Thankful for the smallest of mercies, Prisoner of Azkaban skips through the Dursley portion of the story at a greater pace than the last two instalmenThankful for the smallest of mercies, Prisoner of Azkaban skips through the Dursley portion of the story at a greater pace than the last two instalments, and the content of those two chapters accomplish a lot with little time: recapping for readers (magic orphan boy, etc.) and heightening the stakes (escaped prisoner/Harry’s burgeoning adolescence).
With the introduction of Marge, Harry’s cartoonishly bullish aunt — who rants incessantly about Harry and his parents — we get Harry performing unconscious magic once again, this time literally inflating his aunt to body-horror proportions. While Marge is a terrible person, this brand of cruel and unusual punishment isn’t something I think she deserved, and the way the story ignores how horrifying it is boggles the mind.
Also, unconscious magic is just a confusing concept to begin with. Rowling gives us a magic system of deliberate wand strokes and verbal incantations, and then has a wandless child will a magical outcome because he really, really wants it to happen (but not consciously). You’d think any student who hadn’t practised their spells could just rely on this method.
Despite magic outside of school being prohibited (and what Harry did was really insanely bad), Harry doesn’t get expelled because The Minister for Magic would rather use a thirteen-year-old as bait for an escaped mass murderer; Fudge needs a political win.
The school-year, in terms of classes, are definitely an improvement over Philosopher’s Stone and Chamber of Secrets, but the Defence Against the Dark Arts classes often felt too much like what Hagrid’s Care of Magical Creatures class offered; I was expecting they’d learn how to counter hexes and tackle enchantments. The series hasn’t graduated past expelliarmus academically or, given the use of it by Lupin, Sirius and Snape, narratively.
There is a not insignificant amount of people waving wands wordlessly and things happening, of course.
Speaking of classes, after being exonerated at the end of Chamber of Secrets, Hagrid is appointed the teacher for the Care of Magical Creatures. To the surprise of no one, he fails spectacularly and the story falls all over itself to portray him as the victim. Everything that happened with Buckbeak was his fault. He chose to introduce a highly proud and dangerous creature to a class of snot-nosed thirteen year olds for their first lesson. Its a miracle only one student didn’t listen and got mauled.
And yes, Malfoy didn’t listen, but he’s thirteen — he could have charged Buckbeak headfirst and it still would have been Hagrid’s fault. All Malfoy did was verbally insult the hippogriff; if that’s all it takes, they should be nowhere near children. And yes, Malfoy played up his injuries, but Buckbeak absolutely could have savaged him had Hagrid not intervened. Besides, Buckbeak posing a danger at all is the issue. As a teacher, Hagrid shouldn’t have even allowed for that possibility.
Hell, throwing Harry up on the creatures back and letting Buckbeak take flight was the most irresponsible action of all, in my opinion, and its Buckbeak that ultimately pays for Hagrid’s incompetence.
Then there’s Hermione. For a good chunk of the story Hermione is seen disappearing at odd times and ludicrously overworked, and the explanation for this is even more insane than the Hagrid subplot. McGonagall gives Hermione — a thirteen year old — the ability to time-travel … so she can attend more classes. She gives a child the potential to create a disastrous time paradox … so she can attend Muggle Study classes.
Outside of the very real danger of altering the face of reality itself, McGonagall doesn’t appreciate the toll so many classes and subjects might have on Hermione. Yes, she might turn back time, but she still has to physically and emotionally experience every single hour.
Essentially, the introduction of the Time-Turner just so Rowling can have her time-altering climax makes absolutely no sense. McGonagall should know better than to give it to a child, and the Ministry should never has granted McGonagall’s request, and, most pressingly, you’ve added easy and accessible time-travel to your story. Get ready to be plagued with the now perfectly legitimate “but why not travel back in time?” when anything of consequence happens.
With the story revolving around an escaped prisoner, Azkaban is at the forefront again, and my hatred for the wizarding world intensifies more and more.
Sirius Black was innocent of the crimes he was imprisoned for, and by the sounds of it, he was thrust into Azkaban without even the appearance of a trial or investigation. His wand wasn’t checked, Peter Pettigrew was assumed dead despite only finding his finger (and not his wand), and its fascinating how Rowling just doesn’t acknowledge these inadequacies. The injustice of Siruis’s incarceration is wholly put on Pettigrew, which is unbelievably reductive.
This year, we also get no Voldemort and, personally, I didn’t particularly care. Given we’re not halfway through the series yet, its going to be a while before Voldemort can actually be a meaningful presence in the narrative, and I’d much prefer the plot focused on stories like Harry’s parents and their past than another secret chamber.
That said, Rowling still doesn’t know how to progress the story without her characters acting weird or Harry overhearing them. The worst one this time: McGonagall, Hagrid and the literal Minister for Magic deciding to convene at a very public place to discuss Sirius Black, all so Harry can overhear them while hiding under a table.
As for the climax: I don’t understand the time-travel here. Somehow, before using the time-travel, Harry is saved by a patronus he presumes is his father. Then he uses time-travel and realises that actually it was himself all along that saved... himself — that there’s this eternal loop of time-travel and the original loop we as readers followed wasn’t the first, apparently, and I hate time-travel.
Lastly, Crookshanks being in cahoots with Sirius is too much for me. I need to know how Sirius communicated, “get that ginger kid’s rat” to a cat and I need to know it now. And, how the cat understood that Neville had written down the passwords and stole that for Sirius to use. And, right at the end, when Sirius says he bought the Firebolt for Harry using his own money, from his vault in Gringotts. You’d think they’d have frozen his account after a decade in Azkaban, or at least, alerted someone to a massive sum being taken out. Philosopher Stone made that place seem a lot stricter....more
On the whole, he was beginning to weary of the infusion of music into his life. Invasion might be a better word. It seemed to be everywhere these d
On the whole, he was beginning to weary of the infusion of music into his life. Invasion might be a better word. It seemed to be everywhere these days: birdsong, Covey song, bird-and-Covey song.
The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes gives you a sense of its pretensions before the very first line, right in the epigraph. Ideally, the quote in the epigraph should act as an appetizer. Collins can't even confine herself to one, as she quotes Hobbes, Locke, Rousseau, Wordsworth and Mary Shelley, mapping out her inspirations and her intentions before we've read a word from her.
Instead of a sampling, we’re given a predigested meal.
As a prequel to the original trilogy, the story is set around eighteen-year-old Coriolanus Snow as he’s tasked to mentor a tribute in the tenth annual Hunger Games. The Games are a far cry from the preposterous spectacle of Katniss’s time, and the comparison does this story no favours. For all the issues I have with this book, I find it easy to believe no one would tune in to these Games. Not even the morbidly curious.
For nine years the Games have been staged in the same disused stadium. Children are “reaped” and forced to kill each other. Outside of a presumably niche sadist community, it lacks mass appeal, and its poor viewership reflects that. In an attempt to soft reboot the Games, the tenth year adds some notables from the trilogy: a host, mentors, sponsors, interviews and commentary.
Its here Collins commits her time to incorporating the idle details from her trilogy. For the most part, these glorified addendum's don't add anything — a few times they induced eye-rolling. For instance, the reaping happens on the 4th of July.
Some time is dedicated to debating the function of the Hunger Games, and all that seems to produce is some platitudes about the horrors of human nature. It's an argument Suzanne herself summed up much better in Mockingjay through Plutarch.
But that’s the main issue with this book. Without that distinctive flair of pageantry and spectacle, the Hunger Games doesn't work. Not as commentary, and definitely not as entertainment. They come across rote and just another box Collins has to tick in her Hunger Games universe.
Not unlike this prequel as a whole.
The Games last over just a hundred pages and are grueling to get through. We’re stuck in Snow’s perspective and his static shot of the arena, while most of the tributes have squirreled away in tunnels the Capitol doesn’t even try to flush them out of until we’ve sunk into outright tedium.
Without the Games, all that’s left is Snow’s arc. He goes from a proud, resentful young man to one with a body count. Essentially, Snow is not an interesting character, and the perfunctory insights into his psychology don’t merit their own book.
“You’ve no right to starve people, to punish them for no reason. No right to take away their life and freedom. Those are things everyone is born with, and they’re not yours for the taking.”
While Snow might be boring, Sejanus is genuinely awful. His contribution for five hundred pages is to self-righteously state the obvious — just in case the trilogy didn’t accomplish that — again, and again, and again.
The first part of this books title — songbirds — is represented by Lucy Gray, the District 12 tribute Snow has to mentor. Lucy is a singer, and she sings a lot in this book. At the definite risk of stating the obvious, music doesn’t translate fantastically in the medium of books. So much of what makes a song, the key and the melody, must be left to the readers imagination. It’s just awkward poem recitals.
By the time the Games have ended, there’s still two hundred pages, and the sheer overindulgence on display has to be marveled at. We get several renditions of The Hanging Tree song, as well as the incident that inspired it, because of course we do. The folklore-ish element of the songs origins in Mockingjay gone.
Snow and Lucy’s last interaction is a comedy of presumptions on Snow’s part. It’s hilarious to read over three paragraphs his mounting paranoia and conclusions. I can personally say I have next to no idea what Lucy’s intention was. Maybe that says more about my disinterest in the “love” story between the two, because Collins wasn’t hiding her intentions. At every turn, Snow referred to Lucy as a possession. At the same time, Lucy’s sincerity is also up for questioning, but I just don’t care.
The fact that the idea for The Hunger Games came from a drunk teenager riffing about an assignment with his friend one night actually makes a lot of sense, though. I’d have preferred fifteen pages about that night than the five hundred of what we got about this.
The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes is a redundant prequel with boorish pretensions it had no hope of meeting....more
After Total Eclipse — Joanne’s concluding story in this universe — ended with such a whimper, Unbroken follows its coattails too eagerly for there to After Total Eclipse — Joanne’s concluding story in this universe — ended with such a whimper, Unbroken follows its coattails too eagerly for there to be much opportunity to stick the landing with any more success.
The prime reason is that by the last book in their respective series, the plots start running parallel. Luis and Cass make a significant appearance in Total Eclipse. An appearance that’s repeated in the last quarter here with little to no variance despite the perspective shift.
We even get to experience Lewis’s final betrayal of Jo all over again, but this time Caine slips up and forgets the relationship she’s written for Cass and Lewis.
Cass acts shocked over what Lewis does, claiming this isn’t the Lewis she “knew”. Which is bizarre, given they’ve spoken all of a handful of times and never about personal philosophies as far as I can remember. It’s a frequent sentiment Jo expresses about Lewis that makes zero sense from Cass.
Somehow, Caine got her protagonists mixed up. She’s usually better with her character writing.
Where The Weather Warden series can rely on nostalgia for its weaker spots, Outcast Season doesn’t have that luxury. It doesn’t have the history or characters to fall back on.
Case in point: Cassiel is the strongest aspect of this series, but her arc of disdainful Djinn to emotionally compromised human is mishandled at points. Also, her eons of being a Djinn amounts to very little and never pays off in any tangible way.
She seems to settle into human life with no real sense of a past. You’d think someone with such a bottomless existence would have more ties to complicate their newfound humanity but its just one or two awkward encounters.
What we do get is a heartfelt story about Cassiel’s love for Luis and Isabel. Caine developed Luis and Cass’s relationship really well, while her relationship with Isabel has been unbelievably rushed. Isabel literally uses her powers to age herself up (a genuinely horrifying and interesting development) and its barely skirted over in the story after the initial shock. Isabel isn't given enough time to come into her own, and her calling Cass "mama" just came across weird to me.
I can’t overstate how disappointing Pearl has been as a villain. Cass and Pearl have this inextricable history and it offers nothing to their barely defined dynamic. They could be basically strangers and nothing would change except the odd line alluding to their profound connection. Right up to the end, their interactions are scant and lacklustre, and for all the strength of this series, it just can't recover from that. Not really.
Unbroken commits the worst sin of spin-offs: becoming too beholden to the original series. The ending was just a replay of Total Eclipse from a different perspective — and not remotely different enough to make it worthwhile....more
“Remove humans, and the world will recover. Mourn, yes. [...] Create more life to replace what was lost, as she has before. But if you remove the
“Remove humans, and the world will recover. Mourn, yes. [...] Create more life to replace what was lost, as she has before. But if you remove the Djinn, if you remove Oracles, you attack the heart and brain and blood of the Earth. You destroy her. And that is what Pearl intends. She intends to be the murderer of this entire world.”
Undone ended with the revelation of what exactly Cassiel refused to do for Ashan that led to her being outcast: Ashan asked her to obliterate humankind.
On a slightly frustrating note, its never specified why Cassiel has to be the one to do it — why she’s the only Djinn that apparently has the doomsday button for the human race. Why Ashan can’t outsource this or, hell, even do it himself? It’s a strange oversight.
However, what I like about this twist is how it doesn’t actually paint Ashan as a genocidal villain, so much as an impetuous one. All due to Pearl, an ancient Djinn who managed to eke out a broken existence to become closer in power to an Oracle than a Djinn. She's getting stronger from feeding off humanity. Once she’s strong enough she’ll devour the Djinn, and kill the Earth, in consequence.
It’s a matter of choosing one great devastation over the total annihilation of life as a concept, and I love that Caine doesn’t oversimplify that equation.
Unknown follows in the same footsteps as Undone as Cass and Luis continue their search for Ibby, his niece, and dealing with Pearl’s full-scale kidnapping of children with latent Warden abilities.
Cass travels to Sedona to speak to Imara, an Oracle, about tracking these kidnapped children. Imara gives her a scroll with every future-Warden child’s name worldwide and the usefulness of the scroll is never fully taken advantage of — maybe Caine is leaving that until book three, but to spend so long retrieving it, I expected a little more than for it to backfire critically after one or two uses.
That backfire does lead to an interesting scenario where Cass contemplates death or making a deal with a Djinn, Rashid, and chooses the third option of chopping off her left hand before the necrosis can spread.
There’s an interesting distinction made between Djinn Cass and human Cass that I’d like to be explored more.
However, Rashid eventually does get her to agree to a deal with him, and we get the second time in two books that a Djinn leverages aid to Cass under the condition she performs sexual favours. You’d think a Djinn would be more interesting, but no, just regular perverts. They bicker until its decided that Cass will owe Rashid her firstborn, and I just don’t understand what the point of any of that agreement is.
Maybe it’ll make sense later, but now its just an odd addition to an otherwise straightforward story.
Unknown is a solid follow-up to Undone, I’m just a little wary about the direction of this story as we get closer to a confrontation with Pearl, and the afterthought of a reveal that the US government are actively spying on the Wardens, and vice versa.
I want more time spent on the kidnapped children and less on government intrigue (Joanne's series has enough bureaucracy for both). And Caine seems to have considerably toned down Cassiel's ignorance of the world and its customs to degrees where she could absolutely read as just an average human protagonist. Cass hasn't had nearly enough development to earn that change....more
Chaol had mentioned this — months ago. She should have considered it more, that ordinary humans might demand checks against her power. Against the
Chaol had mentioned this — months ago. She should have considered it more, that ordinary humans might demand checks against her power. Against the power of the court gathering around her.
There’s something so utterly tragic about this quote. Aelin has better reasons than most to understand the need for checks and balances when it comes to power. She's been on both sides of the dynamic as a slave and assassin to the king.
Yet, still. Even now. She embodies that inexplicable exceptionalism.
She has no experience of ruling and governance; she’s not even twenty, and has spent her time in exile killing people at the behest of others and languishing in luxury. Her sanctified bloodline doesn’t undo that reality, or at least, it shouldn't.
At this stage, my expectations for this series are fairly low, so simply having a character like Darrow to offer an astute reality check to Aelin is wonderful. Game-changing. Revelatory. Best three pages in the whole series. While, obviously, this is as close as we get to grappling with these issues, I'm glad someone voiced them.
Even if Aelin spends that time listening to Darrow posturing violently:
Darrow went on before Aelin could speak or incinerate the room.
Hundreds of pages later, Aelin does acknowledges Darrow’s point, shockingly, if only to then continue on as if she didn’t. It’s more than I expected, so there’s that.
Aside from all my particular misgivings with this series, I'll admit I rarely get into the fantasy royalty crap.
Aragorn’s ascension to the throne in Return of the King always felt too neat to me. Bloodline over experience, seniority, or a modicum of self-determination for those being ruled, always rubbed me the wrong way. It’s just not a trope I like, so teasing me with a little reality check here and there is exciting, but I know Aelin’s rule will still be a fairytale of a “rightful” ruler restoring a kingdom to its former glory in the end.
It took three books, but I got there: I started to enjoy Manon’s chapters. Having her go rogue was exactly the direction I wanted her story to go, even if it is at the expense of another coven once again. Its one thing to trample on others for her own ambitions, but doing so for pretty-boy Dorian just felt wrong.
Whatever entertainment I got from her was completely destroyed when it was revealed Manon was actually the last heir of royalty, too. Just like Aelin. Nearly everybody is royalty and gorgeous and powerful and it all starts to blur together.
Empire of Storms is the largest book in the series so far and it's inundated with the exact same romances. Lorcan and Elide are just Rowan and Aelin sped-up, Aedion and Lysandra feel like Maas just pairing the spares, and Dorian and Manon are just a variation of Dorian and Celaena if they’d been the endgame couple. Its exhaustive and the “plot” feels lost in the gaps between.
Worst of all, romance has a discombobulating effect on everyone. Aedion, who has dedicated his life to Aelin and restoring her to the throne, becomes furious over Aelin (inadvertently) putting Lysandra in harms way. Forgetting that he’s known Lysandra five minutes, the fickleness of this moment is devastating to his characterisation. And it doesn’t just happen to Aedion.
Rowan’s unswerving allegiance to Aelin makes him a completely different character, similar to how Lorcan eventually is with Elide. Unlike their teenage love interests, Lorcan and Rowan are hundreds of years old, with a greater understanding of themselves and the world. With countless previous relationships, yet they act like children shaping their identities to their partners.
Worse still, Mass fully embraces canine imagery to convey this devotion:
Rowan gave him a lazy smile but refrained from commenting on the delicate, dark-haired young woman who now held Lorcan’s own leash.
Honestly, none of that really matters, it just pisses me off.
What does matter is how it takes six hundred pages for this door-stopper to give any answers, and the answers it gives are ripped straight from The Prince’s Tale chapter in Deathly Hallows. Aelin is just a horcrux, or in this case, an essential part of the Wyrdkeys and its her death that is needed to end things. Ghostly Elena is Dumbledore, the manipulative architect, Nehemia is Snape, Aelin is Harry and I’m exhausted.
Whatever positive feelings I could drudge up for this entry were obliterated in these derivative chapters.
To add insult to injury, the last thirty pages are just reams of exposition for things Aelin was apparently doing behind the scenes, like she isn’t a point-of-view protagonist. Literally hundreds of pages were spent achieving fuck all but setting up romantic couplings. Aelin’s quest for allies, her trepidation about failing and her nigh-prescience and the contingencies she planned — marrying Rowan — that, that should have been Empire of Storms.
It’d still be a derivative mess, but it’d be focused. It’d have a clear path to chart out. Instead, we got nearly 700 pages of everyone dragging their feet while flirting with each other....more
Heir of Fire is slog to get through. With Celaena on another continent, Maas hasn’t just doubled-down on the pacing issues — she tripled down. Even moHeir of Fire is slog to get through. With Celaena on another continent, Maas hasn’t just doubled-down on the pacing issues — she tripled down. Even more perplexingly, she doesn’t try to bridge the gulf between stories in any meaningful way.
Chaol is sequestered into the role Nehemia should have had, aiding the resistance, and that subplot adds another character to the mix: Aedion, a cousin of Celaena’s (when she was Aelin), whose devotion to her rivals every other attractive guy in this series — so, you know, A LOT.
Dorian’s chapters mostly cover an insipid romance between him and a court healer, Sorscha. As the only non-white character in the cast, her days were numbered. All Celaena’s boys are alive, of course.
For all the above POV’s it can be at least said they lend continuity to the happenings in Erilea while Celaena is away, but then there’s Manon.
Starting with a strong introduction, Manon’s story devolves to an uninspired rehash of Throne of Glass: badass killer having to prove herself in a competition, sans love triangle of all mercies. Manon’s story is isolated from the rest of the story and at best, feels out of place.
What irritates me about these new perspectives is the lack of cohesion. Just because the author is aiming for sprawling epic, doesn’t make it any less of a priority to properly structure the story with a specific objective in mind. Streamlining the plot-points wouldn’t have been all that difficult, either.
Bloat is often mistaken for depth, when its just the consequence of poor editing.
This book shouldn’t have inched past 400/450 pages — cut out Manon’s chapters. If you want to introduce her character, do it once she’s already become Wing Leader in the next book. Given how pointless Sorscha’s character ends up being, write her out, too. Chaol and Dorian’s chapters should be about them, their relationship and their growing enmity for the king — or send Chaol home.
The king himself really should be a stronger presence in this series and this would be the opportunity to do that.
Instead, the story slogs on such a meandering path that even the protagonist, Celaena, is victim to it. Last we saw of her, she was heading off to Wendlyn at the behest of the king. She’s supposed to cause political turmoil through assassinating the king of that continent, but within paragraphs that story is dropped.
Insert Rowan, an ancient, archetypal brooding and misunderstood dick whose bad behaviour gets swept under the rug the minute its revealed his beloved was fridged two centuries ago. The mangst is a bit much for me, but is typical for the genre.
Rowan brings her to Meave, who promises to tell her everything she knows about Wyrdkeys and how to destroy them, if Celaena allows Rowan to train her. We get a similar rehash of Chaol and Celaena’s belligerent dynamic as her “training” immediately devolves into verbal and physical abuse. He’s also a prince too, so he’s Dorian and Chaol in one gloriously handsome package.
Maas goes out of her way to suggest nothing romantic about Celaena and Rowan’s relationship, but this feels like appeasement to the Celaena and Chaol shippers that I assume exist.
I appreciated that Maas delved into Celaena’s past and tried to make her earn her magic. Unfortunately, Celaena’s past is incredibly bland and should have been left to passing exposition.
While her mastering her magic is sadly tangled with rehashed dynamics (Rowan being a slightly altered amalgamation of Dorian and Chaol), the entire reason for it — to broker information — amounts to Meave herself shrugging and admitting she doesn't know much. Making the trip to Wendlyn pointless.
Worse, Rowan is bound to Meave, and Celaena negotiates his release — only to IMMEDIATELY agree to bind him to her. Maybe give the guy a half-hour before he relinquishes his eternal autonomy once again.
Lastly, Sorscha’s death is a foregone conclusion, but didn’t need to be so silly. The king orders her beheaded, a soldier lobs of her head, and this is a direct quote:
And then Dorian, still screaming, was scrambling through the blood toward it — toward her head, as if he could put it back.
Making it even worse, Dorian only deigns to use his magic to save Chaol (sorry Sorscha's head), who expresses his wholly-platonic love before fleeing. Dorian is enslaved (mind-control is everywhere in this series), and the second minority of the series spanning two continents is unceremoniously killed....more
One potential consequence of writing a prequel is in how any new information can warp established canon. Maybe not outright contradict it, but undermiOne potential consequence of writing a prequel is in how any new information can warp established canon. Maybe not outright contradict it, but undermine it.
The Assassin and the Healer starts with Celaena at an inn in Innish — presumably a land whose economy is heavily reliant on inns. Her internal monologue fixates on the awful state of the inn, its patrons and its amenities. It's in moments like this that Celaena's characterisation becomes more confusing. She sounds so insufferably spoiled as she picks apart the conditions of the place, it makes you wonder how she could have survived Endovier for a whole year.
More to the point, Celaena is identical to the character we meet in Throne of Glass. What’s the value in writing a novel’s-length of prequel stories if Celaena is already the “most notorious assassin”? What do we have to gain from going through the motions up until her capture?
There were so many of them now — the children who had lost everything to Adarlan. Children who had now grown into assassins and barmaids, without a true place to call home, their native kingdoms left in ruin and ash.
I struggled a lot with this comparison. The story is an Afterschool Special: Celaena gives an impromptu self-defence class to a barmaid in a dark alley, begrudgingly hears her sob story, and then leaves her enough money so that she can pursue her dream job.
The above quote is funny in how it positions “assassins and barmaids” as two equally abhorrent consequences of the war, with equal hardship to overcome, when the problem with the barmaid’s job is that she’s exploited by her boss, and that’s it. Celaena's exploitation by Arobynn doesn't hold the same sympathy when she's murdering people.
Decent hours and a fair wage for a assassin are just not things I feel strongly about.
The Afterschool Special message of "follow your dreams" just is hard to overlook in that. Overall, this story is a waste of time. It's only saving grace is that its just 40 pages....more
Beckendorf telegraphing his imminent demise by mooning over a picture of his sweetheart — a trope so unbelievably overdone I was expecting a subversioBeckendorf telegraphing his imminent demise by mooning over a picture of his sweetheart — a trope so unbelievably overdone I was expecting a subversion — sets The Last Olympian up nicely.
For all of its goofy predictability, scattershot storytelling and superficial character-work, Percy Jackson finally puts his head down and focuses on defeating Kronos. For our trouble, we get a fun glimpse into Poseidon’s world as the scope shifts to the wider universe and not just the antics of Camp Half-Blood.
I still feel this should have been done a lot earlier in the series, but, like with most things here, it is what it is.
A lot of the book situates itself in the battle against Kronos and, simultaneously, Percy’s dreams. These dreams act as a clumsy device to circumvent the story’s limiting first-person-perspective — clumsy for its sheer overuse.
If a plot point needs introducing or clarification, Percy takes a snooze. It doesn’t make for exciting reading.
Also, Percy gets a power-up that makes him "invincible" and once he's actually fighting, we get this bullshit:
You're going to ask how the 'invincible' thing worked — if I magically dodged every weapon, or if the weapons hit me and just didn't harm me. Honestly, I don't remember.
There’s a decent bit of gods slander, even as Riordan upholds their hegemony in every possible way.
Luke fights the possession and kills Kronos — which, good — but Annabeth immediately calling him a hero because of it — is such an unbelievably unearned moment.
Riordan did the bare minimum with Luke’s characterisation, and this sacrifice could be read as a spiteful betrayal of Kronos rather than an act of heroism. Personally, from what we got from Luke, it actually makes more sense as that. In terms of big character-defining moments, it’s a mild shrug.
And what the hell was that exchange between him and Annabeth? He asks if she loved him — she looks at Percy and then says no. What kind of question is that? She even brings up he was like a brother to her. How am I supposed to be interpreting this?
Ultimately, Percy leverages his good favour to get the gods to promise not to be such deadbeat parents in so far as they pay child support, so the day is saved?...more
"If it ain't broke, don't fix it" seems to be Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets abiding philosophy.
Just like last year, Harry suffers under the"If it ain't broke, don't fix it" seems to be Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets abiding philosophy.
Just like last year, Harry suffers under the Dursleys until he's visited by someone from the wizarding world (swap Hagrid for Dobby) around his birthday. He spends the school-year uncovering a mystery that only seems to remain unsolved due to sheer indifference from Hogwarts staff.
Meddling preteen, Harry Potter, saves the day once again.
The titular Chamber of Secrets doesn't actually have secrets, plural. Its secret of housing a Basilisk is a poorly kept one at that. The giant snake roams the corridors of the school at night, which as the previous book made clear, is populated by ghosts and sentient portraits alongside Filch and his prowling cat. Miraculously, this conspicuous creature is never spotted by someone with the wisdom to flee a giant snake without making eye-contact.
According to legend, Salazar Slytherin created the chamber to leash his secret weapon until the time was right. Before that time came, he was ousted from his position because the rest of the faculty didn't share his ideology of pureblood supremacy.
A few things irked me: McGonagall goes out of her way to purchase an inessential and expensive broomstick for Harry in the first book, but has zero interest in replacing Ron's wand? It's not a secret that the Weasleys are money-insecure.
Despite all the advantages of magic, poverty is still a reality in the wizarding world — accepting even that, why wouldn't Hogwarts have a few spare wands in cases where they've been broken or misplaced? It actively hurts Ron's education for the school-year.
And speaking of hurting education, Dumbledore decides that sacrificing a whole year of Defence Against the Dark Arts for his students was worth satisfying his pet theory that Lockhart was a fraud. The Headmaster believes Voldemort will probably rise again in these students lifetimes, and in the event of that, Defence Against the Dark Arts in particular will be crucial, but he has to have his Scooby-Doo side plot.
That has to be the reason because Lockhart isn't simply a fraud. Aside from fabricating his daring feats to secure himself a great deal of celebrity, he's an atrocious wizard. He seems unable to perform rudimentary spells and goes out of his way to demonstrate as much to large audiences. His memory spells can only get him so far.
Basically, he's a fun character but one that undermines too much of the story to overlook for just entertainment value.
The Basilisks petrifying antics leaves the school in lockdown and Dumbledore suspended. I can't blame suspending Dumbledore, but sending Hagrid to Azkaban as a "precautionary measure" is horrifying — the wizarding world doesn't have due process. Its then revealed Ginny was experiencing the magical equivalent of being groomed on the internet through the enchanted diary of the memory of Voldemort at sixteen-years-old:
"Twice — in your past, in my future — we have met. And twice I failed to kill you."
I like imagining Lucius Malfoy hunkering down one night and writing all the current wizarding affairs in the diary to get the memory up to speed. And Tom Riddle choosing the name Voldemort by awkward anagram is just the kind of embarrassing thing a teenager would do. I can't imagine adult Voldemort brings it up very often.
Harry defeating Voldemort "without thinking, without considering," and just sort of, divining that he should stab the diary with the Basilisk fang felt like Rowling was trying to meet a deadline, and the story wraps up identically to the first book. ...more
It's nearly impossible to overstate how much of a cultural juggernaut the Harry Potter series is. Nowadays, talk of the franchise is often, understandIt's nearly impossible to overstate how much of a cultural juggernaut the Harry Potter series is. Nowadays, talk of the franchise is often, understandably, overshadowed by the authors own bigotry.
It's sadly an inevitable result of two decades of being a billionaire — insulated from real-world problems — as it takes a profoundly privileged perch to look out at the world's troubles and single out a minority to place your considerable boot under.
But enough about Rowling. Jim Kay is the star here, wonderfully illustrating Harry's world and breathing new life into an old book. If I was judging this book on its art alone, it'd be a near perfect rating.
Harry Potter and the Philosopher Stone starts with the introduction of the Dursleys, our protagonists estranged aunt and uncle. Harry's parents have been killed and Dumbledore (for some reason) is responsible for deciding who his guardians will be.
It seems strange that the Wizarding World doesn't have their own Child Protective Services, and Dumbledore's reasoning for putting him in the custody of a family outright hostile to his magical heritage is questionable: a childhood outside of the celebrity of the Wizarding World sounds wonderful, but Albus isn't offering him a chance at a normal childhood. He's ensuring its an abusive one.
Even the letters that get sent to Harry, ten years later, specify that they know Harry sleeps in a cupboard. It's not a stretch to assume they're also aware of the needlessly cruel treatment beyond this and intervention is never considered?
The Dursleys themselves are cartoonishly drawn, which given the target demographic is fairly standard. I do wish Dudley didn't get so much antagonism, though; he's a product of atrocious parenting, and the prose gleefully malign his appearance.
On a more nitpicky note, it's funny how willing Harry is into buying Hagrid's story after talking to him for five minutes. I mean, I'm glad it didn't take chapters of cross-examination, but having an eleven year old mosey away with a strange man to go to a "wizarding school" sounds like a typical stranger-danger scenario.
There were a hundred and forty-two staircases at Hogwarts: wide, sweeping ones; narrow, rickety ones; some that led somewhere different on a Friday; some with a vanishing step halfway up that you had to remember to jump. Then there were doors that wouldn't open unless you asked politely, or tickled them in exactly the right place, and doors that weren't really doors at all, but solid walls just pretending.
The books biggest strength is when it embraces the silliness of its setting. While touching moments like Harry's visit to the Mirror of Erised and his conversation with Dumbledore add an appreciable pathos, the story and worldbuilding are a shallow puddle Rowling effectively splashes in.
Everything from the wizarding currency (they have exactly one bank), the school curriculum, the politics; basically the wider world outside of Hogwarts is a smokescreen. A charming smokescreen, but nothing to really dive into.
It felt weird and inappropriate for McGonagall to gift Harry anything, let alone an incredibly expensive broomstick. But she isn't the only one giving gifts: Dumbledore anonymously "returns" an Invisibility Cloak — which can't have a single function other than mischief. Which, apparently, Dumbledore was all for.
Dumbledore's nonchalance at letting Harry confront Voldemort is awe-inspiring. I'm in awe of the audacity. On the one instance he gets caught for wandering the school late at night, his punishment is to wander the even more forbidden forest with all the dangerous creatures. That seems a little disproportionate to the crime, as well as counterintuitive to the message the punishment is supposed to be sending.
The plot itself moves in fits and starts, usually with Harry stumbling on and overhearing another piece of the puzzle. When he isn't overhearing plot points, Hagrid is accidentally spoon-feeding them to him. As mysteries go, its fairly bad.
Lastly, the various challenges protecting the philosopher stone being solved by the combined brain-power of three eleven-year-olds is a bad look for all the great witches and wizards that devised it. And the house points fiasco just made Dumbledore look like an asshole....more
"Sooner or later, everyone's story has an unfortunate event or two — a schism or a death, a fire or a mutiny, the loss of a home or the destruction
"Sooner or later, everyone's story has an unfortunate event or two — a schism or a death, a fire or a mutiny, the loss of a home or the destruction of a tea set. The only solution, of course, is to stay as far away from the world as possible and lead a safe, simple life."
Stranding the Baudelaires on an island as an extended metaphor for the lesson that the world is a dangerous place, and its fruitless to shelter oneself from those dangers — you must learn how to survive them . . . is a curious choice.
Doing it in the last book in lieu of literally anything else, shedding light or offering clarity on any of its numerous plot threads, is borderline sadism.
Especially when its not a lesson the Baudelaires particularly needed to learn. Having the orphans toy with the idea of staying momentarily isn't the same as them actually connecting with the fear of the world.
Their island life quickly descends into chaos when Olaf is harpooned and inadvertently releases the deadly fungus introduced two books ago. This kills everyone on the island, including Kit, who can't risk the antidote because it could harm her unborn child. The idea that leaving her newborn with three children stranded on an island, ensuring her baby's death in a far more horrific way, isn't brought up, and she dies in childbirth.
Olaf dies of his injuries, too. I wish there was more to it, that this final confrontation offered anything significant or meaningful to the story or its themes. It doesn't. He dies, and the story moves on.
The Baudelaires raise Kit's newborn baby on the island for a year before sailing off to the dangerous unknown once again. And that's it.
We might even say that the world is always in medias res—a Latin phrase which means "in the midst of things" or "in the middle of a narrative"—and that it is impossible to solve any mystery, or find the root of any trouble, and so The End is really the middle of the story [...]
I'm not even mad. Or if I am, its directed at myself. Once I read this line, it confirmed my suspicions. This series of unfortunate events doesn't have any decent answers to the questions it chose to raise, to the mysteries it took the time to set up, or to the characters and relationships it had built unsteady foundations for.
It's a monumentally unsatisfying conclusion in any respect. Thirteen books of what, who, where and how's of increasing perplexity and the story goes with life is too complicated for answers and too incomplete for conclusions? I don't care what age a story is being written for, that's just bullshit. ...more
"There are people who say that criminal behaviour is the destiny of children from a broken home," she said, through her tears. "Don't make this you
"There are people who say that criminal behaviour is the destiny of children from a broken home," she said, through her tears. "Don't make this your destiny, Baudelaires."
After the disappointment of the last book, The Penultimate Peril is a fun nostalgic trip that, once again, offers no answers.
Kit Snicket drops the Baudelaires off at the Hotel Denouement, tasking them with acting as concierges to scope out volunteers and villains residing in its rooms as they await a V.F.D meeting soon to take place there.
On its surface, its not that different from what's come before: we've even had the Baudelaires in a hotel in The Ersatz Elevator. The difference lies in the swath of returning characters populating the pages, including my two favourites Principal Nero and Kevin, the freakish ambidextrous man.
The majority of the novel is spent navigating the hotels floors and occasionally aiding and abetting their enemies in the process. Eventually, Olaf appears, another person is murdered and a farce of a trial is held.
The Beaudelaires commit another bout of arson and sail away with Olaf. Unsurprisingly, the V.F.D. meeting never happens and nothing of value is gained.
It's a frustrating predicament of such a long-running series, that even solid instalments like this one are ultimately bogged down by the weight of its own unsolved mysteries and unanswered questions....more
The Grim Grotto, like the majority of entries in this series, is unadulterated filler. Several books ago, when the characters and world weren't as fleThe Grim Grotto, like the majority of entries in this series, is unadulterated filler. Several books ago, when the characters and world weren't as fleshed out, that was excusable if not preferable.
However, with the multiple car pile-up of mysteries dangling without a hope of an adequate resolution — Snicket playing fast and loose with the meaning of V.F.D. was an early warning sign — the charming idiosyncrasies of the series have started to feel like particularly plodding stalling tactics.
Basically, this series has worn out its welcome and my drive to finish it is just the sunk-cost fallacy at work.
Stranded, the Baudelaires are picked up by a submarine, where they meet two people who ultimately don't matter while looking for a sugar bowl or something. I'm not even going to check, I'm so done with this.
Honestly, the stakes are fairly flimsy, and even the relevance of the bowl itself is only alluded to once again, and I'm just too frustrated by the meandering to care beyond that.
This is book ELEVEN, but plot-wise the story hasn't progressed an iota since the introduction of V.F.D. five books ago. Ending on Briny Beach with the orphans turning away from Mr. Poe (who hasn't been relevant since book seven) and getting into Kit Snickets taxi would have worked three to four books ago, now the best I can hope for is a sense of finality....more
The initials of "Volunteer Feline Detectives," of course, spelled "V.F.D.," the name of the organization they were looking for. But were these init
The initials of "Volunteer Feline Detectives," of course, spelled "V.F.D.," the name of the organization they were looking for. But were these initials a coincidence, as they had seemed to be so many times? Or was the mysterious scout giving them some sort of signal?
When I first read the above quote, I was genuinely pissed off. By the time The Slippery Slope ends, V.F.D. has been so semantically satiated in this universe I've rebounded back to disgruntled bemusement.
At this point, I don't know and I'm fairly certain I can't even begin to care — which goes for a lot of this series. Mysteries require a tricky balancing act: giving enough information to whet the appetite but not make the reveal a foregone conclusion. Miraculously, this series is so inundated with details of dubious relevance that the series could pull a Scooby-Doo, unmask Olaf and Esme as Mr. and Mrs. Baudelaire and declare this whole series of unfortunate events as some out-of-touch initiation ritual for V.F.D., meaning here Vindictive Fortune Deviants, as the orphans are sure to become once they come into their inheritance and have time to deal with all their trauma.
It doesn't matter is my point.
A surprising strength The Slippery Slope has over the previous instalments is separating Sunny from Klaus and Violet. Sunny's chapters were honestly my favourite and the moment she declares she's not a baby is beautiful and empowering if not exactly accurate.
I never thought the unintelligible infant with the demonic incisors would be my favourite sibling, but here we are.
Also, this books morality is lightyears from my own. Olaf and company have murdered their parents, caused countless other murders and trauma to their lives, and has currently kidnapped Sunny — posing even the notion that Violet and Klaus capturing Esme as leverage is remotely equivalent is insane.
I get that from the title, its more of a slippery slope argument, but no, that's bullshit. These children should be borderline feral at this point. The Baudelaires have every right to kill Olaf in cold blood and I'd be right behind them. I know this series isn't going to end with the Baudelaires forcing Olaf to seppuku himself on one of Sunny's incisors through a devious invention, but anything short of that will, honestly, feel a little disappointing.
That is probably more of an issue of me not being in the target demographic though. Perhaps....more
With the Baudelaire orphans, it was as if their grief were a very heavy object that they each took turns carrying so that they would not all be cry
With the Baudelaire orphans, it was as if their grief were a very heavy object that they each took turns carrying so that they would not all be crying at once, but sometimes the object was too heavy for one of them to move without weeping, so Violet and Sunny stood next to Klaus, reminding him that this was something they could all carry together until at last they found a safe place to lay it down.
No matter how great the diversion—and a carnival with a freak show is pretty great—The Carnivorous Carnival is still juggling the same two mysteries of V.F.D. and their parents in a frustrating holding pattern.
With four more books, I'm worried this might be the case until book 12 or 13, and as a series like this goes on and on, there's only so many bait-and-switches, interruptions and literal cliffhangers (as in the case of this book) that can sustain themselves without some disclosure.
Clambering out of Olaf's trunk, the Baudelaire's find themselves at a carnival where Olaf consults a fortune-teller for their whereabouts. The orphans choose to hide in plain sight and become a part of the freak show. The other "freaks" include a hunchback, a contortionist, and my absolute favourite, Kevin. He suffers the dreadfully ostracising condition of being ambidextrous and the way the story blows this out of proportion is probably the best part of the book.
If that sounds like a backhanded compliment, that's because it is.
We do learn how Olaf has been able to find the Baudelaires through the series, but it wasn't a question I've asked myself since The Wide Window; this series is absurd and questions begetting questions can feel like a part of the absurdity once we're adding hypnotism, crow-worshipping villagers, and incredibly flimsy disguises (for all concerned) into the mix.
On a positive note, I'm glad Mr. Poe is barely an afterthought and Esme's jealousy of Madame Lulu was about the only interpersonal drama that was almost worth investing in—until Lulu was eaten alive by lions, of course....more
After two fairly uninvolving instalments, I was worried this series had hit its final decline. Thankfully, with The Hostile Hospital, Snicket does it After two fairly uninvolving instalments, I was worried this series had hit its final decline. Thankfully, with The Hostile Hospital, Snicket does it again and pulls me back in.
It's a pity it took two books, but the series finally has some momentum.
Without Mr. Poe, the Baudelaires are free to chart their own course and shake up the stories formula. The Quagmire triplets are basically safe, so that's one thread dealt with — even if it meant sequestering them in the sky so they couldn't reveal anything about the series larger mysteries.
V.F.D has been the bait-and-switch mystery of the last book. Initially thought to be the Village of Foul Devotees, the Baudelaires then latch on to the Volunteers Fighting Disease — which, by the end, turns out to be wrong, too.
With the murder of Jacques Snicket in the last book, I appreciate how Lemony Snicket's interjections have become more personal. He's still the same aloof narrator of the Baudelaires misfortunes, but I'm finding the little details we get about him more interesting than the current predicament of the orphans — or is that orphans?
The twist that one of their parents might have survived the fire (using the tunnel between the house and the hotel?) is exactly what the story needed. A sense of urgency where the stakes are life-altering, not just life-ending.
And the cliffhanger has the children hide in the trunk of Olaf's getaway car, so maybe the series has turned a corner on its formula and Mr. Poe is forgotten. The absence of Mr. Poe automatically adds a star to this book....more
The Vile Village is the seventh instalment in this series, and I'd be lying if I didn't say my patience is running a little thin.
The Baudelaires' areThe Vile Village is the seventh instalment in this series, and I'd be lying if I didn't say my patience is running a little thin.
The Baudelaires' are placed in the custody of a whole village — it invokes the 'it takes a whole village" adage a few times — but does very little with it. It's a small village that devotes itself to a murder of crows and seems to have its own jurisdiction when punishing rule-breakers. The majority of the book is the Baudelaires being tasked with the entire villages chores as they try to piece together couplets from the Quagmire triplets.
The village itself never quite comes to life on the page, as the villagers remain two-dimensionally clumped together in a mob. The arbitrary rules — including an inexplicable ban on mechanical devices, of all things — fit nicely with the absurdist tone of the series, but the storytelling feels like checking boxes at this point.
I did find Olaf's disguise as a finger-snapping detective funny, and that Esme is his girlfriend now was a cutesy addition.
The ending does give me hope for the series going forward. Unlike every other time, the Baudelaires aren't accompanied by Mr. Poe at the end and are forced to brave the world without a legal guardian in any capacity. That, more than anything, has me curious about the direction of the next book.
No matter how many misfortunes had befallen them and no matter how many ersatz things they would encounter in the future, the Baudelaire orphans kn
No matter how many misfortunes had befallen them and no matter how many ersatz things they would encounter in the future, the Baudelaire orphans knew they could rely on each other for the rest of their lives, and this, at least, felt like the one thing in the world that was true.
The world of A Series of Unfortunate Events remains curiously claustrophobic after six books — the orphans are well-travelled by this point, but their world remains absurdly confined, and while the absurdity is certainly intentional, that doesn't lesson the lack of progress the story has made since The Bad Beginning.
The cyclical nature of each instalment just isn't as charming six times over.
The Ersatz Elevator has the Baudelaires back to their hometown, living with Jerome and Esmé Squalor. Esmé is cartoonishly preoccupied with the expectations of peers we never interact with, peers that define what is in and what is out; Jerome is a conflict-avoidant doormat, and Mr. Poe is hitting six for six on terrible guardians for the orphans.
He does have a side-plot of tracking down the Quagmire triplets from the last book, but is obviously useless there, too. He's the worst.
This book concerns itself with substitution: the Squalors are a substitute for their parents and a poor one. Olaf substitutes the Quagmire triplets for his true interest in the Baudelaires. The titular ersatz elevator is an elevator shaft substituting as a cell for the triplets.
These are interesting ideas that chain together neatly until the inevitable Count Olaf confrontation with Mr. Poe arrives and the Baudelaires are alone again. The repetitiveness wouldn't be so frustrating if any of the questions from the cliffhanger of the last book were actually addressed. But they aren't.
And while I still enjoy the writing, I really wish the story would find a new direction....more
The Baudelaire orphans had found friends, and as they stood in the library with the Quagmire triplets, the world felt smaller and safer than it had f
The Baudelaire orphans had found friends, and as they stood in the library with the Quagmire triplets, the world felt smaller and safer than it had for a long, long time
I don't think I've ever been so shocked by such a turnaround as The Austere Academy is to The Miserable Mill. Just when I was writing off this series, Snicket does the improbable and tells the best story of this series so far.
With a dearth of on-hand relatives to foist them on, Mr. Poe has the Baudelaire's enrolled at Prufrock Preparatory School. The Baudelaire's are immediately ostracised by the rest of the students and forced to live in a shack rife with mould and infested with crabs of all things.
The curriculum is one class for both Klaus and Violet, who have to measure things and remember rambling anecdotes, respectively. Due to Sonny's age, of course, she's made the vice principal's secretary.
Vice Principal Nero is the MVP of this book. His name is obviously a reference to Emperor Nero, whose fiddling is replaced with interminable violin recitals. Nero is hilarious. He constantly mimics what the children say in a whiny voice like a petulant child; he can't play the violin but insists on mandatory attendance for his six-hour long recitals; he appoints Sunny, an infant, as his secretary. All of it is so beautifully batshit.
Olaf reappears as the school gym teacher, Coach Genghis, whose dastardly plan is deceptively silly: in his capacity as their gym teacher, he makes them run all night, every night, so they're too exhausted for schoolwork and are eventually expelled. The school setting lends itself to Harry Potter references, and having Count Olaf wear a turban to disguise his unibrow (as Quirrell did to disguise Voldemort's face on the back of his head) is cute.
What separates this story from the rest is the introduction of the Quagmire triplets (one of whom died in a fire along with their parents, so its just two of them). This is the first time the Baudelaire's have been able to engage with their peers and its refreshing. The Quagmire triplets are also recipients of a considerable inheritance when they come of age, which is an interesting direction to go and opens up a potentially larger conspiracy.
In the end, Olaf settles for kidnapping them over the Baudelaires and we're left with the first true cliffhanger of this series....more
The Miserable Mill is the fourth entry into this series and its formula is showing its wear. Books like this benefit from its relative brevity but theThe Miserable Mill is the fourth entry into this series and its formula is showing its wear. Books like this benefit from its relative brevity but there are downsides too.
With a short page count, the story remains focused, but when the story just hits the same three or four story beats with little variation, 190 pages can feel like 490.
Mr. Poe carts the Baudelaire's off to Paltryville to be under the guardianship of a man with an apparently unpronounceable name. Also, this man treats them like employees at his lumbermill — forcing minors to do backbreaking and dangerous work. And he has a perpetual cloud of cigar smoke obscuring his face to add to the fever dream feel of this entry.
Basically, Mr. Poe is still a menace and the true villain of this story and he has yet to prove otherwise.
Outside of having Violet and Klaus put themselves in the other's shoes and specialties, everything else that happens is just noise. Olaf is back and in drag — fine. He's in cahoots with a hypnotist — fine. Sunny has a fight with the hypnotist using her four sharp teeth like a sword — I can't even visualize that.
Honestly, this is the first boring instalment. Other than reading into the constant use of "partner" to describe Sir and Charles relationship and deciding, yes, that's gay, there's absolutely nothing I thought about for more than a second....more
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