ongoing chase after Fain and the Darkfriends; Rand and company are going to have to be successful in retrieving the chest again or Mat’s going to die, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t die in this book. Because Rand put the dagger in with the Horn, they have to get the whole thing, unless perhaps someone in Lord Barthanes’s company knows how to open the chest. It’s not impossible, if he has an Aes Sedai or something. It’s even possible that Selene could show up, in cahoots with Barthanes or maybe just using him the way she tried to use Rand. But I bet Fain can’t open that chest. I wonder what effect it will have on him if he can’t get the dagger back in his hands.

 

Thank you so much everyone who weighed in on how the recaps are put together in these posts! As of now, I’m not planning to heavily change my style, but I might make some tweaks here and there to cut down a little on the volume of the recap portion and make more room for analysis. I think this adjustment is necessary as the books get more complex, and I have been warned that there is much more of that to come. You’re all fabulous, and I’ve really enjoyed getting to come in and be part of your world!

Next week we continue on, with two new chapters, and Rand tackles the Great Game head on, whether he wants to or not. Oh, and Thom shows up again. Better stop fighting it, Thom. Rand is ta’veren, and you’re not going to escape that web.

Sylas K Barrett was very impressed with the description of that dinner they all had. I prefer my lamb pinker than Perrin, and reading about all that food definitely made me hungry! Good old epic fantasy and its many feats.

The Ruin of Kings by Jenn Lyons: Chapter 6

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Debut author Jenn Lyons has created one of the funniest, most engrossing new epic fantasy novels of the 21st century in The Ruin of Kings. An eyebrow-raising cross between the intricacy of Brandon Sanderson’s worldbuilding and the snark of Patrick Rothfuss.

Which is why Tor.com is releasing one or two chapters per week, leading all the way up to the book’s release on February 5th, 2019!

Not only that, but our resident Wheel of Time expert Leigh Butler will be reading along and reacting with you. So when you’re done with this week’s chapter, head on over to Reading The Ruin of Kings for some fresh commentary.

Our journey continues…

 

6: The Rook’s Father
(Talon’s story)

 

Thirty-five paces from the fountain at the center of the flowering courtyard to the steps in the back. Two steps, then a hallway. The door on the left was Ola’s, and the door on the right led to another set of stairs. Ten more steps, a small turn, another ten steps, then a door.

Surdyeh knew the route by heart, which was convenient, as he had never seen it.

The blind musician opened the door, frowned, and sighed. His son snored—

Is this bothering you Khirin?

Oh, such a shame. You must have realized Surdyeh is part of my memory collection. You are too, to a lesser extent.

You didn’t know? Oh.

I guess you know now, ducky. Surdyeh’s an active part of me. He wants so badly to protect you. A father’s love is so powerful.

You’re adorable when you’re angry.

As I was saying—

His adopted son snored, still asleep on one of the cots crammed into the storeroom turned living space. The situation hadn’t been so bad when Kihrin was a pup, but as the lad had grown older he’d grown larger. Now there was barely room for the two of them.

Better than nothing though, Surdyeh thought. Better than being tossed out into the street.

If only he could make his ungrateful wretch of a son understand.

Sadly, he suspected his son understood too well. As much as Surdyeh pretended they walked the razor’s edge with the whorehouse madam’s good grace, the threat was idle. Madam Ola would never evict them. He would have preferred it, though, if Ola didn’t sabotage his efforts at every turn. The boy needed to have a little respect shaken into him from time to time.

Surdyeh pulled himself out of his reverie for long enough to smack the end of his cane against his son’s backside.

“Kihrin, get up! You’ve overslept.”

His son groaned and turned over. “It’s not time yet!”

Surdyeh banged the stick against Kihrin’s bamboo cot this time. “Up, up! Have you forgotten already? We have a commission with Landril Attuleema tonight. And Madam Ola wants us to break in her new dancer. We’ve work to do and you’ve been up all night, haven’t you. Useless damn boy, what have I told you about stealing?”

His son sat up in bed. “Pappa.”

“If I wasn’t blind, I’d beat you until you couldn’t sit. My father never put up with such foolishness. You’re a musician, not a street thief.”

The cot creaked as Kihrin jumped out. “You’re the musician. I’m just a singing voice.” He sounded bitter.

Kihrin had been bitter about a lot of things lately, but he’d been such a sweet boy. What had Surdyeh done wrong?

“If you practiced your lessons …”

“I do practice. I’m just no good.”

Surdyeh scowled. “You call that practice? You spend more time helping yourself to Ola’s velvet girls and prowling rooftops than you do learning your chords. You could be good. You could be one of the best if you wanted it enough. When I was fifteen, I spent all night in the dark learning my fingerings. Practiced every day.”

Kihrin muttered under his breath, “When you were fifteen, you were already blind.”

“What did you just say?” Surdyeh’s hand tightened on his cane. “Damn it, boy. One of these days, you’re going to run afoul of the Watchmen, and that will be it, won’t it? They’ll take one of your hands if you’re lucky, sell you into slavery if you’re not. I won’t always be here to protect you.”

“Protect me?” Kihrin made a snorting sound. “Pappa, you know I love you, but you don’t protect me. You can’t.” More swishes of cloth: Kihrin grabbing loincloth, agolé, sallí cloak, and sandals to dress.

“I protect you more than you know, boy. More than you can imagine.” Surdyeh shook his head.

His son headed for the door. “Don’t we need to be somewhere?”

He wanted to say so much to the boy, but the words were either already spoken or could never be spoken. He knew better than to think his son would listen too. Ola was the only one Kihrin paid attention to anymore, and only because she told the boy what he wanted to hear. Surdyeh was tired of being the only one saying what the boy needed to hear. He was tired of arguing, tired of being the only whisper of conscience in this sea of sin.

Six more months. Six more months and Kihrin turned sixteen. And it would all be over; Surdyeh would find out just how good a job he’d done of raising him.

The whole Empire would find out.

“Move your feet, son. We don’t want to be late.” Surdyeh picked up his cane and poked his son in the ribs. “Quit daydreaming!”

Kihrin stammered through his verse. The crowd in the main room booed, although the audience had thinned out once they realized it was just a rehearsal session.

Most of the customers weren’t patrons of the arts, anyway.

“Start over,” Surdyeh said. “My apologies, Miss Morea. You’d think my son had never seen a pretty girl before.”

“Pappa!”

Surdyeh didn’t need to see to know his son was blushing, or that Morea was the cause. She was the newest dancer at the Shattered Veil Club, as well as being Ola’s newest slave. She would remain a slave until she earned enough extra metal from her service to pay back her bond price. To earn her freedom, she would need to be both an accomplished dancer and a successful whore.

Surdyeh didn’t much care, but from the way Kihrin carried on, he could only assume Morea was more beautiful than a goddess. At least, his son didn’t normally make quite this much of a fool of himself around the girls.

Morea grabbed a towel from the edge of the stage and wiped her face. “We’ve run through this twice. Once more and then a break?”

“Fine by me, Miss Morea,” Surdyeh said, readying his harp between his legs once more. “Assuming certain boys can keep their damn eyes in their damn heads and their damn minds on their damn work.”

He didn’t hear Kihrin’s response, but he could imagine it easily enough.

“Stop scowling,” Surdyeh said as he nudged Kihrin in the ribs again.

“How—?” Kihrin shook his head, gritted his teeth, and forced a smile onto his face.

Surdyeh started the dance over. Morea had asked him to play the Maevanos. If Morea had come from a wealthy house though, the Maevanos was probably the best compromise she could manage. She’d have had no time to learn anything bawdier.

The story to the Maevanos was simple enough: a young woman is sold into slavery by her husband, who covets her younger sister. Mistreated by the slave master who buys her, she is purchased by a high lord of the Upper City. The high lord falls in love with her, but tragedy strikes when a rival house assassinates her new master. Loyal and true, the slave girl takes her own life to be with her lord beyond the Second Veil. Her devotion moves the death goddess Thaena to allow the couple to Return to the land of the living, taking the life of the philandering husband in their place. The high lord frees the girl, marries her, and everyone lives happily ever after who should.

While the Maevanos was meant to be danced by a woman, the accompanying vocals were male. The story was told by the men the girl encountered rather than the girl herself. The scenes with the high lord and the slave trader were provocative, the whole reason Morea had suggested it as a compromise.

Surdyeh hated the dance for all the reasons it would probably do well at the brothel, but it hadn’t been his decision.

The crowd was larger than when the dance had begun; the first of the evening crowds had started to filter inside. Hoots and clapping greeted Morea as she gave a final bow. Kihrin trailed off his song. Surdyeh allowed the last notes to echo from his double-strung harp, holding his finger-taped picks just above the strings.

Surdyeh smelled Morea’s sweat, heard the beads as she tossed her hair back over her shoulders. She ignored the catcalls of the crowd as she walked back to his chair.

“What are you doing here?” Morea asked him.

Surdyeh turned his head in her direction. “Practicing, Miss Morea?”

“You’re amazing,” she said. “Does every brothel in Velvet Town have musicians as good as you? You’re better than anyone who ever performed for my old master. What is Madame Ola paying you?”

“You think my father’s that good?” Kihrin’s step was so quiet that even Surdyeh hadn’t heard him approach.

Surdyeh resisted the urge to curse the gods. The last thing he needed was Kihrin wondering why Surdyeh played in the back halls of Velvet Town, when he could have played for royalty.

“Hey there, pretty girl, leave off those servants,” a rough voice called out. “I want some time with you.” Surdyeh heard heavy footsteps; whoever approached was a large man.

Morea inhaled and stepped backward.

“Can’t you see she’s tired? Leave her alone.” Kihrin’s attempt to intimidate would have gone better if he’d been a few years older and a lot heavier. As it was, he was too easily mistaken for a velvet boy himself. Surdyeh doubted the customer paid much attention to his son’s interruption.

Surdyeh placed his harp to the side and held out his ribbon-sewn sallí cloak to where Morea stood. “Lady, your cloak.”

While Morea covered herself, Surdyeh rewove the spell shaping the sound in the room so the Veil’s bouncer, Roarin, heard every word. Morea’s would-be customer might be large, but Roarin had morgage blood in him—enough to give him the poisonous spines in his arms. Surdyeh knew from experience how intimidating the bouncer could be.

“My money’s as good as the next man’s!” the man protested.

Another voice joined him. “Hey, it’s my turn!”

“Oh great. There’s two of you,” Kihrin said. “Miss Morea, you’re not taking customers right now, are you?”

The beads in her hair rattled as she shook her head. “No.”

“There you are, boys. She’s not open for business. Shoo.” Only someone who knew Kihrin would have noticed the tremble of fear in his voice. The two men must have been large indeed.

“Bertok’s balls. You don’t tell me what to do.” The man stepped in close.

Even from the stage, Surdyeh smelled the stench of liquor on the man’s breath. Surdyeh clenched his hands around his cane and prepared himself for the possibility he would have to intervene.

“What’s all this?” Roarin asked. A hush fell over the crowd nearest the stage.

“I, uh… I want to reserve a bit of time with the young lady. Uh… sir.”

“Kradnith, you’re a mad one. I was here first!”

“Of course, fine sirs, of course,” Roarin said, “but this is just a dancing girl. Pretty slut, to be sure, but useless for a good lay. Too tired out. Come with me. Madam Ola will show you some real women! They’ll drain you dry!” He slapped his thick hands on the men’s shoulders and escorted them elsewhere in the brothel.

Surdyeh exhaled and turned to pack up the harp. “Some days I really hate this job.”

“Are you all right, Miss Morea?” Kihrin asked.

The young woman groaned and stretched her neck. “I can’t believe—” She cut off whatever she’d been about to say. “It was nice of you to stand up for me like that.” Then her breath caught in her throat. “You have blue eyes.”

Surdyeh’s heart nearly stopped beating.

No. Damn it all, no.

“I only wear them on special occasions,” Kihrin said. Surdyeh could tell his son was smiling. Of course, he was smiling. Kihrin hated it when people noticed the color of his eyes, but now the attention came from a pretty girl he wanted to notice him.

Surdyeh racked his brain. Where had Ola said the new girl was from? Not a Royal House. Surdyeh had forbidden Ola from ever buying a slave from a Royal House. Too risky.

Morea said to Kihrin, “I’m going to lie down in the Garden Room. Would you bring me an iced Jorat cider? I’m parched.”

“We’re leaving,” Surdyeh said. “We have a commission.”

“I’ll fetch you a cider before we go,” Kihrin said.

She slipped out of the room, now emptying as customers who had stayed for the rehearsal looked for a different sort of company.

“No, Kihrin,” Surdyeh said. “We don’t have time.”

“This won’t take long, Pappa.”

“It’s not your job to play hero, swoop in, and save the girl. Leave that to Roarin.” He knew he sounded peevish, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“She took your cloak,” Kihrin reminded him. “I’ll bring it back. You wouldn’t want to show up at Landril’s without your Reveler’s colors, would you?”

Surdyeh sighed. Unfortunately, the boy was right: Surdyeh needed the cloak. That it was just an excuse didn’t mean it wasn’t a good one. He grabbed his son’s hand and squeezed. “Don’t help yourself to the sweets for free. We need to keep in Ola’s good graces. It’s her good will that keeps us off the streets. There’s a dozen musicians better than us who’d give their eyeteeth to perform at the Shattered Veil Club. Remember that.”

His son pulled his hand away. “Funny how Morea doesn’t agree with you.”

“Don’t scowl at me, boy. You’ll put wrinkles on that face that Ola tells me is so handsome.” His voice softened. “We have to be at Landril’s at six bells, so you have a bit of time, but don’t linger.”

Any resentment his son might have harbored vanished in the face of victory. “Thank you.” Kihrin gave Surdyeh a quick hug and ran out of the room.

Surdyeh sat there, fuming.

Then he called out for someone to find Ola.

 

Excerpted from The Ruin of Kings, copyright © 2018 by Jenn Lyons.

Reading The Ruin of Kings: Chapter 6

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Hellooooo Tor.com! Take a break from your frantic menu-planning and org chart of Political Discussion Deflection Tactics for the dinner table and read a Reading, won’t you?

This blog series will be covering the first 17 chapters of the forthcoming novel The Ruin of Kings, first of a five-book series by Jenn Lyons. Previous entries can be found here in the series index.

Today’s post will be covering Chapter 6, “The Rook’s Father,” which is available for your reading delectation right here.

Read it? Great! Then click on to find out what I thought!

Before we start, Scheduling Note: Owing to the impending national tryptophan coma we Americans will be participating in this Thursday, the RROK will be taking a wee hiatus on the week following. But fear not! To make up for it, when we return I will have not one but two, TWO chapters’ worth of commentary for you, ahaha!

Got all that? Good. Now, on to this week’s commentary!

 

It’s a pretty unique conceit, using a memory-collecting serial killer monster to stand in for third person omniscient narrative. It’s impossible to be sure yet, but it’s also interesting that Talon doesn’t appear to let her own perspective color the memories she’s reciting. We still don’t really know what Talon’s deal is, but I’m very curious to find out.

(Also, does having Surdyeh’s memories mean she killed him? I know she threatened it in the prologue… But then, she also has Kihrin’s memories, and she obviously hasn’t killed him, so it’s possible she didn’t. I hope not, anyway.)

Right, as the chapter title suggests, by Talon proxy we get to meet Kihrin’s adoptive father Surdyeh, a blind musician who is definitely more than he is pretending to be. His POV, unsurprisingly, adds a few new layers of mystery to all the other mysterious layers we’ve already got going, but also clarifies things, in a way.

Because, given his aversion to being associated with royalty, and this:

Six more months. Six more months and Kihrin turned sixteen. And it would all be over; Surdyeh would find out just how good a job he’d done of raising him.

The whole Empire would find out.

Well. It’s pretty obvious, by this point, what Kihrin’s big secret is. Or, at least, what the story wants you to think his secret is. He should maybe avoid pricking his finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel on that birthday, just in case, is what I’m saying.

Thurvishar’s footnote to the above is less clear:

I can’t help but wonder just what Surdyeh thought would happen on Kihrin’s sixteenth birthday. A more distressing idea: what if it all happened exactly as Surdyeh had originally planned?

I… can’t tell if he’s being disingenuous here, or what. Shouldn’t Thurvy know what the big reveal is, by the time he’s putting this story together? I mean, I immediately assumed that Surdyeh meant that Kihrin would be announced as the lost-lost-and/or-hidden-for-Reasons heir to… whatever obviously terribly politically fraught thing he’s heir to, but this does not seem to have occurred to Thurvishar. Which is weird. Or a lie.

Or I’m wrong about what the big reveal is, which is certainly possible. In any case, apparently what did happen near or on Kihrin’s birthday is that he got caught stealing by a demon and then sold into slavery, which I think we can agree wins the title of “worst Sweet Sixteen theme ever,” so one would hope that a man who loves Kihrin as much as Talon assures us Surdyeh does would have had nothing to do with it. But who knows.

Speaking of which, it’s always sad to see people screwing up family through misunderstandings. And also, through the condition of “being a teenager,” which is a terrible affliction that takes years to cure (and some people never do seem to shake it off), sometimes too late to repair the damage. I want to shake Kihrin and make him see how much his adoptive dad loves him in this chapter, but it’s far too late for that. Of course, I also want to shake Surdyeh for being unable to show him that love, too, so it’s not all on Kihrin’s side. But I know too well how easy it is to fall into a pattern of behavior with your loved ones, and how hard it can be to break out of that pattern once it’s set. Sigh.

Also, why exactly is Morea (the new slave girl) so startled that Kihrin has blue eyes, and Surdyeh so worried over her noticing it? I mean, sure, presumably the locals in, uh, wherever they are (Quur, I think?) are dark-eyed, but do they never have foreigners around? It’s weird that blue eyes are apparently so uncommon a sight as to occasion such comment. This is one of the many things I assume we’ll understand better later.

The Maevanos, by the way (the dance Morea does), is a terrible gross story that annoys me immensely. But any story that features slavery as a good thing in any way is automatically gross and annoying as far as I am concerned, fiddle dee dee. I guess you can expect nothing less of a society so invested in justifying an active slave trade, huh. Blarg.


And that’s what I got for this one, kids! Have a lovely Thanksgiving if you are of the USian persuasion, and a lovely random November Thursday if you amn’t, and come back in two weeks for more! Yay!

Ralph Bakshi’s Animated The Lord of the Rings Shows the True Perils of Power

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As you’ve probably heard, Amazon has announced that it’s producing a show set in Middle-earth, the world created by J.R.R. Tolkien in his landmark novels The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. With the new series reportedly headed into production in 2019, I thought it was time to revisit the various TV and big screen takes on Tolkien’s work that have appeared—with varying quality and results—over the last forty years.

Today we finish our look at Ralph Bakshi’s feature-length animated The Lord of the Rings, released in November 1978. The first half of the movie is discussed here.

When last we left our heroes, Boromir had been turned into a pin cushion by the Orcs, Frodo and Sam were simply kayaking into Mordor, and Legolas, Gimli, and Aragorn had decided to let Frodo go, and headed off to rescue Merry and Pippin.

Bakshi’s The Lord of the Rings was originally titled The Lord of the Rings, Part 1, but the studio made him drop the “Part 1” subtitle as they believed nobody would show up for half a movie. This is, of course, ludicrous. These days movie studios gleefully divide movies into Parts 1 and 2 to milk more money out of franchises. Hell, roughly half the planet showed up to Avengers: Infinity War (itself originally sub-subtitled “Part 1”), despite many people knowing it would end with a cliffhanger to be resolved in Avengers 4. Then again, back in 1978, even Star Wars wasn’t “Episode IV” yet. Like the One Ring in The Hobbit, nobody quite knew what they had their hands on yet.

Sadly, despite making good money at the box office, Bakshi never got to make Part 2. So we’re left with only his adaptation of The Fellowship of the Ring and The Two Towers in this one movie. It makes the film feel both overstuffed (it’s oddly jarring when the movie doesn’t end with the Breaking of the Fellowship) and undercooked (every scene after the Mines of Moria feels rushed).

It’s a shame, too, because Bakshi’s art is gorgeous and his adaptation choices are superb. What wonders he would have done with Mordor, Minas Tirith, Faramir, Denethor, and the Scouring of the Shire! For all the talk about Guillermo del Toro’s aborted Hobbit movies, I think The Lord of the Rings, Part 2 is the greatest Middle-earth movie never made. It’s the second breakfast we never got to eat.

Still, all we have to decide is what to do with the movie that is given to us. And The Two Towers part of Bakshi’s movie has plenty to recommend it. We begin with Boromir finally getting the Viking funeral he clearly dressed for, and Frodo and Sam paddling down the River Anduin pursued by Gollum on a log. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli run off in pursuit of the rotoscoped Orcs who’ve captured Merry and Pippin.

While most of the movie’s scenes after the Mines of Moria feel too short, Bakshi does give us a scene even Peter Jackson left out, where Pippin helps instigate their escape by insinuating to a Mordor Orc that he has the One Ring. It’s one of my favorite scenes in the book, because it’s the moment where “Fool of a Took” Pippin shows that he’s not a dimwit, he’s just young and naive. While it’s less spelled out here in the film, it’s also the first moment in The Lord of the Rings that shows the Orcs aren’t a bunch of murderous dimwits either. They have their own agendas and loyalties. Grishnákh, the Orc who accosts Merry and Pippin, isn’t a mere foot soldier. He’s high-ranking enough to know about the Ring and who bears it, and even its history with Gollum: all things Pippin is canny enough to exploit. (After this, Merry and Pippin don’t get much to do in Bakshi’s movie, but here we get a hint of where their stories might have gone in Part 2. More than anything, I’m sad we don’t get to see their complex relationships with Théoden and Denethor.)

But real salvation comes in the form of the Riders of Rohan, who are entirely rotoscoped. They mow down the Orcs and Merry and Pippin manage to escape into Fangorn Forest, where they hear a mysterious voice. It turns out to be the Ent Treebeard, but we don’t get much of him save for him carrying the two hobbits around the forest (while they clap merrily). Treebeard is very cartoony. He looks like the Lorax in a tree costume and has small legs and even a cute butt. (I found myself thinking far too much about Ent butts while watching this movie, and then every day thereafter. And now, so shall you.)

MEANWHILE…Frodo and Sam are lost, though somehow close enough to spot Mount Doom glowing grimly off in the distance. Sam notes that it’s the one place they don’t want to go to, but the one place they have to, and it’s also the one place they just can’t get. It’s a depressing situation, made all the worse by the creeping knowledge that they’re being followed. Finally, Gollum jumps out of the shadows and attacks them, though Frodo gets the upper hand with his sword Sting and the power of the Ring.

Bakshi’s Gollum is a gray, goblin-y creature with a loin cloth and some random hairs. He looks vaguely like a Nosferatu cosplayer who sold all his clothes for weed. But he certainly looks more like a former hobbit than the hideous toad creature in Rankin/Bass’ animated Hobbit. Despite his creepy look and murderous intent, he’s a pathetic creature, drawn and addicted to the Ring that Frodo bears.

Gollum is the most fascinating character in The Lord of the Rings, a morally and literally gray creature who manifests the evil and corruption of the Ring. In Gollum, Frodo can see both what the Ring will do to him eventually, and also what he himself is capable of doing with the Ring. Later, Bakshi has Frodo deliver a line from the book, where Frodo threatens Gollum by telling him that he could put on the Ring and command him to commit suicide—and Gollum would do it. It’s why Frodo is less wary of Gollum than Sam; Frodo knows that he can control Gollum. This represents only a pathetically small fraction of the Ring’s true power to command others, but it does give us a sense of what’s at stake: the power of the Ring is to turn us all into Gollums, whether through its direct corruption, or the sinister control it grants the wearer if they have the will enough to fully wield it.

 

It’s why Boromir’s desire to wield the Ring is so wrong. It’s not just that its presence changes you, slowly turning you from a crankypants into a full-fledged psychopath with a serious Vitamin D deficiency. It’s that its power—to control and bend the wills of others—is inherently evil. It’s not a sword or some other fantasy MacGuffin that could be wielded for good or for ill. To use the Ring (aside from simply turning invisible) is to commit a terrible, irrevocable crime against others.

Tolkien’s work—and Bakshi’s film beautifully reflects this—is centered on different modes of leadership, and the corruption of power and control. Sauron, Tolkien tells us, was corrupted by his desire for order, his desire for control. He thought the Valar were making a muck of Arda, so he allied with Morgoth, believing a single strong hand could make things right. But, of course, it only led to more chaos. Centuries later, Sauron controls Mordor, but his dominance comes at the cost of his entire realm becoming a horrific wasteland. It’s the same with the Ringwraiths and the Orcs. They’re hideous mockeries of Men and Elves, not only because they’re supposed to be terrifying, but because they could only be so: The only way to control something is to fundamentally break it.

It’s again a shame we never got the completion of Bakshi’s adaptation, because I think that more than any filmmaker who’s taken on Tolkien, he understands that essential theme of Tolkien’s work and how it plays out in the story. I say this, because after discovering that Gandalf is alive and shinier than ever, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli make for Edoras, capital of Rohan, where they meet King Théoden and his conniving servant, Gríma Wormtongue.

Bakshi’s Wormtongue looks like a hobbit who left the Southfarthing and pursued a career as an adult film director. He wears a black cape and hood and has a thin mustache that practically announces, “I am a slimy jerk.” But what’s fascinating about Bakshi’s portrayal is that he makes Wormtongue short and rotund: in other words, he makes him look like a hobbit.

Wormtongue comes across as a sort of parallel Gollum, and even Frodo. Like Frodo, he pals around with a king (Aragorn/Théoden) and is mentored by one of the Istari (Gandalf/Saruman). But unlike Frodo, who has friends galore in the Shire, Wormtongue is alone. It’s not hard to imagine this short, portly man being bullied and despised growing up in the warrior culture of Rohan. You can imagine how thrilled he was to become an ambassador to Isengard, seat of a powerful wizard and a place where power comes from words and not arms. How easily he must have been seduced by the Voice of Saruman!

Of course, we don’t get this background on Wormtongue in either the books or the movies. But Bakshi’s depiction of the character, either intentionally or not, can give that impression. I hadn’t ever considered interpreting Wormtongue as a sort of parallel Gollum or Frodo, but Bakshi’s interpretation made me realize the possible connections. Which, of course, is the power of adaptation—using different media to bring out elements of a work we might otherwise miss.

The parallel that Bakshi draws between Gollum and Gríma works wonderfully—though, again, the lack of Part 2 means we never get to see the full fruition of that decision with either character. After all, it’s lowly Gollum and Gríma who ultimately destroy the Maiar Sauron and Saruman, years of domination and abuse finally sending them over the edge—literally, in Gollum’s case.

One of the things I’ve always loved about The Lord of the Rings is that Tolkien invokes such great pity for a character type—the sniveling, traitorous weakling—that is normally treated only with contempt. It’s something Bakshi also invokes here, as does Jackson in his Rings movies (and utterly betrays in The Hobbit movies, as I’ll talk about down the line in this series).

Bakshi’s Gollum is as richly realized as Jackson’s, though of course given fewer scenes. We get a similar debate between his good and bad sides, and a confrontation with Sam about his “sneaking.” We leave Frodo and Sam in the same place Jackson does in his Two Towers: following after Gollum through the woods, with Gollum planning to bring the two unsuspecting hobbits to “her.” Along the way, Bakshi gives the borders of Mordor some impressive statuary—creepy colossi that echo the ruins Frodo glimpsed when he put on the Ring way back at Weathertop.

The real climax of The Two Towers section of the movie is the Battle of Helm’s Deep. Bakshi gives the fortress a beautiful high fantasy look, with towering pillared halls. And the march of Saruman’s Orc horde is deeply scary, especially as they sing a low, frightening song. Not to mention the fact that Saruman shoots fireballs all the way from Orthanc that blow apart the fortress’ wall. Aragorn and Company are overwhelmed, but the Orcs are vanquished by the arrival of Gandalf and Éomer (whose role in the movie is essentially one rotoscoped shot of him riding a horse repeated a few times) leading a charge of men against the Orcs.

The film ends with Gandalf triumphantly tossing his sword into the air, with the narrator saying that the forces of darkness have been driven from the land (not quite, Mr. Narrator!) and that this is the end of “the first great tale of the Lord of the Rings.”

Bakshi’s The Lord of the Rings saga may remain forever incomplete, but the half he did make is still a masterpiece: an epic, beautifully-realized vision of Tolkien’s world, characters, and themes, one that can stand proudly alongside Peter Jackson’s live-action Rings movies. It is, I suppose, a halfling of a saga, but like Bilbo, Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin, while it may seem familiar, it’s full of surprises.

 

Next time, Rankin/Bass returns to Middle-earth to unofficially complete Bakshi’s saga with their animated TV movie The Return of the King.

Austin Gilkeson formerly served as The Toast‘s Tolkien Correspondent, and his writing has also appeared at Catapult and Cast of Wonders. He lives outside Chicago with his wife and son.


Halloween Is This Year’s Feel-Good Family Movie About Inherited Trauma

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Halloween feel good family movie intergenerational trauma Judy Greer Jamie Lee Curtis

The original Halloween isn’t all that scary, except for little moments here and there. Like every time that iconic score starts up, and it gets the heart racing at the same rapid beat. Or when teenager Laurie Strode happens to catch a glimpse of masked Michael Myers just watching her from behind some hanging laundry. These moments, of the killer stalking his prey, are terrifying. But once he actually catches up to her… a lot of the terror just drops away. The trap he lays for her, the way he slowly tracks her to the closet where she’s moaning like a caged animal—these are key horror-movie moments, but they’re experienced at a remove.

That’s due in large part to the fact that it’s never made clear why Michael is so obsessed with Laurie. Her chasteness, her responsibility compared to the horny teenagers shrugging off babysitting to hook up, must certainly fascinate him, considering how he murdered his sister Judith post-sex. And he certainly targets her, with the final grotesque vignette involving her friends’ bodies, clearly designed to drive her to utter hysteria. But why her?

Later (bonkers) installments in the franchise attempted to explain this by having Laurie be Michael’s other sister, to connect them by blood. But the new Halloween (a soft reset of the franchise and direct sequel to the 1978 original) retcons this in such a cheeky, on-the-nose way: Laurie’s granddaughter shrugs off this theory as “That’s just a story someone made up to make themselves feel better.”

There’s never going to be a satisfying answer as to why Michael is obsessed with Laurie, so the filmmakers brilliantly turned it around and made her obsessed with him.

Spoilers for the entire Halloween franchise, including the 2018 reboot.

A lot of the promotion centered on how badass Jamie Lee Curtis looks, cocking a rifle in a tank top, and she is, but Laurie Strode 40 years later is also a woman indelibly shaped by her trauma. The girl who happened to glance up and see Michael now looks for him everywhere. She trembles, she mutters, she self-medicates with alcohol. She has weathered the collapse of two marriages, one of which left her estranged from her daughter Karen (Judy Greer) because of her survivalist upbringing. Had Laurie not been targeted by Michael, she would never have raised her daughter to practice fleeing through the woods, to perfect her killshot, to willingly walk into a bunker as if she weren’t sealing herself into a cage. (It’s not a cage.)

Halloween feel good family movie intergenerational trauma Jamie Lee Curtis tank top

Photo: Ryan Green/Universal Pictures

The family Laurie could have had is replaced by intrusive bystanders, wanting to know the Laurie Strode of legend: a pair of British podcasters (another great meta joke) seeking out her compound for answers to questions they already know; local law enforcement who see Laurie as the almost-victim instead of the one who got away. Even her own granddaughter Allyson (Andi Matichak), with whom she has plenty in common despite their distant relationship, begs her to just “get over it.”

Everyone in Laurie’s orbit wants her to give up the ghost already—or, in the case of the podcasters, to actually confront Michael and see if that gets a rise out of the silent, incarcerated slasher. They care about Laurie getting closure only if it fits their narrative, if it neatly ties up the loose ends.

Laurie Strode’s life is nothing but loose ends. She and Karen feebly attempt to stay in each other’s lives, but neither can inhabit the other’s space the way she wants her to: Laurie cannot sit down with family to eat at a restaurant without twitchily glancing for the exits; Karen cannot mask her naked disgust with the compound within which her mother barricades herself. In addition to her lost friends, Laurie will always be haunted by the people who could have inhabited her future: a husband who would be able to support her PTSD, a daughter who didn’t have to be raised to anticipate a masked killer around every corner. Instead, Karen had to be forcibly removed from her care in the hopes of having a “normal” life—and as much as she herself has recovered, with a sensitive husband and promising daughter, she bears her own scars from a childhood rooted in fear and vigilance. All for a man who she’s never met, who has truly become the Bogeyman.

Halloween feel good family movie intergenerational trauma Michael Myers

Photo: Ryan Green/Universal Pictures

What drives Michael is no longer a necessary question. He’s still coming regardless, wearing his trusty mask and wielding the closest weapon at hand. Instead, the urgent question becomes How do we stop him?

Dr. Sartain has some sort of apex predator theory involving what happens when you put these two figures in the same room together—the desire for this perfect experiment is what propels him to free Michael in the first place. Officer Hawkins thinks that law enforcement will bring Michael down, despite them completely shitting the bed on that the first time around. And Karen’s husband Ray—poor, sweet, well-meaning Ray—just wants to ignore the problem until it goes away. Michael cuts each of them down, disposes of them as distractions on his path to Laurie. The men will not be privy to this final answer.

The only thing that can stop Michael Myers is family.

I know, it sounds laughable, a schmaltzy solution to a horror juggernaut. But no matter how Laurie has been molded into the ultimate survivor, she cannot defeat him alone. Michael is preternaturally resilient, even to having half his hand blown off; plus, he has the size and weight on her. But what he lacks is foresight; his every move is a reaction, seizing whatever slim opportunity gives him the upper hand.

It takes three generations of Strodes to defeat him, and only because of the legacy of his original attack. Laurie knows how to hunt him. Karen outwits him, with her seeming rejection of all of Laurie’s training, only to lure him in. The best moment in the entire movie is when she fake-sobs “I can’t do it, Mommy, I’m sorry!”, prompting Michael to go in for the kill, and Greer’s expression shifts into furious triumph: “Gotcha.” But the final blow belongs to Ally, nearly untouched by Laurie’s trauma yet possessing her grandmother’s street smarts. She’s coming to the story fresh, and is the one to wield Michael’s own weapon—a knife—against him.

However, the greatest expectation they subvert is the bunker itself. “It’s not a cage” is a recurring refrain throughout the movie, despite Karen’s visceral shudders to it, nor the countless times the kitchen island scrapes across the floor to reveal and conceal the entrance. Michael and the viewers both expect that Laurie has caged herself within her own fear, that she can never escape what happened that night.

Halloween feel good family movie intergenerational trauma Laurie Strode Michael Myers

Photo: Ryan Green/Universal Pictures

But it’s not a cage. It’s a trap.

Ally doesn’t know, because she didn’t grow up with Laurie. But Karen and her mother planned for this moment, practiced for it, for her entire childhood. Imagine coming of age alongside the ghost of the man who ruined your mother’s life, playing out over and over the impossible scenario in which you actually catch him behind spikes so that you can burn him alive and watch his masked face as he finally, finally dies.

My one frustration with Halloween is that, despite all these beautiful subversions, the filmmakers still succumbed to that tired temptation of giving the killer an escape route. Oddly, this worked a lot better for the Halloween sequels that have now be retconned out of canon; having Laurie decapitate Michael in Halloween: H20, only to open Halloween: Resurrection with the reveal that Laurie accidentally murdered a paramedic with whom Michael switched his clothes is the kind of batty loophole I would expect from Mr. Boddy in the Clue books. When there was no lingering shot on Michael’s charred mask at the end of this Halloween, I knew he got away; I actually didn’t even stay for the post-credits breathing that signaled his survival for the already-in-development sequel. I may just decide that this movie did tie up the loose ends, and as far as I’m concerned, Michael is dead and Laurie got her closure.

The fact that the film ends on the three women cradling each other in the back of a pickup, with a blank Ally still clutching the bloodied knife, implies that she too will be forever changed by her encounter with Michael. The carefree future within her grasp at the start of this Halloween has been tainted by the events of this night; the life she had to claw her way for will not be an ideal one, but it is still a life. And she will have two generations of role models to teach her how to move on after being marked as a Final Girl.

Natalie Zutter had to stop herself from going on a whole tangent about how the climactic scene took place in a kitchen, the center of domesticity. Dissect horror tropes with her on Twitter!

Sleeps With Monsters: Angels and Demons

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If I were a cleverer sort of person, I’d find a nice thematic commonality that links Molly Tanzer’s Creatures of Want and Ruin and Juliet Kemp’s The Deep and Shining Dark, two books that I want to tell you about this month, and spin a persuasive line on why they’re connected (when really, I’m talking about them together because I read them back-to-back). But while they share a concern with community (communities) and with the bargains one might make with intangible powers, they approach these concerns in ways that are sufficiently different that I’m hard-pressed to find any other points of commonality.

Creatures of Want and Ruin is set in the same continuity as Tanzer’s chilling and atmospheric Creatures of Will and Temper. But where Creatures of Will and Temper set itself in fin de siècle London and features fencers and artists and dilettantes, Creatures of Want and Ruin moves the action to Prohibition Long Island, and features poets and bootleggers—and, of course, demons.

Ellie West is a bootlegger and a poet who’s trying to get enough money to get her younger brother Lester off to medical college. Fin Coulthead is a well-meaning suffragist from the upper classes whose marriage is disintegrating and whose husband’s crowd of bright young things is isolating her more with every day that passes at their summer house in Amityville, Long Island. Ellie and Fin find each other unlikely allies in a fight against demonic destruction. The demon is linked with a vicious Christian preacher—who’s promoting racism and misogyny and a similar culture to the KKK—who sees in demon-given visions and demon-borne persuasive powers a sign from heaven that he’s right to try to “cleanse” Long Island of sin. And to make matters worse for Ellie, her father’s fallen under the preacher’s sway.

This is a measured, atmospheric novel, with compelling characters and a deeply disturbing undercurrent of horror. The real horror here, though, is less the demonic influence—the demons, after all, can only act on humans through their initial invitation and consent—than it is the sudden discovery of deep veins of racism and misogyny underpinning the quiet community where Ellie’s spent her entire life, and in the ways in which Fin has been made to feel invisible and unvalued by the people in her life. It’s a fascinating novel, and an accomplished one. I hope to see more of Tanzer’s work soon.

Juliet Kemp’s The Deep and Shining Dark is by no means a measured novel, nor one with an undercurrent of horror. It is, however, a very fun debut novel, with a cast of compelling characters—characters with fascinating problems.

In the trading city of Marek, magic doesn’t need blood. Unlike the rest of the world, Marekers benefit from a bargain that their city’s founders struck with a spirit—known as the cityangel—at the city’s foundation. But in recent years plague has struck down most of the city’s sorcerers, leaving only two behind. Reb is one of those sorcerers, and vastly disturbed when an embodied, enfleshed cityangel shows up at her door in the company of Jonas, a young messenger runner. Jonas is from the Salinas, a people who disapprove of magic—and he’s come to Marek to try to get rid of his own. Neither Jonas nor Reb expected to find themselves landed with trying to fix the consequences of a scheme to oust the cityangel and put a more controllable and less careful being in its place.

Nor, for that matter, was Marcia, daughter of one of Marek’s great houses, who believes her brother is mixed up somewhere in the matter. The Deep and Shining Dark is a fast, fun romp of a book, diverse, queer, and deeply entertaining. I’m looking forward to Kemp’s next work already.

Liz Bourke is a cranky queer person who reads books. She holds a Ph.D in Classics from Trinity College, Dublin. Her first book, Sleeping With Monsters, a collection of reviews and criticism, was published in 2017 by Aqueduct Press. It was a finalist for the 2018 Locus Awards and was nominated for a Hugo Award in Best Related Work. Find her at her blog, where she’s been known to talk about even more books thanks to her Patreon supporters. Or find her at her Twitter. She supports the work of the Irish Refugee Council, the Transgender Equality Network Ireland, and the Abortion Rights Campaign.

A Promising Debut: City of Broken Magic by Mirah Bolender

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City of Broken Magic is Mirah Bolender’s debut novel. I’ve read a lot of debut novels in my time (and will undoubtedly read many more), so I feel confident in my conclusion that City of Broken Magic is the kind of debut one calls promising.

City of Broken Magic sets itself in a secondary fantasy world where humans live huddled into well-defended cities. Hundreds of years before the novel’s beginning, a colonised people tried to fight back against their colonisers by creating a weapon that ate magic. They succeeded a little too well, creating something that can hatch from broken or empty magical amulets and that can consume everything in its path. These infestations, as they’re known, are extremely dangerous and require specialised knowledge and equipment to combat. The people who do this job are known as “Sweepers,” and their mortality rate can be high.

Especially in the city of Amicae, where most of City of Broken Magic‘s action is set. For Amicae’s powers-that-be, it’s an article of political faith that Amicae doesn’t get infestations, that their city is somehow immune. The official story is that all the infestations that happen within Amicae’s walls are the fault of the mobs, criminal gangs fostering small infestations as a particularly terrifying method of assassination.

Unfortunately for Amicae, the official story is wrong.

City of Broken Magic‘s protagonist, Laura Kramer, is an apprentice Sweeper as well as its only human viewpoint character. Her boss, Clae Sinclair, is secretive, hard to please, and uncommunicative outside of work. He’s also Amicae’s last Sweeper, only heir to what was once a family business, close-mouthed about his family and with a string of dead apprentices whose failure to stay alive he uses as teaching tools for his current apprentice. Amicae’s official lack of support for Sweepers, and concomitant lack of respect of them, means that Sinclair’s job is even harder than it would be under other circumstances. And thus Laura’s job, too.

Amicae is a city with bicycles and trams, public transport and cinema and radios, a city that feels inflected by an American vision of the 1920s—a vision lacking the defining trauma of WWI, but one that feels nonetheless influenced by a technological and social moment. Women in Amicae are expected to marry, and those who bear children out of wedlock are derided. The dialogue of some of the characters, and Laura’s family’s expectations for her, seems to be at odds with a world in which female reporters, councillors, police officers, and chiefs of police are unremarkable things: a minor worldbuilding niggle, but one which itched at me. (I’m unreasonably easily distracted by minor things: I’m still trying to work out the logistics of how agriculture and stock-raising in sufficient quantity to feed whole large cities works in this setting. I’m also distracted by how most of the names of cities in Bolender’s setting appear to be random Latin words, while the names of characters feel American.)

The novel’s worldbuilding, in the form of infestations and the social response to it, is its big idea. City of Broken Magic is the story of an emergency response unit, and in narrative and stylistic terms, it feels one part thriller, one part procedural, and one part professional coming-of-age for its viewpoint character. Bolender writes action very well, building tension into every escalating encounter with infestations (and with the political consequences of Amicae’s “it can’t happen here” beliefs). The interpersonal relationships—Laura’s prickly relationship with her boss, her jealousy of his professional attention and teaching when a second apprentice joins their team, and her relationship with her family and with that second apprentice—are also well done, but sometimes feel contradictory in ways that don’t seem to have been deliberately intended.

Laura’s an interesting character, with a compelling voice. She’s very young—not yet twenty—and still learning how to be an adult. Her struggles are those of a young woman determining her place in the world, and in a dangerous career—and of a naturally curious person who’s deeply interested in all the things her boss doesn’t like to talk about.

Along with a spike in the number and strength of infestations, Laura and Clae have to deal with the machinations of unscrupulous businessmen and the threat of foreign agents. City of Broken Magic is a fast-paced, exciting ride. And an entertaining one. I enjoyed it, and I’m looking forward to seeing what Bolender does next.

City of Broken Magic is available from Tor Books.

Liz Bourke is a cranky queer person who reads books. She holds a Ph.D in Classics from Trinity College, Dublin. Her first book, Sleeping With Monsters, a collection of reviews and criticism, was published in 2017 by Aqueduct Press. It was a finalist for the 2018 Locus Awards and was nominated for a 2018 Hugo Award in Best Related Work. Find her at her blog, where she’s been known to talk about even more books thanks to her Patreon supporters. Or find her at her Twitter. She supports the work of the Irish Refugee Council, the Transgender Equality Network Ireland, and the Abortion Rights Campaign.

Unnerving and Unusual: Bedfellow by Jeremy C. Shipp

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Some words don’t like to get out on their own. You can’t be spick without being span too, while “nitty” pines away unaccompanied by “gritty.” Similarly, “bedfellow” has hardly ever appeared without a preceding “strange.” Like its one-word title, Jeremy Shipp’s new novel, Bedfellow, is unnerving and unusual. And like a bedfellow without its strange, there’s something missing.

Bedfellow describes a very strange home invasion; the reader enters the story at the exact moment the monster—or maybe it’s an alien?—does. From the very first words of the book, the Lund family is in trouble: “Hendrick prides himself on always responding well to an emergency, but he freezes in place when a man in a Space Jam nightshirt crawls through their living room window.” The present tense narration is appropriate, for once that man comes through the window, the Lunds have no pasts and threatened futures. Whatever has come to the house has the power to rewrite memories: Before its first night in the house has ended, the creature that calls itself “Marv” has installed itself as an invited guest. The following days bring new identities and new memories: college friend, then best friend, then twin brother, then miracle worker, then demiurge, then deity.

In April, I reviewed Shipp’s first Tor.com book, The Atrocities. It was an odd book, piling sinister flourish upon macabre detail until the Gothic transmuted into the comic. His new novel is less coy about its mix of tones: On the second page of the novel, the house’s sinister invader, having established its mind control, is asking whether the Lunds possess a copy of Howard the Duck on Blu-ray, or, lacking that, on DVD. Marv expresses particular interest in the scene with the naked duck woman.

Where The Atrocities was full of lonely men and women, family was mainly present in its absence, in dreams of loss, cries of regret, and urns on mantelpieces. Bedfellow bears a dedication “to my family,” and all four members of the beset Lund family receive POV chapters. Alien or supernatural woes aside, the Lunds have mundane challenges—Imani came from an abusive family, Hendrick has a wandering eye, and Kennedy is a teenager—but their initial presentation is almost cloyingly cute. Imani cooks theme dinners (the Jurassic-era “Dino Din” with “pterodactyl eggs”; the rabbit-centric Sunday Bunday) and loves terrible puns (“I’ll gopher broke to keep you alive.”). Tomas has a whole range of toys he imbues with endearing foibles (“the army man who only fears balloons”), while Kennedy, apropos of nothing, calls all of her chat partners on a Chatroulette-style website “Sparkle Fantastico.” So perhaps the Lunds deserve their fate: quirkiness kills. And Marv’s taste for eighties schlock—the aforementioned Howard the Duck, for one, and the Garbage Pail Kids movie, for another—is finally more threatening than his penchant for eating people.

Shipp’s best writing comes in vignettes tenuously linked to the main plot: The single best chapter of the book describes Tomas’s favorite play space, a leafy square hidden in the intersection of several properties and only accessible by squeezing through a gap between fences. It’s a suburban waste space transfigured by childhood ingenuity into a place of magic. Similarly, the standout chapter from Kennedy’s perspective concerns a surreal internet conversation with a woman who believes her deceased ferret was, in another life, her sister. This chat prompts a reminiscence of a visit to a roadside tent freakshow featuring “jars full of dead baby aliens and a mummified cat and a big walnut that grew a human mouth.” If every page were as good, this would be a rave review.

Like The Atrocities, Bedfellow suffers from an abrupt ending. One character meets a brutal end, another finally demonstrates their agency, and a third drives to places unknown in a strange vehicle. We’re told that someone “must have a plan” as they leave through the gathering darkness, but for all the time we’ve spent with the Lunds, we have no idea where that road might lead. I’m not sure where Shipp is going either—this isn’t what I expected as a follow-up to The Atrocities—but I hope he finds a way to channel the best parts of these first books into a more cohesive successor.

Bedfellow is available from Tor.com Publishing.

Matt Keeley reads too much and watches too many movies. You can find him on Twitter at @mattkeeley.

Firefly: Big Damn Sweepstakes!

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Two new Firefly books are now available from Titan: Firefly: Big Damn Hero by James Lovegrove, and Monica Valentinelli’s Firefly Encyclopedia. To celebrate, we want to send you both books!

In Big Damn Hero, Captain Malcolm Reynolds is kidnapped by a bunch of embittered veteran Browncoats who suspect him of sabotaging the Independents during the war. As the rest of the crew struggle to locate him, Mal is placed on trial for his life, fighting compelling evidence that someone did indeed betray them to the Alliance all those years ago. As old comrades and old rivals crawl out of the woodwork, Mal must prove his innocence, but his captors are desperate and destitute, and will settle for nothing less than the culprit’s blood.

The Firefly Encyclopedia is a lavish guide to Joss Whedon’s much-loved creation. The book includes a detailed timeline of events, in-depth character studies from Badger to Zoe, a guide to the science of the show, and sections of script with accompanying notes from the author. Alongside all of this are countless images of the characters, ships, weapons, props and sets. This is a must-have item for all fans of the ‘Verse.

Comment in the post to enter!

NO PURCHASE NECESSARY TO ENTER OR WIN. A purchase does not improve your chances of winning. Sweepstakes open to legal residents of 50 United States and D.C., and Canada (excluding Quebec). To enter, comment on this post beginning at 3:30 PM Eastern Time (ET) on November 20th. Sweepstakes ends at 12:00 PM ET on November 26th. Void outside the United States and Canada and where prohibited by law. Please see full details and official rules here. Sponsor: Tor.com, 175 Fifth Ave., New York, NY 10010.

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