A warning: If you're reading this blog because you found me on twitter and you're accustomed to my teasertuesday entries, I apologize for expressing my inner nerd here. If you're reading this because I linked you from facebook then you are likely well aware of my long-standing nerdom for which I make no apologies.
That said...
For many of us rabid Potter fans, The Deathly Hallows is main course being served in preparation for the delicious, much anticipated desert. It is the first part of what we hope is a true representation of all the lush detailing Rowling gave us in the final book...resolutions to the conflict we'd considered for a decade. It goes without say that if you haven't read the books then the films will leave you will a sense that something is missing. Sadly, that's the nature of the beast. The films, while exciting and thrilling, simply can't compare to the magnitude of plot that cannot be experienced by letting your Potter journey begin and end in a theater.
Many aspects present in the books are, of course, missing in the film and some have previously been glossed over to accommodate time and budget. But the first part of Deathly Hallows, like films past, gets the job done and does it well.
I'll say this first and foremost, this film, as well as the previous one, Half Blood Price, has a decidedly dark overtone. This is not a trick of creative license on director David Yates' part, however, but rather a necessary expression of the tone and feel of the final two books. War is approaching. People die. Communities are seeing the ravages of impending doom because that is what happens when tyrants begin their dance of mayhem and violence.
Harry, Ron and Hermione have a job to do-- to find and destroy Horcruxes, objects containing parts of Voldemort's soul. Without doing away with these objects, killing The Dark Lord will be impossible. Since Dumbledore's death said Dark Lord and his minions have been doing their level best to find Harry, destroying whoever gets in their way in the process. Hence, all the death and violence.
The films walks in the shadow of the books. They skip along in the shadows of the detail Rowling has laid, but essential plot elements are still there: Harry leaves his Aunt and Uncle's home for the last time, though, I was disappointed that it was less dramatic than the Dursley's common muggle reaction in the book. The Seven Potters scene is wonderful, very funny and gives viewers a sense of Radcliffe's comedic timing. George Weasley's injury is verbatum to the book and done justice by Oliver and James Phelps, who are, let's be honest, the truest representation of the Weasley twins we could have ever hoped to see. Much of the film continues in this vein--some being perfect copies of Rowling's work, some skimming the surface of that perfection.
Now, because I was asked to give the goods, I'll say that those hoping for the small subtleties of the Ron/Hermione dynamic will not be disappointed. No, we have yet to see the grand romantic gesture yet (Hermione does not level her snog attack on Ron's face until the second half of the final film), we DO see some very obvious interest between the two. Yes, Juliana, there are many, many longing looks, you will particularly like when Hermione tries to teach Ron the piano and yes, it appears that the "they must have fallen asleep holding hands" bit is there indeed. Also, anticipate a collective "awe" from the entire auditorium when Ron explains how he found his way back to Hermione. Oh and yeah, there are loads of small touches and consolations.
Film Ron did not carry on in the 'exact' manner that book Ron did whilst Bella is torturing Hermione, but Grint was remarkable at expressing his characters desperation. And in that same vein, I'll say that of all the child actors to graduate from the Potter Academy of Film, Grint must be the valedictorian. He can say more with one look than some actors seasoned by fifty years of time and experience. The young man is remarkable, beyond talented and is heading for a lifetime of acting success. I look forward to seeing it.
Another note to my fellow nerds, the Riddle "Harry/Hermione" is astonishing. Trust me, you have not seen a Harry or Hermione like this. They emerge from the locket to taunt Ron in very weird pseudo forms, too perfect, too controlled and niggle Ron into overwhelming fury, particularly when they 'wrap' around each other and begin a smooch that is seductive, alluring and well, let's just say, I found it necessary to cover my seven-year-old's eyes whilst the snog fest went on and on.
Shining in a very tight second to Grint in way of performance is Emma Watson. I completely adore this young woman and have faith that should she decide to continue in her career, she'll thrive and succeed with grace and elegance.
And folks, you are fools if you do not bring along a hankie. Dobby the House Elf. I won't say more to that than, dear Lord, my eyes are absolutely leaking.
So, I'll end my geek fest by saying this: the first part of Deathly Hallows, while not filled with comedy or a large abundance of action, is what I expected, what pleased the die hard Potter book fan in me--the long withheld breath that fills the lungs, that anticipates the thrill ahead, just like a ride on a roller coaster where you can see the plunging dip ahead, where you know you'll soon be screaming and flailing your arms from the thrill of the ride. It's the breath you take before beginning a journey from which you're not certain you'll end unscathed.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Wishing Well, Part 5
I meant to finish this up today, but NaNo has made me a slave of my muse. Next week should be the last installment of this little story. Please comment!
He looked more human than the others, his skin free of the frayed texture of their gray skin tone. He was clean shaven and the only defect on his face was a wide scar, deep and red, beneath his left eye. He wore a thin white linen suit, crisp and creased as though he’d taken it from its packaging and settle into it right away. His hair was long and black as a crow’s feather. It curled past his small ears and was pulled back by a thin hemp strap.
“Who are you?” I asked. I lifted my hand to shield my eyes from the incandescent brightness that shone from his head and arms. It reminded me of the reflection of lake waves on midday.
“Some call me friend.” He moved around me like the others, draping his body behind my shoulders, around my arms, but he did not frighten me. He smelled of lilies and when his fingers brushed across my cheek, I felt the velvet smoothness of that flower. “Some call me enemy.”
He let his hand rest on the small of my back while he stood at my side. I had long-since stop wondering how these creatures could defy gravity or suspended logic.
“Miss Matthews, do you know why you are with us?”
I was afraid to answer, still troubled by the cruel evidence of my past sins, still consumed by the weight of my shame. Was I being disciplined? Was this man the punisher, set in a fine cast, wearing a warm smile to lessen the shock of my judgment?
I looked away from his face and stared at the fine hairs on his ear. “I was dared.” The words came out weak and low enough that I was certain the man would not hear them.
“A dare? How very odd that you would accept a challenge from such weak-minded, simple girls. Girls who have no hope but what they are told to have from others.” I did not know how he knew of Ruth and her friends or how he could so accurately describe them. The man touched my chin and I lifted my head up to stare into his black eyes. The lily fragrance was diminishing. “You are here, Miss Matthews, to see the truth.”
“Whose truth?” I couldn’t help but ask.
“All truth.”
He turned from me and lifted his hand, waving it once in front of the well wall until that white fog that heralded my past sins, returned and covered me. It shifted around my neck and moved the damp hair from my cheeks.
I saw a green light flash, like the quicksilver of lightening cracking across the black, starless night sky.
What I saw made me hold my breath.
I stood beneath the thin veil of the fog, my hair longer, my breast fuller, my hips rounder. I walked near the bank of Redwood Lake, holding the hand of a child. She was small, no more than five or six, with long blond hair that trailed past her waist. She ran ahead of me, following a golden dog who barked at something in the treetops above us.
“Tomorrow is a gift given to those willing to sacrifice,” the man said. I could not see him, did not take notice of where he stood, too consumed by this older version of myself, took caught up in the beautiful child and her play. “Gifts are not offered so easily, Miss Matthews.” His voice sounded behind me, somewhere in the depths of the well I had no interest in discovering.
The scene shifted and a still older Blythe Matthews appeared. Her hair was graying, but she was not elderly; still firm in her body, still having a solid, straight frame as she danced and twirled with a man. His face was hidden to me though I could clearly see the shape of his head and the length of his hair. His features, however, were blurred as though intentionally blotted out to keep me from a complete image of him.
“Sunshine,” he called Blythe. “My sunshine.”
The Blythe before me smiled and nestled her head against his broad chest. Content. Pleased.
“Tomorrow comes to those who choose it.” The man’s voice now sounded deeper and held a sterner timber. “Only to those who choose well, Miss Matthews.”
Again the green light flickered and the fog became thick, so thick and expansive that I could barely make out the figures that moved within it. I saw myself as very old. My back curved and my hands were twisted by the cruelty of time. My cheeks were heavily concaved and the skin on my face was thin and lined with deep wrinkles. Despite all this, despite the evident twist of my body and the old creases on my face, the old woman before smiled a toothless grin, surrounded by a room of people I did not know.
She laughed and giggled at two young children playing a game. They were all assembled in the front room of a cottage, every inch of the place taken by couples, by children, by an assortment of people that reminded me of my parents, of my brothers and cousins.
They were a family I had not yet designed; a consortium of lives that existed in my future, suspended in wait for the choices I had yet to make.
“Choose wisely,” the man said. The fog lifted and he stood before me. He had grown older. His hair was now thin and gray. His smooth skin was creased and he stood slumping in front of me. The sock of his appearance made me reach out to cradle his face.
“What’s happened to you?”
“Time,” he said, his grin weak, his lips giving a small view of missing teeth, “time transforms us all.” I felt the sting of tears corner in my eyes, not certain why I should feel such worry and sorrow for this strange man. His long fingers wiped back the moisture on my face. “Choose well.”
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